Playing Fair and Being Kind

Most, or many beginning writers use the confessional style. It is easy and, as we all know, allows us to ‘write what we know’. I use it with an eye toward the dangers of over loading my audience with dark event or thoughts. Just the same there is a poetry to some events that is beautiful beyond the dark theme. I think this short story illustrates this. There is a built in confession and yearning for unrequited love. Some events, however brief, can deliver a lifetime of woe. Here is one.

ME AND MY BROTHER

My brother Jerry is 84 years old. In twenty-two days, I’ll be 82. Eighty years ago, we were sitting in the front room of a first-floor apartment in a triple-decker in Dorchester. Both of us were sitting close to each other watching four women fighting. In this story the visual part has no intro. My consciousness begins with the two of us sitting on the floor; Jerry a little in front of me so that I had everyone in the room in my field of vision. I was sitting just back of Jerry’s field of vision so he could not see me unless he turned his head to his right. He could see everyone except me. The four women didn’t seem to see us at all. They were all busy fighting. The fighting included, but was not limited to, yelling, screaming, pulling and pushing, hitting, pulling hands-full of hair. At times all four were engaged in the physical contest and at other times only two were engaged. All of the combatants were yelling. Now that I’m older I can associate a lot more comparisons. I would say that it most resembled a tag-team wrestling match. The story starts, in my memory, with my awareness of four big people, my mother and my sisters, struggling with each other, all standing, pushing and pulling and grabbing and trying to hold the nearest person to them.

My sense is that the altercation began slowly, built, and then exploded. Jerry and I were sitting in the front room of the apartment, I’m sure we were minding our own business. If my memory is anywhere near accurate and if I was two years old that means my youngest sister, Joanne, was almost 13. Jean, the second oldest of the sisters was 15 and Jackie the oldest was probably 18. My mother was 42. I, as a two-year old saw the world clearly as a place to not fuck with big women. I also recollect that I knew they were saying words to each other but I couldn’t understand what was being said. That makes me certain I was only beginning to talk and not all words were meaningful to me. It was scary and I’m sure Jerry’s eyes were as big as mine while this violence was in progress.

What happened next was probably a teaching opportunity for the two of us. I’m not sure what happened but there was a sharp shift in the energy in the room. It went like this. The women were at the peak of engagement grabbing and pulling and voicing concerns and complaints when Jerry with innate wisdom turned his head to look at me. Sort of like, “hey, George. What do you think?” He turned his head to me and we locked eyes. I read his look like, “what the fuck!” Up until then I was a frightened bystander but when Jerry gave me the look of “abandon ship!” I lost it. That’s all it took. My mouth opened as wide as possible and I let out a wail. A wail that immediately became a scream. Jerry’s eyes almost popped out of his head and he joined in. Mid-wail we both turned our attention to the banshees battling across the room. I believe we got their attention. I recall the energy in the room deflated, dissipated to a near-normal level and arms and hands grasping us and lifting us and moving us away from the arena. Apparently, we changed the tone of the argument so that we became their excuse to cease hostilities.

That is the whole story of this remembrance. It has been important to my brother and I as indicated by the number of times we have talked about it during the past eighty years. One part of this story is most depressing and that is I don’t remember who picked me up. For the life of me I don’t recall.

G. M. Goodwin
January 29, 2021