by T. J. Klune
GIVE ME DEATH or one with Gandhi’s face and his quote underneath:
“You can judge a society by the way it treats its animals.” That one had made me feel a little guilty. And way creeped out, because Gandhi’s eyes seemed to follow me everywhere, like he knew, just knew I was thinking about pulled pork.
But it was when that last one had come that I had to draw the line.
Imagine, if you will, sitting down for breakfast one randomly bright and sunny morning, and your little brother walks into a room wearing a shirt that says WANT LONGER LASTING SEX? BECOME A VEGETARIAN!
Seriously? Come on. Seriously!
I was in the middle of saying something to Otter when the little shit walked into the kitchen, pretending not to notice me noticing him. My spoon had dropped from my hand and clattered onto the table, and Otter had followed my line of sight as the blood drained from my face and my jaw dropped open. And did that big bastard help me? You bet your ass he didn’t.
Otter started bellowing great gales of laughter and pounding the table with his gigantic paws, causing it to rattle and shake. I glared at him for a moment and then looked back and waited for He Who Was About To Have His Internet Privileges Seriously Revoked Forever to turn around.
You would have thought the Kid was the greatest method actor in the history of the craft. He calmly took a packet of oatmeal from the cabinet and laid it on the counter. He took a bowl from the dishwasher and placed it next to the oatmeal. He walked to the fridge and took out his filtered water and walked back to the counter. He tore open the packet and dumped the oatmeal into the bowl. He threw the packet into the garbage. He unscrewed the cap on his water and poured a bit into the bowl. He screwed back on the cap and walked back to the fridge and put the bottle inside and closed the door. He walked back to his bowl and walked over to the microwave and clicked the button and set his breakfast inside. He closed the microwave and set the timer for three minutes. While it counted down, he watched it with disinterest, glancing down at his fingernails, picking at something on his arm. He fixed his hair in the reflection off the microwave and got a spoon from the drawer. The timer finally dinged, and he took out his oatmeal and blew on it, grimacing slightly as if the bowl was hot. He grabbed the spoon and walked toward the table. He pulled the chair out and sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap. He politely asked Otter if he was done with the first pages of the newspaper. Otter—who by this time was gasping for air with tears streaming down his face—waved his hand in the Kid’s direction. The Kid picked up the newspaper and muttered to himself about this and that (depending on what day it was, it could be anything from the economy to gay marriage laws—that last he’d really taken an interest in, much to my horror) and opened the newspaper. He picked up the spoon and stirred his oatmeal for a bit, blowing on it to cool it further.
And while this whole thing was happening, while my little Marlon Brando was giving the performance of his career, that vein in my forehead grew bigger and bigger, and my jaw began to ache as I ground my teeth. My eyes had never left him, not once since he’d entered the room. I knew he’d felt them on him the moment he’d walked in. I knew he’d heard Otter doing his best impersonation of what it must sound like to be murdered by laughter. And through it all, Tyson McKenna’s face remained bland and passive, as if he were unaware of his surroundings.
I cleared my throat.
He flipped a page in the newspaper.
I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and it came out like a growl.
He took a bite of oatmeal, hissing a little bit as if it was still too hot.
I cleared my throat yet again, not so much a growl as me sounding like I was trying to start a lawn mower unsuccessfully.
He went back to the newspaper and said, “Gee, Papa Bear, I sure hope you’re not coming down with something. Especially since it’s so close to the Big Move (It’s About Time).”
“Kid,” I said through gritted teeth.
Otter looked back and forth between us, that crooked grin on full display, the gold and green in his eyes shining brightly. I made a mental note to kill him later.
“Oh, look,” Ty said, “Newt Gingrich made himself appear crazy again.
Bless his heart. You’d think he’d know by now that he’s better seen and not heard.” He paused. “Well, maybe not even seen.”
“Kid,” I said louder, sharper.
“And the weather! Well, I never! The extended seven-day forecast says there’s a 40 percent chance of rain every day? I shall have to remember to take an umbrella when I have my engagements.”
“Tyson James McKenna!” I shouted.
He calmly folded the newspaper and laid it down on the table before folding his hands in front of him and finally looking at me. “I’ve noticed,”
he said seriously, “that when people don’t have anything meaningful to add to a conversation, they usually just raise their volume.”
I didn’t get it, so I dismissed it. I figured he was insulting me somehow.
“What… in all that’s holy… are you wearing?” I ground out. Quite loudly.
His eyes widened in surprise as he looked down then back up at me. He glanced at Otter as well, a look of gentle confusion on his face. I could hear Otter starting to lose it again, and I knew I needed to end this now.
“What are you talking about, Bear?” the Kid asked me. “I’m wearing clothes. It’s a thing people do. It’s kind of a societal norm.” He paused for a moment, his face scrunching up. “Well, except for nudists. Did you know that they have resorts where people can go and just walk around naked?
CNN did this in-depth investigative report on one, something about how the main nudist dude was embezzling from other nudists or whatever, and for the life of me, I just can’t see the appeal in that, because it seems like it’d be kind of gross to have to stare at people’s dangly parts all day while you’re playing shuffleboard and sipping mimosas. I mean, what if you wanted to eat a veggie corn dog? The visual alone must be enough to make you ill.
And don’t get me started on other phallic foods. You’d think Mother Nature was a nympho with how many foods are shaped like penises.”
“Tyson—” I said again, starting to stand, knowing if I didn’t end this now, he’d likely go on all day.
“What are swingers?” he asked, cutting me off.
Otter broke and started hyperventilating. Big help, that one.
“Are you out of your mind?” I shouted at the Kid.
“It’s true!” he shouted back. “There are so many foods that look like dongs!”
“That’s not what I’m talking about!”
“Then spit it out! I’m not psychic, Bear!”
“You can’t wear that shirt!”
He glanced down at it, then back up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Why?” he asked. “Worried the soul of that cow you consumed last night won’t allow you to reach your full potential?” He looked over at Otter and reached out to pat his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “You must be so bored by now. You know. In the bedroom.” This last part came out as a whisper.
“Hey! He eats meat too,” I reminded the both of them angrily, as Otter looked like he had just been given the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness.
“He does,” the Kid agreed. “But he at least has the common sense to feel guilty about it afterwards.”
“I do,” Otter whispered. “Sometimes, it’s hard for me to get to sleep at night, knowing the next morning I’ll be eating a big pile of bacon while I cry.”
“Oh, Otter,” the Kid sighed greatly, the weight of the world on his shoulders. “If only there was a vegetarian church where you could go confess and be absolved of your meat sins.”
“Like the Church of Edamame?”
“Church of Tofu?”
“Church of—”
“So help me God, I will punish the both of you,” I growled, ignoring the smirk in the Kid’s eyes and the flare of lust in Otter’s.
�
��What is your major malfunction?” the Kid asked. He and Otter had recently watched Full Metal Jacket, and Tyson had thought Gunnery Sergeant Hartman was God. He asked me that question at least six times a day now. I told Otter he was never allowed to pick out movies ever again.
Otter had just grinned and told me to shut up.
“You can’t wear a shirt that talks about sex!”
“Who says?”
“I do! You’re nine years old!”
“Oh, please. I’m not wearing it because I have sex. I’m wearing it because it’s a proven fact. And I’m nine and one-quarter. That’s practically ten. Double digits, Papa Bear.”
“Proven by who?” I asked suspiciously.
He looked at me as if I was stupid. “PETA.”
I was incredulous. “PETA said that? PETA? Tyson, that’s like the NRA saying guns don’t kill people, that people kill people. Of course they say that!”
“I think both guns and people kill people,” Otter said, obviously contributing to the conversation.
The Kid looked at me with some newfound respect. “That was a highly intelligent observation, Bear,” he told me. “Color me surprised.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, blushing.
“No, seriously. It sounds like you may have actually read something.”
“Well, there was this thing online. You know. It just kind of caught my eye.”
“Good for you. It’s awesome to see you are broadening your horizons.”
“Yeah. And there was this other thing? On, like, how there’s all these uprisings? You know, in like Egypt and Syria and stuff like that? That looked… bad… for all those people.”
He nodded gravely. “A lot of suffering going on across the pond. I hope one day they can find peace and all the citizens can be free.”
I felt relieved. “Me too.”
He clapped his hands together. “Well,” he said. “This has been a most interesting breakfast. I really feel that we all learned something today. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some… things… I need to do online.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling at him. “Just remember, you need to start packing up your books this morning too.”
He grinned at me and it was dazzling. “I know, Papa Bear. I can’t wait for the Big Move (It’s About Time).”
My smile widened. “Me either.”
He cleaned his bowl in the sink and whistled as he walked out of the room.
I laughed quietly, feeling strangely pleased with myself. I’d gone toe to toe with the Kid on current events and hadn’t come across sounding like an idiot. I’m not normally one to be topical (I mean, really, who has the time?) but this caused me to want to learn even more. I picked up the Kid’s discarded paper and started to flip through it, wanting to read more news stories that I could talk to the Kid about. Expand my horizons a bit. I wondered who this Newt Gingrich was and why he was crazy, and I started searching for his name.
Otter stood and began clearing the table while I was on my quest for knowledge. When I’d finally found the dude’s name and started to read, he bent down and gripped my chin gently. He brought my mouth to his and kissed me sweetly, his tongue parting my lips and tangling gently with mine.
I couldn’t help it when I groaned into him, his lips soft and warm against my own, urging, but not really pushing for more. He pulled away after a minute and touched his forehead to mine. I stared up into that gold-green that meant so much to me and sighed happily to myself.
“Bear,” he breathed. “You know I love you, right? With every fiber of my being?”
I nodded, suddenly feeling a bit misty-eyed. He tends to make me like that.
“And you know I think you’re smart?”
I nodded again, squirming at his praise.
“Well, then, I hope you’re not going to be upset when I tell you this.”
I shook my head, a little worried.
“The Kid just totally played you.”
I cocked my head.
“Like, seriously, completely manhandled you.”
I furrowed my brow, feeling my jaw grow tense.
“Like, he destroyed you.”
My eyes twitched.
“Like, to the point it was almost brutal to watch.”
My lip quivered in righteous indignation.
Otter sighed. “But, holy crap, do I love you.” He kissed my forehead and left.
“Kid!” I roared.
OKAY, so, what happened then wasn’t done on purpose. You have to believe me. Totally an accident. I’d found the MEAT ISN’T NEAT shirt piled in the corner, somehow missed but not forgotten. There were only a couple of boxes left, and I figured I could just put it in one of those to get it moved.
How was I supposed to know that there was also a bottle of bleach in that box hidden under other cleaning stuff? How was I to know that said bottle of bleach had a leak in it? That when I shoved the shirt into the box without looking, it’d fallen right into the corner where the leak was happening? It wasn’t done on purpose. I wasn’t looking! I had a billion other things on my mind!
But, my God, did that start a war.
I was in the kitchen of the Green Monstrosity (our new house, our wonderful house, the house that was the most horribly offensive color known to man) when I heard the Kid cry out, the horror in his voice sending chills down my spine. I dropped the pots and pans I’d been putting away, and they clattered to the floor as I ran. I can’t even tell you how many scenarios exploded through my head as I rushed toward my little brother, who had cried out again, a sound so long and mournful that it caused me to ache. Did he hurt himself? How bad is it? Do we need to go to the hospital?
Oh God, I hope I know where the insurance cards are. Fuck the cards, I can get them later. What if he broke his arm? What if he found a human skull under the floorboards? I never checked to see if this house had an unsolved murder that’d happened inside it. Why didn’t I check that before we moved here? Oh God , what if there are hundreds of dead bodies under the floors!
Like, what if this was the former home of what will be known as the world’s worst serial killer? Is our house haunted now? I don’t believe in ghosts.
That’s stupid. There’s no such thing as ghosts. What if the Kid saw a ghost?
When you hear your little brother cry out like that, it’s not always going to be rational thoughts that go through your head. I suppose I could continue on in that same vein, but you get the idea. I’ve learned in my short time being a brother/parent that it’s way too easy to automatically believe the worst has happened. I expected there to be blood or a severed limb or maybe a big python wrapped around his little body, choking the life out of him.
What I didn’t expect was the fury in his eyes.
I rounded the corner into our new living room, glancing around wildly until my gaze skittered onto the Kid. He stood before an opened box, a dripping white/blue something in his hands. I rushed over to him and heard Otter running in behind me.
“What happened?” I gasped out. “Are you alright?”
“Who did this?” he whispered, looking down at the fabric in his hands, moist and splotchy. At first I couldn’t tell what it was, and I began checking him roughly to make sure his bits and pieces were still attached. As far as I could see, he was fine, and I allowed myself a brief moment to relax.
Until I really saw what he held in his hands.
Then, I knew the shitstorm that was coming.
“What is it?” Otter asked, his tone worried and sharp. “Are you okay?”
“Who… did… this?”
“Did what?” I said, exasperated, my heart thumping in my chest.
He held up the blue and white fabric in his hands, his little fingers trembling. The fabric was soaked with something, and a bright smell bit my nose and eyes. I looked at the words on the front of his shirt and paled. The words that now read ME IS NEAT.
Oh, fuck, I thought.
“I dunno,” I mumbled.
Liar, my conscience ch
ided.
Shut up, I said back.
“Bear, why won’t you look at me?” the Kid said through gritted teeth as I found something neat to stare at on the other side of the room.
“What?” I glanced back at him, then looked away again. “I’m looking at you.”
“Uh-oh,” Otter said succinctly.
“Did you put this in the box with the bleach?” the Kid asked me.
“There was bleach in there? I’m sure I didn’t know that.”
“The fact that the box is labeled cleaning supplies wouldn’t have given it away?” His voice was rising, and I took a step back, only to run into a wall of resistance that was my boyfriend. My big solid, stupid boyfriend who wouldn’t move to let me run out the front door and to the next county.
Or even take the blame for this one. Otter felt me twitching and to ensure I couldn’t get away, grabbed my arm and held me tightly. I glared back up at him for just a split second. The traitor.
“You did this on purpose,” the Kid accused me with an angry tremor in his voice. “You did this to get back at me for the whole nudist colony/penis food/veggie sex shirt thing.”
“I did not!” I said, indignant.
The Kid shoved it toward me. “How the hell am I supposed to wear this anymore! You won’t let me buy more shirts because you’re scared of the vegetarian message and now you go and ruin the ones I have? I demand retribution!”
I looked down at the shirt again, reading its words. ME IS NEAT. “Well, you gotta admit, it has a new message now,” I told him optimistically.
“Like, if you needed a self-confidence boost one day and didn’t mind bad grammar, you could still wear it.” I heard Otter snort behind me, and his body started to shake as he attempted to keep his mirth at bay to avoid the wrath of the Kid.