Chapter 4
Brotherly Love
"We came into the world as
brother and brother; And now
let us go hand to hand as enemies
of one another."
~ William Shakespear, 1906
There is no love quite like the love between brothers. Who, but a brother, could know your deepest fears and most haunting regrets? Who, but a brother, would revel with you in the hilarity of your father's alcoholism? Who, but a brother, would terrorize and torment you so as to toughen you up for the cruel, unforgiving world? Friends may come and go, but a brother is someone you just can't get rid of. Yes, through thick and thin, my brother and I stuck together.
As a child, he went by Johnny. He was my father's namesake, John Junior as it were. Boy, if he wasn't the spitting image of dear old dad. He was two years my senior and he never let me forget it. Being the first born can have a profound effect on a boy. For two years he was king of the castle. Then along came Prince Billy. What was Johnny to do but protect his throne?
I was far too young to remember it, but I've been told a great many times in my life about the story of Johnny trying to sell me on the street corner as a toddler. He was only a four-year-old himself, but he was a four-year-old with gumption. I suppose he figured he could kill two birds with one stone. He planned to offload me on some other family, thus securing Mom and Dad's attention all for himself, and also make some cash to boot. It was an ingenious plan when you think about it. As has been true throughout much of my life story, there were no takers for little Billy. People failed to see the potential in two-year-old me. So, I was brought home again.
Once Johnny realized I wouldn't be so easily gotten rid of, he changed his strategy. He began a calculated scheme of teasing me until I reached my breaking point in hopes of getting me to leave the family on my own. Of course, this was all in the name of toughening me up and making a man out of me. At the time it felt cruel. Looking back now, however, I realize that when we were mere boys, he actually took it pretty easy on me. Perhaps he recognized that our mother was already doing the hard work of fortifying me as a man by dressing me like a girl and making me sleep on the porch. Perhaps it was just that my breaking point was never far away at that young and tender age. Perhaps Johnny just hadn't honed his tormenting skills yet. Whatever the reason may be, Johnny did pick on me, but all for the greater good of my wellbeing. For example, at my fifth birthday party, Johnny convinced me that, as a rite of passage, every five-year-old boy gets to experience his first swirly. Now, I didn't know what a swirly was at the time, but I assure you, my little heart was racing with excitement at the thought of this momentous occasion. Johnny got all the neighborhood kids who had come to my party to follow us into the bathroom where he forced my head into the toilet and flushed several times. At the moment I felt betrayed and humiliated, but looking back now I can see it was actually fairly comical. In terms of the torture factor, certainly it didn't hold a candle to his later antics.
Once I hit those awkward preteen years and was able to switch to boys' clothing, Johnny's bullying techniques really ramped up. We would ride the bus to school together in those days. My brother had typically walked to the next stop to board the bus separately and pretend he didn't know me. Once I stopped wearing dresses to school, he changed this tactic. He would board the bus just ahead of me and devise some mechanism by which I would slip and fall on my ass in front of the rest of the kids. Sometimes he would drop marbles or gravel. Other times he would spill some kitchen oil on the floor just behind his own footsteps. Yes, I got laughed at by the students and the bus driver alike. Sure, I sustained injuries from this technique. They were mostly bumps and bruises. I only suffered a couple broken bones. It didn't take long for me to catch on to this ploy. After about thirty or forty falls, I learned to walk a couple miles to the previous stop on the bus route to ensure I could board ahead of that troublemaker Johnny.
There were a couple blissful years when I was still in middle school, but Johnny had moved up to high school. I found the hours spent in the school yard to be a peaceful respite from the taunting and teasing I received from my brother at home. Occasionally, though, he would still find ways to surprise me. He used to call in to the office at the middle school, pretending to be our mother. The school secretary would then deliver some embarrassing message for me over the PA system. One of the classics was, "Will Bill McNeal please report to the office? Your mother will be delivering your requested change of underwear shortly." Another favorite of mine was, "Bill McNeal, please report to the office. You forgot to apply your genital wart cream this morning." That Johnny, what a kidder. Sometimes he would skip class just to hoof it down to the middle school at lunchtime and pull my pants down in front of a group of popular girls. I must say, I admire his devotion to my mental anguish. He really stuck to it.
By the time we were in high school together, the tormenting bordered on torture. It would be years before I learned the term waterboarding, but rest assured, I was familiar with the process. Johnny loved to trap me in hall lockers or fill my gym bag with red ants. He got a kick out of spreading rumors about me. Depending on the tales he was telling at the time, our fellow students either believed I was a hermaphrodite or a eunuch. I was a time traveling caveman, trying to fit in with modern society. I had been abandoned at birth by my biological parents, who were also brother and sister. It seemed there was no story Johnny could spin that our classmates would not believe. I'm not sure if that speaks more to his creativity or their gullibility. Either way, the results were the same.
His techniques weren't always so creative or inventive. Sometimes he resorted to more straightforward forms of punishment, such as a swift punch to the groin in the school halls. That type of abuse served as a piece of advice which I carry with me to this day: sometimes the simplest approach is the best approach. That Johnny was always teaching me something.
I figured out the purpose of Johnny's ruthlessness from a very young age. It didn't take a genius to recognize that my brother was testing me. Having a couple years of life experience on me, he knew the ways of the world. He knew he wanted little Billy to grow into a tough, brave, cunning young man whom he would be proud to call his brother. That is why he tested me relentlessly—always pushing me to see how I would react. If I cried like a little girl, he knew he had to push harder in order to make me stronger. If I came back with some witty retort or a retaliatory punch to the groin, I would see a flash of pride in my brother's eyes. Then, of course he would double down and hit me twice as hard the next day. Johnny never faltered in his task of cutting me open and then ripping off my scabs in order to help me form a callous against the cruel, dark world. I must say, looking back, I appreciate all that my brother did to make me stronger.
I can't say I really appreciated the way he slept with all my girlfriends until I reached the age of thirty. I could have done without that. I suppose that was his way of toughening me up to all the ways a woman can break your heart. It started with my high school sweetheart, Kate Andjim. She and I never did go all the way. It might have happened the night of our Junior Prom. We were both dressed to the nines. Love was in the air. Then Johnny showed up and swept her off her feet and onto the back of his motorcycle. They rode off into the night together. She called me from a hotel the next day asking for a ride. After I picked her up and drove her home, I told her it was over.
I had plenty of other casual relationships along the way. Johnny always had a way of wedging himself between me and my lady and seducing her. He may have been a bully and a drunkard, but he seemed to have a way with women. Maybe that's not entirely true. He seemed to have trouble hanging onto a girl of his own. Yet, somehow he never had trouble stealing one of mine. It's baffling, to be honest. Once, when I was in college in Cincinnati, he drove all the way from upstate New York to bed a young woman whom he suspected I might be interested in. I must say, while I still would have rather he kept it in his pants, I do admire that kind of commitment to a goal. If Johnny wants to steal your woman, he will not rest until the job is done. I think his ability to make women swoon in spite of being a giant ass mostly has to do with the dangerous combination of traits which he possesses. Johnny is tall and handsome, broad shouldered, and charismatic. He has a way with words that seems to make women melt. But he is also a swindling conman and a complete scam artist. He's devilishly good looking, but also devilishly evil. If he wanted to conquer a corporate empire, he would certainly be able to give it a go. For the most part, however, he seems to have been content with conquering the hearts of my romantic prospects.
These days his friends call him John, but to me he will always be Johnny. We don't see each other much anymore. Our only regular reunion is the annual trip home to Mom's house at Christmas time. A lesser man might hold a grudge against a brother who so relentlessly plagued his childhood, even if the childhood trauma was for a good cause. While I am not a lesser man, I assure you I do hold a grudge. That is a lesson I learned from Johnny himself: when you decide you're going to do something, you stick to it. So, around the holidays when we get together, the two of us rehash the past, year after year, while our mother goes on and on about how she can't wait until she drops dead so she doesn't have to listen to us anymore. Of course, Dad isn't around these days to instigate the drinking competition, but the two of us keep up the tradition in his honor. Usually the festivities end with a drunken, shirtless fistfight on the front lawn, which Mom has to break up with the garden hose. After that, Johnny usually drives off while screaming about how next year he's going to bring his gun. Then I typically pass out on the porch for old time's sake. Our holiday traditions might not be what you would call conventional, but they are ours and that is what makes them special.
While my brother was my first friend, which is often the case amongst young men, I had friends in my own right as well. Johnny certainly had a hand in shaping me into the man now penning these words of wisdom, but my friends had an influence on me too. Let's explore how my friends from those early years played a role in developing the persona of young Bill McNeal.