When my little brother Johnny and I were growing up, we had a pretty standard relationship: I terrorized him, he tattled on me. I had three years, around four inches, and the upper hand which had a knack for finding the back of his skull or BVDs. He had the pipes to summon Mom from anywhere in the world faster than you could say Beetlejuice three times. And of course if justice wasn't served in-house by end of business day, Mother would yield the floor to Mr. Freitas, whose pissed-off dagger-eyes could light up your Orville Redenbacher faster than a Chernobyl microwave. Good times.
As the days of Star Wars, atomic wedgies and awkward boners gave way to varsity football, S.A.T.'s and negotiating bra straps, John, as he was officially later self-renamed, was known by most in the high school power structure as "Bill's brother." And why not? I was an upper-class BMOC. The sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adored me. They thought I was a righteous dude. John still had a bowl cut. Then one day, he escaped my shadow, ditched the Flowbee, became a man, and is now a big-wig corporate muckety-muck, with a wife, kid, a big-ass house and can buy and sell families. As for me? Having peaked in high school, I'm now a part-time radio hack and 2-bit sarcastic sports blogger currently writing about how awesome I was 25 years ago. Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes.
