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The Crown Prince

Every House Has One

By Stacey RobertsPublished 3 years ago 12 min read
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It was a strategy that was doomed to fail. Like Hannibal crossing elephants over the Alps or Philip II’s Spanish Armada - it really should have worked.

In every house there is a favorite child, often the firstborn, who gets the best stuff first: toys, privileges, cars. He or she sits at the right hand of their parents. It is a tradition dating back to the Old Testament, when God’s chosen people lived in the desert, herded goats, and spoke to Him as if He was just some guy you hung around with. Right up until He commanded you to kill your own son or build an ark so He could wipe out all life on earth, including all but two of your favorite goats.

I was not the son of choice. Layne the Favorite got all the perks in our house. It stood to reason that if I stuck close to him, some of that largesse would find its way to me, like trickle-down economics.

In my defense, I conceived of this plan when I was five.

***

Layne the Favorite’s bedtime was at least half an hour later than mine. For a stretch of years I like to call The Great Injustice, it was a whole hour and a half - me at seven thirty, him at nine o'clock. This was during the time immediately following the divorce, which began shortly after the nation’s bicentennial.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“You’re going to bed,” my mother said.

“But it’s only seven thirty! What about him?”

“You just worry about yourself, Buster.”

“I am!”

“Move it!”

So there I was, in bed while it was still daylight, listening to the sounds of my friends outside getting a few frantic last minutes of playing in while their parents howled their names from upstairs windows.

At eight o’clock I heard the TV in the next room click on and the theme from Rhoda start up. It seemed my mother was going to console herself by watching sitcoms with strong female leads, her son at her side. Half an hour later was Mary Tyler Moore. I was steaming mad by then.

I hopped out of bed and padded in my scratchy footie pajamas to the living room, where the two of them sat side by side, munching popcorn.

“Popcorn? We never get popcorn!”

“SSSSStace. What is wrong with you?”

“For one thing, I’m in bed at seven thirty.”

“You’re not in bed.” Munch, munch.

“It’s not seven thirty,” Layne the Favorite chimed in. Munch, munch.

Great. Now they were masters of logic.

“Why does he get to stay up late and watch TV?”

“SSSSStace. Listen. His father and I are getting divorced. It affects him.”

“Doesn’t it affect me?”

“Of course not. You have to understand. He’s sssssssensitive.”

“I’m sensitive! Whatever that is.”

“No you’re not. You’re just like your father.”

“That son of a bitch,” Layne the Favorite offered.

“Go to bed,” my mother ordered. Munch, munch.

I got sent to bed at seven thirty the next night. Friday.

“But it’s Friday! It’s seven thirty!”

“SSSSSStace. I have a watch.”

This was utterly incomprehensible.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re always telling me what time it is. I have a watch. You’re not doing me any favors. Just go to bed.”

Eight o’clock. I could hear the sounds of popcorn being munched and the jazzy music of the Sanford and Son theme. I’d had it. I got out of bed, stripped off my footie pajamas, and stalked naked to the living room. I folded my arms and stood blocking the TV.

“Are you naked?” my mother asked.

I said nothing.

“Get out of the way,” Layne the Favorite said.

“SSSSStace. Why don’t you have any clothes on?”

“Because I’m sensitive!”

My ploy failed. I got sent back to bed. But to this day, if you want to get my clothes off, play the Sanford and Son theme. Works every time.

It was during one of these TV watching sessions that Layne made his big move.

“You know how sensitive I am,” He said to his mother. “And that the divorce is reflecting me.”

“Affecting you, honey.”

“Right. So I was thinking about what would make me feel less infected.”

Mom: “Affected.”

“I think a new bike would really help. With my being deflected.”

“That’s a great idea!”

I bolted into the living room and stood in front of the TV, buck-ass naked.

“You have GOT to be kidding me!”

She bought the bike the next day and promptly called my father. Layne the Favorite and I sat and listened to her end of the conversation:

“Fred. Listen. I bought your son a bike. You need to come over and put it together.”

We heard our father’s muffled voice.

“No way, Fred,” my mother said. “I wasn’t going to have the damn store put it together. They wanted seven bucks! That’s highway robbery. Disgusting. And it’s not like you’d give me the seven bucks. You can’t even pay my sssssstinkin child support.”

My father’s voice got louder.

“Just get over here and put this thing together,” she ordered. “Son of a bitch.”

It took my dad all day and one hundred and eleven curse words to put the bike together. He had a number of things working against him:

1. No talent for mechanical things (which I inherited).

2. He chain smoked, and so was building the bike with one hand.

3. White hot anger for my mother made his remaining hand shake. He kept dropping the smaller bits of bike, which I dutifully retrieved.

At least until seven thirty.

“SSSSSStace,” my mother hissed. “Time for bed.”

“Bed?” my father asked. “It’s Saturday. And it’s only seven thirty!”

“I’ve got a goddamned watch, Fred!”

“What?”

“You think he should stay up later?”

“At least on the weekends. And why should Layne stay up later than him?”

“He needs his rest. Otherwise he’s like a crazy person. He has all kinds of strange ideas running around in his head. He thinks we should eat gravy. Gravy!”

“He’s a weird little guy,” my father admitted.

“He’s just like you.”

It took another hour for the bike to be ready. My father wheeled it into the living room where my mother and Layne the Favorite sat watching TV. He ran and jumped on his new bike. One of the pedals came off and clunked to the floor.

Mom: “Fred. What is wrong with you?”

Dad: “I think the fucking nut is missing.”

I padded out to the living room, not a stitch of clothing on, and dropped the nut into my dad’s hand.

Dad: “Thanks, Stace. Holy crap! Are you naked?”

Mom (dismissively): “He does that. Get back to bed, Buster.”

Sunday night.

I was sent to bed at seven thirty. Layne the Favorite was riding his new bike in a circle around the part of our driveway inside the fence. The giant gate kept him from skittering down the long driveway into traffic and being flattened like a bug, after which all the goats in the land would be mine, as it says in the Old Testament. At eight o’clock the theme for Sanford and Son came on. I stripped naked and went out to the living room, where my mother sat alone on the couch with no popcorn.

Me: “I’ll watch TV with you.”

Mom: “Get to bed, Buster.”

I went out to the back porch and sat on the top step, watching Layne the Favorite ride his new bike in a circle. A few loose parts that had fallen off twinkled in the dim remaining light of day.

Me: “Having fun?”

Layne the Favorite (defiantly): “Yes I am! Where are your clothes?”

Me: “Wouldn’t it be more fun to ride bikes with someone?”

Layne the Favorite pondered as he circled, his tires crunching on nuts and bolts. The brakes locked and the bike stopped short. He toppled over and sprawled onto the driveway. He stood up, kicked the bike, and stormed past me into the house. I followed. It was getting too cold to be outside naked.

Mom: “Layner, what happened?”

Layne the Favorite: “My bike broke. Daddy messed it up.”

Mom: “That son of a bitch. I’ll pay the store to do it right. It’s worth it for you to be safe.”

Layne the Favorite: “I want a new one.”

He jerked his head at me. “He can have my old one. Then we can ride bikes together.”

Me: “Holy crap!” Layne the Favorite rarely suggested we do anything together. Nor did I ever get any of his old possessions, no matter how much he hated them.

Mom: “Get to bed, you.”

***

Layne the Favorite got a new bike two days after he got a new bike. This one was assembled at the store for seven dollars. His old bike was wheeled into a corner by the back stairs. Even though I was due to inherit it, I was not allowed to touch it until his new bike had been delivered.

Monday night, he went outside to ride after dinner. Finally allowed to lay hands on my new bike, I tried to ride it, but whatever calamity had struck it the night before made it unusable. I went to my mother with the problem.

Me: “My bike doesn’t work.”

Mom: “Isn’t it time for bed?”

Me: “It’s six o’clock.”

Mom (holding up her arm): “Do you see it, Ssssstace? Do you see my watch?”

Me: “How do I get my bike fixed?”

Mom: “Maybe you should call your father. I’m sure he’ll come running over. Son of a bitch.”

I went back outside. My next door neighbor, Jimmy the Third (father of my friend Jimmy the Fourth) had seen me struggling with the bike from his third floor window, where he spent a lot of time watching the neighborhood, and came over to have a look. He had the bike upside down and was tinkering with the chain.

Jimmy the Third: “So it just stopped.”

Layne the Favorite (riding his new bike in a circle): “Stopped short. Mom says I could have been badly hurt.”

Jimmy the Third: “Who put it together?”

Layne the Favorite: “My dad. That son of a bitch.”

Jimmy the Third nodded. He did some more work on the chain, flipped the bike over, looked at me, and patted the seat.

Jimmy the Third: “Give it a try, sport.”

I hopped on the bike and was able to pedal a few feet without trouble.

Jimmy the Third: “Have fun. Try to keep your clothes on, will ya?”

My seven thirty bedtime was suspended starting that day: Layne the Favorite needed someone to ride bikes with. A few days later we were in the driveway close to the big gate. He was having a particularly fun time racing toward me at top speed and swerving at the last minute. I didn’t care. I was outside in the dark, fully-clothed, riding a bike.

Layne the Favorite charged at me on his bike, grinning ferally. I pedaled faster, as I usually did to get out of his way. The handlebars fell off, clunked to the ground, and I had nothing to hold on to. He was so surprised that he forgot to swerve and crashed into my bike, sending me face first into the gate. Something sliced my eyebrow open and I fell to the ground, bleeding, my bike and his bike on top of me. Layne the Favorite bolted silently to the back door and inside the house.

I don’t know how long I lay there, but I looked up to see Jimmy the Third leaning over me. He had pulled the bikes off of me and was holding his shirt to my forehead.

Me: “I may have crashed my new bike.”

Jimmy the Third picked me up and carried me inside. He put me down on the couch next to my mother and Layne the Favorite, who were watching All in the Family.

Mom: “What happened to him?”

Jimmy the Third: “He hit the fence with his head.”

Mom: “If he’d been in bed on time, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Jimmy the Third: “It’s only eight o’clock.”

Mom (holding up her arm): “Look at this, Johnny! I got a watch!”

Jimmy the Third: “Your son’s got a nasty cut. He’s going to need stitches.”

Mom: “For that? It’s nothing. A scratch.”

Jimmy the Third: “He’s bleeding pretty badly.”

Mom: “He needs to go to bed.”

Jimmy the Third went to the phone on the wall and dialed. He spoke briefly, gave our address, and hung up.

Jimmy the Third: “Ambulance is on the way.”

Mom: “No way, Jerry! He doesn’t need a goddamned ambulance! Who’s gonna pay for it? Not his stinkin’ father, that son of a bitch!”

Sanford and Son came up on the TV, with its catchy theme. I started to take my pants off.

Jimmy the Third: “What is wrong with him?”

Mom (shrugging): “No idea, Jackie. I keep asking him that and never get an answer.”

Jimmy the Third: “My name’s Jimmy.” The men of his line had been named Jimmy for a hundred years.

Mom: “That’s what I said.”

I got five stitches and Jimmy the Third snuck over the next day, took my bike home, and completely rebuilt it. As a success, I would have to say it was a mixed bag:

1. New bike.

2. A dispensation on my seven thirty bedtime, although Layne the Favorite started going in around eight anyway to watch TV with his mother, at which time I got sent to bed.

3. Five stitches and a scar for life.

I knew how Philip II of Spain felt, having a post-Armada tantrum in the palace in Madrid.

Philip II of Spain: “I sent a hundred and thirty ships! What the hell happened?”

I felt the pain of the ancient Hannibal, sulking in his tent, tears leaking from his one good eye.

Hannibal: “I brought elephants, for Jupiter’s sake. Elephants.”

My days took on a grindingly similar routine: ride bikes with Layne the Favorite until around eight. My mother would stick her head out the back window and call for him and we would both have to go inside. She had stopped telling me to get to bed - I just knew.

Eight pm. Sanford and Son came on TV. I went to bed, but I wasn’t going to stay there.

And I was buck-ass naked.

siblings
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About the Creator

Stacey Roberts

Stacey Roberts is an author and history nerd who delights in the stories we never learned about in school. He is the author of the Trailer Trash With a Girl's Name series of books and the creator of the History's Trainwrecks podcast.

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