When I exchange stories with people about growing up among their siblings, I realize more and more that I had a rather unique experience, growing up with my brother Jesse.
Not that we didn't fight, not that we didn't beat the snot out of each other on occasion, but by far, I remember laughing. Even as we slapped it out.
We laughed a lot together.
We didn't want anything at the other's expense.
I remember a time when our family was eating in a steakhouse, and Jesse ordered the lobster. The waiter tied a bib on him (this was the sort of place where they cut your tie off with rusty shears and tack it to the wall). The bib had some writing on it, and I asked Jesse to lean back from the table a bit so I could read what it said.
He leaned back, and I could read it clearly, but a evil little voice in my head prompted me to ask him to lean back farther.
He obliged.
I repeated this a few times until the inevitable occurred. But even as he pulled himself back up, he was laughing.
My parent's certainly weren't, but we were both laughing too hard to notice.
He can laugh at a joke, even if it's on him.
Often, when I say that my brother and I were close in age and close in general, I'm asked if we had our own secret language, like twins sometimes do.
The answer to that is no, unless you count American Sign Language, in which we learned the words "school," boring" and "yes" so that we could talk via the mirror that faced our school desks.
"School. Boring."
"Yes."
To be honest, I'm not even sure Jesse and I understand each other all that well. We are, and always have been, very different sorts of people. I sure know I've puzzled him many a time. But we've always laughed at the same things. Even as adults.
Once on a shuttle ride between airports, Jesse pointed out that the spot under the bus driver's "Hello, my name is" plaque on the glass behind him was empty.
I tore a page out of my journal and popped some gum in my mouth, while Jesse wrote SPANKY in huge letters.
I stuck the gum to the back of the paper, and Jesse went up and leaned his hand containing the paper against that spot on the wall while he asked the bus driver a question about a terminal at the next airport.
By the time he got back to his seat, we were both snickering so hard we were attracting attention.
Is this really all that funny?
Prolly not.
But we still laugh ourselves sick about it.
So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe laughter is our secret language.
Not that we didn't fight, not that we didn't beat the snot out of each other on occasion, but by far, I remember laughing. Even as we slapped it out.
We laughed a lot together.
We didn't want anything at the other's expense.
I remember a time when our family was eating in a steakhouse, and Jesse ordered the lobster. The waiter tied a bib on him (this was the sort of place where they cut your tie off with rusty shears and tack it to the wall). The bib had some writing on it, and I asked Jesse to lean back from the table a bit so I could read what it said.
He leaned back, and I could read it clearly, but a evil little voice in my head prompted me to ask him to lean back farther.
He obliged.
I repeated this a few times until the inevitable occurred. But even as he pulled himself back up, he was laughing.
My parent's certainly weren't, but we were both laughing too hard to notice.
He can laugh at a joke, even if it's on him.
Often, when I say that my brother and I were close in age and close in general, I'm asked if we had our own secret language, like twins sometimes do.
The answer to that is no, unless you count American Sign Language, in which we learned the words "school," boring" and "yes" so that we could talk via the mirror that faced our school desks.
"School. Boring."
"Yes."
To be honest, I'm not even sure Jesse and I understand each other all that well. We are, and always have been, very different sorts of people. I sure know I've puzzled him many a time. But we've always laughed at the same things. Even as adults.
Once on a shuttle ride between airports, Jesse pointed out that the spot under the bus driver's "Hello, my name is" plaque on the glass behind him was empty.
I tore a page out of my journal and popped some gum in my mouth, while Jesse wrote SPANKY in huge letters.
I stuck the gum to the back of the paper, and Jesse went up and leaned his hand containing the paper against that spot on the wall while he asked the bus driver a question about a terminal at the next airport.
By the time he got back to his seat, we were both snickering so hard we were attracting attention.
Is this really all that funny?
Prolly not.
But we still laugh ourselves sick about it.
So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe laughter is our secret language.
2 Comments:
Throughout reading this post, all I could think about was pizza. Why is that?
I dunno, but suddenly that sounds good.
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