"See this key chain? That's how I know four redheads with pierced tongues."
The death of the respect for someone you've grown up with--it's not a must-have experience. It's rather illusion-destroying. It's rather socially disrupting.
It's rather, um, embarrassing.
The glittering key chain was a visible symbol of the shame that was building up in me gradually over the visit. I was with a dear friend--someone, however, who, it had always seemed, thought meanly of me. She was now finding out that my brother was some kind of lost loser in that restaurant of polite one-upmanship. Great.
"'Deja Vu'. What's that?" she asked in glossy incuriosity.
"It's a strip club I go to a lot. I went there last week with my friend, but he paid for everything. I didn't have any money then either," he rattled on, brandishing his empty wallet.
"That's why I'm paying for your meal," I said both sarcastically and absently. My coffee would arrive any minute now. Maybe.
Wrapped too tightly in his speeches about himself, he emptied his wallet of all contents. "This is the ticket to the big concert I went to last year. Pretty cool, huh. Yeah, I saw them twice. And this band--I saw them at their last concert. Y'know, I'm trying to start a band of my own." I suddenly got drowsier. The elbow on my right hand was already complaining about the hard table surface, and my eyes told me that there was nothing new out that window, but facing either member of my party at that moment would've been a mistake. I fear my friend supressed a smile. Her music taste was exclusive and mainstream-phobic. To her, these were mostly stupid popular bands. I was just glad he wasn't wearing anything Nike.
The waitress was too long in bringing the appetizers. We ate in indulgent noise. Falafel is yummy; I thought back to Michelle's recipe, read in Eater's, and thought about the new 'zine I was writing myself. My listening skills were on autopilot, as my brother was contented to talk forever. So much for catching up and remeniscing about old times. Da da da.
After a lengthy daydream, I looked at the cold appetizer dishes and interrupted the boy's cruising stories. "Where's the waitress?"
The poor girl was probably just new, but I secretly hoped that she had a condition that was like a magical spell, that made her a six year old princess at twenty. Or perhaps she was too sweet and simple to be a grownup? When the rain began, with the same foreign accent heard in the kitchen she said, "I love to dance in the rain, and feel it trickle down my face. I like playing in the puddles." Or maybe she was just speaking in a simple manner to humor the old man who sat drinking Turkish coffee behind me. He might have known her family for ten years or twenty minutes for all I knew, but he was making some strong suggestions.
"You ought to do something about your sister," he said gruffly, perhaps in the drawl of old men who live too long in the big city.
"I can't make my sister's decisions for her. She's got to live her own life now," she protested demurely, refilling his cup.
"You're contributing to her delinquency, young lady! You ought to know better!" (Hmm, that sounded familiar.) I perked up. "You ought to make her take responsibility for herself!"
I'd heard those kinds of scoldings before, in my own head, about someone very close to me. Who was just then making paper airplanes out of his napkin and talking about his band-that-will- never-be. But you can't change another person if they don't want to change, I thought, giving my brother a dirty sidelong glance.
The old man was getting rather abusive to our poor waitress, but she just smiled in her glowing way, said a few kind, childlike words, and wandered outside to clear the dishes from the outside tables. The rain let up, so at least she wasn't drowned when she returned. My brother shifted his braced knee and turned to check her out.
"May I have a fork?" my friend, her eyes laughing, meekly inquired of the dripping ray of sunshine. At least she was having fun while I died of embarassment. He was a little too obvious in public.
Throughout the rest of the ill-serviced meal, I dwelled upon his embarassing behavior, the smokescreen of talk that my friend seemed to let blind her, and the fact that I was hurt--I wanted attention, but didn't have a lot to say. I enjoy being with people more than talking to them; however, my brother and my friend are communication animals. I was ignored as I watched the way he worked as we ate. Hmm. Why, if he cleaned up a little, bathed now and then, shaved, he might even have a chance at an intellectual elite like her. I shrugged my shoulders. I gotta work on this disturbed artist image. My wit isn't sharp enough to amuse her anymore.
The problem was, I figured as we rounded up change for the tip, I was jealous that he was getting my air-time; my friend was taking it in, and I was left with nothing to play as my attention-getter. It was always like that. I was too quiet. He always took over, and I wanted to change myself so he couldn't anyomore. I wanted some respect! But more importantly, I wanted to alter my brother and make him fix everything that I thought was lacking in him--his lack of tact, responsibility, and good sense. A small corner of my brain, concerned with nagging me with faint responsibilities, sent out daily memos of plans to reform the boy.
That day I took a chance, to see if he needed work. I was out to impress my friend with my big brother, who was cool back in days of yore. I figured the plan had backfired. Return to square one with the chatterbox--and ignore the bemused smile on her face. Or . . . was she enjoying herself? It might have been too much to hope that the boy had merit in her eyes, but one never knows. I pondered.
The old man began another harangue on the waitress' duty to reform her sister just as we left. My companions sinisterly grabbed the silver money from the pocket change I left to the flower-childish, innocent waitress. Those two were thick as thieves. Well, maybe he made a good impression after all. I smiled for the first time that afternoon as we got out of that haven of pleasantness and ran through the puddle-wonderful world to the car. The day's adventures were far from over, but now I knew what to expect, and what to prepare for. I opened my mouth, let out a terrible howl, and slammed my feet into the nearest mud puddle, besodding his precious baseball cap, fallen by the wayside. His jaw dropped. There's an attention-getter for ya, big brother.