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Christmas morning I slept in late. So did my younger brother,runescape gold, who had picked me up at the Dellacrosse bus
station the night before,warcraft gold, driving my father’s truck, the one with EAT POTATOES AND LOVE LONGER
emblazoned on the back. He’d stood waiting in the parking lot for me to get off the bus, sporting his cheap
brown parka and no hat, seeming glad to see me, as if he had something to share, though I didn’t really expect
anything: my brother rarely shared. He helped with my suitcase and with my electric bass (which I’d brought
with me), sticking both in the back of the truck, and he refrained from his usual remark about only boys playing
bass. The electric guitar had been invented fifty miles from here! I was always ready to counter, to no particular
person at all,star wars galaxies credits, as Robert himself was as steeped in the local myths about Les Paul as I was. I also had an acoustic
upright bass at home in my bedroom, with a satchel full of bows attached to its belly. It looked like a fat
abandoned archer in the corner, a quiver full of arrows gathering dust. ‘Ole Bob,’ Robert called it, lumping it in
with him and my dad. ‘At least you’re not lugging Ole Bob.’
Robert, it had often seemed to me, failed to apply himself’musically or academically. Perhaps having an
older sister had stymied him a little. He knew I was quietly nuts about my guitar. The Jewish part of us both sort
of understood that to worship God was to siphon off the worship of doodads’and we loved doodads (my
instruments were insured up the wazoo)’but it didn’t always work that way: sometimes God adhered to
something material and physical and earthly, and then all was a little misty for the holder and beholder of the
doodad. But my brother was nice to me about it all; in fact, when I thought back to our many years together, he
was, essentially, always nice to me, though he did gun the engine a little wildly as we pulled out of the parking
lot. To his friends he was known as Gunny, a name my parents hated.
On the ride back to the house he told me how he was doing, though I had to ask two times. Sometimes a stammer
came over him,fiesta power leveling, which made him hesitant to speak at all’I'm sure he felt that the slightly choked and garbled
voice did not accurately reflect his mind, though who knows, maybe it did. Sometimes you could see him trying
to pick up speed when he spoke, velocity smoothing things over and getting him to the end sooner. Gunny,
indeed.
On the bus I’d eaten nothing but some supermarket sushi, half a plastic tray of which was still in my purse, and
hunger made me a more eager listener. Every word seemed a morsel. He was in his last year in high school and
hated it. He had gotten four Fs and a D this past semester. His face showed no dismay in the relating of this.
Apparently my father, not always one for helpfully stern parenting, had stared at the report card and said, ‘Well,
Robert, what can I say. Four Fs and a D: it looks like you’re spending too much time on one course!’ My brother
chuckled drily, telling the story. Then we both fell silent, driving slowly toward home, the dark trees going by us
with their branches set in the soft mush of the night sky like wrens’ feet or a spiky brooch in a cotton-bedded
box. We passed the First Methodist Church and its spotlit plywood cr’che, where the expressions of the dozing
sheep were the least imbecilic in the scene. A sign out front advertised the title of the Christmas sermon: LOVE