Radio Gaga

Radio Gaga

Brother Bear dispensed the first and only spanking I ever received in my life. My memory doesn’t serve me well enough to know the misdeed I committed but I can tell you this, it was heck of a wallop. It was my only biff in the bum. Ever. And, it was with a belt he whipped off from around his waist. This is the single reason, as the runt of the litter, I was marginally terrified of Brother Bear. And yet, I did everything I could to be near him. I’d often quake in my bootie slippers when my Mother would ask me to go down to the basement and tell him his Kraft Dinner was ready. I’d take every step very carefully, very quietly, push open his bedroom door, enter the lair, and pray to gawd I made it out alive. Brother Bear, it seemed to me anyway, slept more than my other familial counterparts. His basement room, which at some point, we all occupied, was dark, slightly damp, and difficult to navigate without some semblance of light. Brother Bear slept in a grand Captain’s bed which he’d often be half hanging off, one hairy arm, one burly leg, dangling. On tippy toes, I’d carefully inch closer, whisper his name and murmur ever so softly, “Um … wake up now.  Your … um … Kraft Dinner is ready. Mom … um … said to come eat.” Without fail, nothing. Not a peep. My next plan of attack, gently tap his fuzzy forearm with the tip of my pinky finger, “Kraft dinner is … um … done.” A slight stirring and then silence. As a last-ditch effort, I’d hold my breath and nudge him harder. Third time was always a charm. It was always an unwelcome disturbance and he’d howl, “Whaddya waaaant!?” And, in a terrified, high-pitched voice, I’d say it one last time, “Kraft Dinner is ready!” I ran. All the way up the stairs like a bat out of hell to where my Mother was, spooning the yellowed pasta into a Tupperware bowl. I swear it was his only food group, Kraft Dinner. I said, watching him scarf down the whole box, as a little kid might, “You’re soon going to LOOK like a cheese noodle.” My quip was met with an indistinct grumble and an icy glare through his dark glasses. I mean, don’t shoot the messenger, I was just repeating what I heard my own Mother say a million times over. It’s a good thing never told him when he’d drop stray bits of KD in his dark prickly moustache. No doubt, I’d meet the continued wrath of Brother Bear. But, in those days, any attention from him mattered. For example, even though I knew he’d never take me with him to the race car track, I begged and cried. I admit, it was a pathetic way to make him acknowledge my existence. And if I’m being honest, I really thought he’d cave and take me. One of the reasons he’d give was that he had no room for me. Even if he had to stow me in the trunk, I’d have gone with him in a split second.

Back in the day, Brother Bear was the proud and rebellious owner of a certified gas guzzlin’ shaggin’ wagon. It was a sight to see in our driveway, a hickory brown Chevy van complete with yellow fog lights at the helm. Its interior was something right out of a seventies porno, paneled walls, carpeted, with a bed, a mini fridge, a souped up stereo system, and a CB radio built right into the consol. I can’t pretend to know what kind of shenanigans went on in that rig, but I was besotted. Whenever it would be on display in our yard, with the side door open, and no grown ups around, I’d boldly approach and peek inside. I’d drink in every detail and run my hand across the shag carpet and daydream about being big enough to be bad. That I was hip to the true reason there was a bed in the back of a van. I loved when he’d get the CB fired up and hot hits of the day blaring from the speakers. I’d have given every pair of bellbottoms I never owned to be in the know. The ostensible star of ‘The Dukes of Hazzards’, the 1969 Dodge Charger received sixty thousand fan letters in its run, I’m willing to bet money Brother Bear’s Brown Betty would have received one or a few back when.

Speaking of stereos, Brother Bear had a serious system in the same downstairs bedroom I dreaded entering to wake him for his Kraft Dinner meals. The bigger I grew, the less he was home. It worked to my advantage because it was down there, in the Brother Bear bedroom, the music geek in Little Me, thrived. To be clear, I was one hundred and fifty percent not allowed anywhere near his bedroom when he wasn’t home (or when he was for that matter unless it was Kraft Dinner time) let alone listen to his music. But I did. Every chance I could. I wasn’t a defiant child but rather enamored. Lured by the most excellent cabinet/shelf he built, taller than me, leather faced, to house his stereo. I’d lurk around whenever he appeared like he might be going out, for the most part, once he left, he was gone a long while, even until late at night after I was already in bed. I’d stand vigil in the living-room window, watch until he pulled out of the driveway, wait a few minutes in case he might need to come back. When the coast was clear and I knew I was safe, I’d bolt down the basement steps lickety split, throw on the lights, and expertly set my songs to play. Of course, those were the days of 8 track tapes, the coolest things ever. I’d typically start with Dr. Hook’s ‘Pleasure and Pain’. I’d sing every note ardently into a hairbrush and anticipate the record’s best romp, ‘You Make My Pants Want to Get Up and Dance’. Believe me when I say, my stretch slacks were just a dancin’. And not well. Clumsy stomps, awkward herking and jerking, but oh my, the joy! I also couldn’t (and still can’t) sing my way out of a paper bag so kudos to my Mother for enduring the endless caterwauling and thumping bass under the kitchen floor. I rumbled a few floorboards with my version of the chicken dance while belting ‘Cover of the Rolling Stone’. It was in that room, I was first introduced to The Eagles, Elton John, James Taylor, Fleetwood Mac, and as mentioned, Dr. Hook. One of the benefits of being the youngest was the exposure to every genre of music. Father Mine flooded the house with old country both on the radio and with his guitar at his many kitchen parties, Bookend Brother powered my ears with the heavy metal of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Motorhead, Biggest Little Sister enjoyed the disco laced sounds of the Bee Gees, Way Cooler Big Sister preferred Bay City Rollers, and of course with Rock Star Brother there was everything else in between from Billy Squires, Saga, ::gag:: Rush, and right up to Honeymoon Suite and of course Corey Hart etc. It was a smorgasbord in our house, and it was awesome. You don’t want me to describe, in detail, what I was like while emulating Ozzy on ‘War Pigs’.  I’ll leave that to your imagination only to say my devil horn throwing and thrashing air guitar …er… may not have looked cool, but sure as heck felt pretty rad.

I should also mention that it was in Brother Bear’s room, in front of his stellar stereo, that I developed a debilitating case of stage fright. While crooning with the one and only Marie Osmond, Way Cooler Big Sister, unbeknownst to me, recorded my performance. Upon discovery of this act of severe betrayal, I cried and begged her to erase it. Instead, she ran upstairs and played the whole thing, start to finish for Rock Star Brother, Most Beautiful Girlfriend, and whoever else was in the house. It wrecked me. From then on, until forced into public speaking for Junior High English class, I gave up performing and visited the music with headphones. It’s important to note here though that while I may have gone pretty much mute, my dance moves were still objectionable. I could have won many lip-syncing awards back then if there were ever such a thing. I lost my voice, not my passion. Thankfully.

There were many close calls in getting caught. This one time, in the throes of ‘Hotel California’ he came home. I was in mid-belt of the song’s sonic climax when I saw his feet coming up the side stairs. “… mirrors on the ceiling … pink champagne on … ack …” My cheeks blazed, I was sure I’d be caught red-handed and chased all the way to the Cow Bay Moose. Banished forever. It may have been the quickest I ever moved to date. I shut er’ all down and scurried my tub o’ lard scarce. I hid in the furnace room and tried to catch my breath. A scene right out of ‘Friday the 13^th’ I tell you. I just knew that if he found me, I’d be up by the scruff of my neck. I stayed hunkered until I heard my Mother call me for supper. Ten thousand times, the last time she called out, she used my full name. Uh oh. I skulked upstairs to the kitchen table, eked into my usual chair, and prayed Brother Bear wouldn’t put his steak knife in my ear. I caught his eye by accident and almost cried. But, to my utter surprise, he gave half a smile and asked me to pass him the salt. He didn’t say a word. Nada. Zilch. Didn’t acknowledge I disobeyed his direct order to not enter his room or touch his stereo, anything he owned for that matter. In the moment, I felt like a pulled off the biggest jewelry heist ever and got away with it, scot free. The fact of the matter is, Brother Bear’s bark was always worse than his bite.

It’s true, me and Brother Bear didn’t spend a lot of time together when we were both younger. It wasn’t until he got married and had kids that we grew to know each other. I spent a lot of time with his cubs while he and Mama Bear ran errands and went on dates. I was always so proud to childmind. And nice for them, eh? A young sibling equaled a built-in babysitter, payable by chips and pop! I kid. It was a responsibility I took very seriously and was grateful for the time spent and the trust, that as they say, is everything. I often joke now that Brother Bear is my other sister. He’s like an old woman, you get him talking, you can’t shut him up. I’m okay with that though, it’s making up for lost time and the stories he has are worth waiting for.

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Another piece of creative non-fiction down!

This time for my big brother, Ken.

I love you.

In propinquity,

Nic