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So Rich, who was twice my size, would say to me, “You are a wuss, and will always be a wuss, unless you start playing sports! So you and me are gonna go across the street and play one-on-one tackle football!”
“But I don’t wanna! You’ll knock me down, and then I’ll get a headache!”, I’d retort. I was such a wuss. I wasn’t lying though - it really did give me a headache. But it was too late. He was already dragging me out the front door.
Here was his proposition: “Okay, here’s the ball. You crouch down, say a few numbers, like 12, 23, 38 - then ‘Hike!’ Then you gotta get by me. You got up to 5 Mississippi before I start coming after you!”
I’d argue, “I don’t get it. What do the numbers mean? As a series, they don’t make any sense - like, they aren’t exact multiples...and 23 is an odd number, and...I don’t get it.”
“Don’t be such a GEEK! That’s just what you’re supposed to do. Now, take the ball!” he’d snap.
“But you’ll clobber me! I can’t possibly get by you!”
“If you don’t take this ball and say, ‘hike’, I’m gonna kick your a**.”
Hmm, let’s weigh the options. Have him kick my a**, or take the ball and delay the a**-kicking by 5 Mississippi. If I chose the latter, I’d have roughly 5 seconds to run for my life. I took the ball.
“12, 24, 36, 48...Hike!” For a moment there I thought I was pretty cool. My brother wasn’t impressed. I stood there petrified, while Rich counted to 5 “M-s-ipi”. Then he came after me like a junk yard dog, and I ran away from him, screaming, “MOM!!!” This only served to fuel his fury. He caught me easily, and slammed me down to the unforgiving earth.
“You just lost about 20 yards, wimp. 2nd down and 30.”
This would go on for about 10 minutes, eventually resulting
in a safety. All the while I’d be giving him the tired old line about having
a headache. (I know - adults use that line a lot, too.) Eventually, he’d
give up on me and declare once again, “You are a wuss and you will always
be a wuss!”
Rich would barge in on me, disgusted. “You will always be a wuss, unless you...” Such a versatile line. This time he finished it with, “...start listening to cool music!”
To the dungeon, his bedroom. There were only a few activities that would force me to spend more than 10 minutes in Rich’s disheveled room. One was watching TV. If he caught me then of course he’d throw me out - unless I was watching Starsky and Hutch, or something cool; then maybe he’d permit me to stay, as long as I kept my mouth shut.
Another was Christmas Eve. Rich had a pull-out bed upon which I had the unique pleasure and privelege to sleep this one joyous time of year. We would stay up half the night pretending we were on board a pirate ship, and if we got caught in a storm, he’d grab me by the shoulders and shake the hell out of me for the effect. It was very real.
Now it was time for a new experience - listening to Kiss. He had Kiss t-shirts, Kiss posters, and every Kiss album. “If you are ever going to be cool, you’ve got to learn to appreciate good music.” he’d advise me. And then he played “Detroit Rock City”. I headed for the door.
“Get your hands off that knob! If you don’t sit down and listen to this, I’m gonna kick your a**!” I was growing weary of his threats, but since I preferred nausea to his physical abuse, I took a seat. Rich played air guitar to “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night”. Once again, I didn’t get it.
Eventually the record would end. I’d casually stroll to the door, saying, “Thanks, Rich, that was really cool.”
There was a glimmer of hope. “So, you liked it? I’m finally getting through to you?”
“Well, I guess it’s okay...but I have my science project to finish.” Big mistake.
“You’re not going anywhere, geek. You’re science project can wait.” He said “science project” with that distinct tone of contempt that you often hear kids use. “I’m gonna make you listen to the B-side.” Then came his mistake. While he flipped the record and replaced the needle, I bolted. He chased me down the hall, the stairs, out the door. But what was the point in chasing me? “You are a wuss and...!” Etc., Etc.
He made me endure this routine many times. Eventually he smartened up; he’d lock the door behind us so I couldn’t escape. Rich was determined to make me cool. Fact was, if I was around while he was listening to Kiss, then I was listening to Kiss.
When Grandpa passed away, Dad gave me Grandpa’s radio. I’m not talking about a boom-box here. You could either hold the thing up to your head and feed yourself 2 watts max, or you could plug in an earphone - when was the last time you saw an earphone? But hey, man, it was all I had, next to a puny tape recorder that I used primarily to record my older sister, Kate, singing or talking to her friends on the phone, unbeknownst to her - but that’s another story. (I was a rotten kid.)
Anyway, I’d be in my room, maybe looking through my cool new microscope at Kleenex or sugar crystals. And If I heard Rich coming up the stairs, I’d swiftly put the microscope away, turn on the radio, put my head up to the 3” tweeter, and start snapping my fingers. (I hadn’t learned yet how to bang my head.) I’d act like I didn’t know Rich was standing there, and like I was really digging it. But, as much as I thought I was smarter than he was, I wasn’t. Rich knew the deal, and walked away, unimpressed, muttering, “Geek.”
Obviously, I eventually grew to love music, although I never grew to appreciate Kiss the way Rich did. They’re alright - I wouldn’t mind covering a Kiss tune in DOO·WA·ZOO. Maybe “Detroit Rock City”...
Rich lives down in Charleston, SC now with his wife, Diane. Recently I called him to plan a road-trip down there, and this is how the conversation went:
“Rich, I’m gonna be bringing my whole CD collection down, man, it’ll be awesome. I’ll have the Led Zeppelin, Rush, Ozzy, Dokken, King’s X, Van Halen, everything we need to make our ears bleed!”
“I can’t believe you’re still listening to that crap! Don’t you have any easy-listening stuff like Aaron Neville or Jimmy Buffett?”, asked the tough guy. He must be getting soft on me! I ignored it for the moment.
A few minutes later I said, “Dude, I’m bringing my football. Do you think you can get some of your friends together for a game on the beach?”
“Are you crazy? Dave, I’m getting too old for that! I’ll toss it around with you a little, but you make it sound like you wanna play tackle!” He was genuinely astounded!
This was too much. “Aaron Neville? Touch football? (I used that same contemptuous tone with the pitch inflections, as in “science project”.) Rich, you are a wuss, and you will always be a wuss!” And the two of us just laughed and laughed...
Like anyone with siblings I have endless stories that I could share with you, and I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I get a kick out of telling them. In retrospect, I’m sure that as a kid Rich treated me no differently than any other big brother would have. But now, I wouldn’t trade Rich for any other big brother in the world.
David Stackhouse
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