My Crazy-Ass Brother

Sitting in the driver's seat of my Daddy's once-pristine Dodge Ram truck, I shout to no one in particular, "What in the world is wrong with my brother?" My anger grows as I watch the rearview mirror swinging back and forth, no longer serving any useful purpose, hanging from frayed wires.

Two years ago, when my 97-year-old father decided it was no longer safe to drive, he gifted his truck to my brother. I couldn't help but wonder how anyone could destroy something so thoroughly in just two years.

"Is this truck even legal to drive?" I mutter, once again speaking into the stale, dank air surrounding me and to no one in particular. But then, I think about my current situation and my surroundings. Aggravation had replaced anger; I was in a state – a horrible state of mind. I laughed when I considered the literal state. It was Arkansas, after all. Arkansas ceased to require its citizens to have their automobiles inspected years ago. Therefore, maybe only embarrassment and not a traffic citation would be my fate as I drove this abomination around town to run errands for my Daddy (yes, I am 72 years old and still call my father Daddy; it's a southern thing).

The truck's bed was full of everything from pieces of scrap metal to a toilet. Yes, an old toilet is displayed on top of the rubble so passersby can easily view it. I remember replacing this toilet during one of my visits over six months ago. My brother had promised to take it to the dump immediately. Understand that immediately to my brother means 'Whenever the fuck I get around to it.' His response to any question about anything he promises to do. I am still determining what my brother plans on doing with it or any of the various items I am cursed to haul around today. I am at a loss.

As I wait for this sputtering vehicle to warm up, I stifle a smile as I recall my 13-year-old granddaughter's first impression of my brother when she was only 7 years old. "Hunny, you HAVE to be adopted, or either he is! There is no way you two are related. You are so sweet and neat, and he is… well, NOT. And I don’t like looking a the crack of his butt all the time!" she exclaimed. From that moment on, she called him "Crazy Uncle Mike." Whenever we speak of him, she shakes her head and mutters, "I still don't understand."

While trying to clear out a cup holder full of screws, bolts, and fish hooks (Ouch!), I accidentally spill some steaming hot coffee onto my leg and the truck upholstery. 'Damn it," I exclaim, more worried about the pain and the stain it would leave on my jeans than the seat covers. There was no need to worry about the truck interior as a coffee spill would only serve to bring all the other stains together. I am sure the once-gray coverings would eventually become a muddy brown color, of which my brother appears particularly fond.

I shouldn't be surprised by the poor condition of my Daddy's current transportation, as the rest of the family farm also seems to be falling apart. It breaks my heart to see this, as my Daddy kept everything in excellent working order. His attention to detail on the upkeep of the place we've called home for over 50 years was impeccable. I should move back to help, but I also have a family in Virginia and a well-paying job. Retirement is not an option for me for at least 2-3 more years. But I do love my Daddy so. I will regret not moving back one day, but it is not possible financially.

I moved to Virginia 35 years ago to pursue a career and financial stability to support my son. Being a single mother, my top priority was to ensure his well-being. I vividly remember shedding tears throughout the 1170-mile journey, with the realization that I would never return to Arkansas to live.

I have often thought of returning home (Arkansas will always be home), but after being in southeastern Virginia, the thought of being landlocked is something other than what I would care for. However, I love my Daddy and want to be there for him. He will turn 99 this year, and as much as I wish it were possible, I know he can not live forever, even though he is pretty impressive for his age. I would move in a minute if I had planned, married, or divorced well. And I did not, so finances are the issue.

My son, daughter-in-law, granddaughter, and I recently bought a home together. Pooling our money, we could afford much more than we could alone. I have to admit that I regret the decision at times because the house is a money drain (a major fixer-upper), and although we purchased the house together, others view it as me living with my son. I know it is just semantics, but it makes me feel old when people say, 'Oh, so you live with your son." I always respond, 'No, I purchased a house with him!' The house has many entrances, so privacy is not an issue, but it is still different from having your own place. The mortgage has also prevented me from moving back and taking care of Daddy and not leaving it up to my crazy-ass brother, who hurts more than he helps most of the time.

My Daddy lives alone, and my brother lives in a mobile home, a little more than a shouting distance from his back door. But nine times out of ten, he doesn’t answer his phone when Daddy needs him. He also loses patience with him over the most minor of issues.

You have not experienced regret and self-hatred more than when your Daddy calls you crying because of something his son has said to him. Anytime that has happened, I hop on a plane either that day or the next and head home to comfort my Daddy while avoiding any further wrath from my crazy-ass brother.

Whomp, Whomp, Whomp on the driver's window jars me from my bout with self-loathing. 'What the fuck are you doing.' My brother asks in his usual 'loving' manner. 'I don't buy gas for you to sit in the God damn driveway and burn it up. If you are going somewhere, go. I have to go to the methadone clinic today. Get your stuff done and get back here by noon!'

Yes, you read it correctly: "methadone clinic." He has been on methadone for as long as I can remember. He would not be alive today if it had not replaced the heroin he was so fond of.

His addiction was a result of being diagnosed with Cystinuria, a rare genetic disorder that led to stones forming in his kidneys, ureters, and bladder. These stones can block the urinary tract and cause the kidneys to cease to filter waste. He has endured over 100 surgeries of one kind or another, lost a kidney, and had his ureter rebuilt. When he was 15, doctors put him on strong painkillers and then released him, and took away his drugs. Heroin was as close as he could get on the street.

Even though every day with my brother is a test of patience, the days before his recovery were a test of sibling love.

I was a single mom working 3 jobs, just trying to make ends meet and care for my son. From cleaning out my bank account twice with forged checks to stealing and drowning my car by running it into a lake to stealing and hocking everything that was not locked down in my house, he tested our relationship almost daily.

There was a time when I did not go near or speak with him for a few years. This was not when he was 'on vacation,' as my Mother was fond of telling people. (Six years is a very long vacation.) It appears that selling heroin to a police officer is a crime even in Arkansas. I went to see him while he was on 'vacation' and offered as much support as possible. That was not the reason we became estranged. We were closer because while on 'vacation,' he could not get his hands on a weapon to threaten me. You see, he channeled his anger toward me because I did not receive the genetic disorder from my parents as he had.

When my son was around 8 months old, there was a family discussion that turned into an all-out brawl when my parents and I were attempting to assist with housing for him and his family. Yes, he managed to marry three times and have four children who all despise him and call him by his first name. Strangely, this does not bother him at all. His grandchildren do not know him, and he wants nothing to do with them. But I digress.

During an effort to help him find a place to live, he took offense to something that was said. Even today, it is hard to know what sets him off. This time, it went from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. I was sitting in a chair with my infant son in my lap when he grabbed a rifle from the gun rack, loaded it, pointed at my head, and said, "I have had enough of you always being the 'good' one, the one who is not sick, and I just want you gone." As he was screaming at me all the reasons I should die, my Daddy got his attention, and I ran, holding my son close to me. I heard a gunshot, but I kept running. I jumped in the car and drove to get my male cousins, who lived a few miles away. I was worried about my Daddy but had to protect my son.

My cousins got there as fast as they could to find that he had tripped and fallen, and the gun went off. Daddy was unharmed except for a couple of broken ribs from struggling with him to take the gun away. That was the first time I had seen my Daddy cry. Momma had taken off as soon as the argument started, as she knew how anything with my brother escalated and escalated quickly.

It was years before we spoke again. We talk today, but he hasn’t changed much. He is older but not wiser and no healthier. No one is allowed to disagree with him without it escalating into name-calling and extremely hurtful rhetoric, which is primarily untrue but cuts my Daddy to the quick.

Recently, my Daddy called, laughing harder than I had heard him laugh in years. My crazy-ass brother got into an unnecessary altercation with a gentleman who just walked onto his property to ask him a question. The man meant no harm, but my brother was in one of his PTSD moments (that is what he calls it. He says it is a result of his time on 'vacation'), and he not only directed many racial slurs toward the man, he shoved him. The man reached into his pocket and, without missing a beat, thoroughly pepper-sprayed him. Daddy thought this was hysterical. Each time I called for over a week, Daddy retold the story, laughing the whole time. I haven't heard that much joy in Daddy's voice in quite a while. We both knew my brother deserved it, but did it teach him a lesson? No, it did not. The following week, he was banned from the local Ace Hardware for an altercation with the manager. Now they must wait until I come home to buy anything from there. Once again, Daddy and I are sure he deserved it.

I have turned my anger with him into wanting to hold him so tight that all of his pain and anguish go away. No one can spend their life that angry, in so much pain, hating the world, and find happiness. I love him with all my heart but continue to walk on eggshells when I am home, and I know my Daddy does the same.

I often wonder what will happen when my Daddy leaves this earthly plain. My Daddy has sold the farm to the two of us for $1.00 so that it will stay in the family. This is not the best idea he has ever had. The place will continue to deteriorate while I pay for all I can afford and keep up the taxes as my brother continues using it as his own personal junkyard. Being the queen of non-confrontation, I know I will stand by and allow it to happen.

He tests my love daily as I try to remember a time I experienced an ounce of kindness or love from him. I know his pain runs deep, and his outbursts often seem totally out of his control. Our relationship is complicated, full of love, distrust, pity, and, yes, even fear.

But as the boy said to Father Flanagan so many years ago, "He ain't heavy, Father. He's my brother." My crazy-ass brother, but my brother nonetheless.