A Wild Canasta

Have you ever played Canasta? It calls for at least four players, multiple decks of cards, and all players to be completely dialled in. There is a list of hands that have to be played in order to win. Each card is worth its' number in points. In order to complete a red canasta you must play seven of a kind together; this hand is preferred over the black canasta, which is completed with wild cards. The highest valued canasta, however, is the wild canasta: All cards are either twos or jokers. It is an extremely random hand, because the assorted decks have varying facets.

My brother Nic is a wild canasta. He can be seven different jokers all at once, and you're never sure which one is in charge. He loves soccer, strategy games, and penguins. He is an infantry corporal who still chooses chicken fingers on an adult menu. He is type A organized, but loves the most random conversations. He'll make dumb comments just to spin you up, but he'll blush when you see him being sweet to his girlfriend. He will drive you certifiably insane, but he'll also tune in whoever hurts you. If he were a cartoon character, he would be the talking animal that the main character thinks getting to shut up is the real trick; but he's also the main character's best friend, and the one that the audience actually paid to see. It takes you an a extra second to tell when he's drunk, because he already has no inhibitions.

I actually cried when he was born. When my mom was pregnant with him, she told me the baby was going to be a boy, and I had said,

“No. God wouldn't do that to me again.”

Apparently, God has a sense of humour.

When we went to Build-A-Bear as kids, and got to choose whatever animal we wanted. Mike chose a black bear, and dressed him like a firefighter. I chose a husky, and dressed her like a cheerleader. Nic picked a chicken. He dressed him like a super hero, and called him Super Chicky. At the register, the lady told my mom,

“That is the first time we have ever sold a chicken.”

The year he was twelve and I was seventeen, our parents went on their first vacation without us. The boys were invited to a friend's birthday party, and I had to drive them. Nic was sitting shotgun, and he got to pick the music. Out of my case of CDs he chose Rihanna's Good Girl Gone Bad. When we got onto the Henday, Shut up and Drive started playing. Nic was singing along, until the chorus, and then he trailed off. He suddenly shouted:

“Hey, wait a minute! This song isn't about cars!”

He whipped his head around at me like a meerkat.

“Noelle! Is this song about cars?”

I wasn't sure I should shatter his innocence.

“Yeesss" I said slowly.

“I knew it wasn't about cars!” He exclaimed incredulously.

Nic can't stand to see people upset. He will crack joke after joke until somebody laughs, and whole room is infected. He will make you laugh even you don't want to. As a little kid, Nic was smitten with a girl who worked in my mom’s daycare centre. She'd been in an abusive relationship, and was feeling upset when, at three years old Nic told her:

“Don't worry, I'll marry you."

Ten years later he was invited to her wedding, to a better man, and he saw her tear up during her vows. Nic turned to my mom and whispered,

“She can still say no right? She can still change her mind if she doesn't want to marry him right?”

“Yes” my mom answered quizzically, "Why?"

“Well she's crying! I don't think she really wants to marry him.” To which my mom explained tears of joy.

If he’s ignoring you, he doesn’t like you. If he’s chirping you, you’re his friend. He won’t ever actually say “I love you”, but anyone paying attention to the chicken under the feathers knows: He truly means it. Joyful insanity is a wild canasta, and it’s my little brother.