Sunday, May 18, 2003

It was Saturday night. My father and I sat at the kitchen’s table. He was listening to music and having some Becks — he’s no longer a Coronas man. I was having dinner and at the same time enjoying my 2-liter bottle of Squirt. Mmm, pleasant.

Dinner was more pleasant because it was one of those moments when it hits me… how great it is to have my father’s company. I felt fortunate to be eating in his presence. We even conversed. He said that some of the music reminded him of Tomy, my older brother.

When my father speaks of my brother, he expresses mixed feelings. He says he’s very bright. At the same time he adds that he’s a fool. Hehe, mixed feelings, I tell you. What he means is that although my brother is bright, he’s a fool for the decisions he makes. Those mistakes have hurt my father greatly.

Tomy was my father’s first son. A father’s first son holds a special place, as does a mother’s first daughter. I understand that when my mother was pregnant, my father quit his job as a police officer. It was the first sacrifice my father was to make for Tomy.

I remember that when my brother was about 18, there were some dudes in our building who wanted to beat him up. Something about my brother having messed with the younger brother of one of them. I think they had him cornered. I ran home and fetched my dad. He stopped doing what he was doing, and without asking questions, he followed me to where Tomy was.

I think Tomy disliked me for having brought my father there. He made it seem that way. I just know my dad’s presence might have saved him from a beating… or at least had it postponed. Hehe.

That wasn’t the first time Tomy was in danger. It also wasn’t the first time I ran away from the situation to go look for my father to come and get him out of trouble. Neither was it the first time my father responded without hesitation.

A few years later, my brother was standing outside our home. A party was going on feet away, in the parking lot. Some drunk, big cholos had something against him. They’d say shit to him, and he’d respond. I guess my brother was too damn crazy to know better. He just never knew when to shut up. He had some guts.

Remembering the face he had given me the last time I had fetched my father, I knew I should not intervene. Besides, my father wasn’t home. Who would I fetch now?

I walked in and out of our home, looking for something I’d use if a fight broke out. I sat on the stairs. I walked by my brother and the cholos. I stood on the second story of our building, above them. I didn’t want to lose sight of what was taking place.

Lets remember the three major fights I had had up to that point: When I was 7, a guy took a punch at me and that was all that was needed for me to run home crying, threatening that I was going to return soon, with my new shoes on, to kick the guy’s ass… literally. When I was 11, two Armenian guys my age got crazy with me… another battle lost. When I was 13 or so, my brother asked me to put on some boxing gloves. He already had his on. I didn’t put up much of a fight. The gloves were too heavy for me, and the sadness to see my brother hit me with so much contempt wasn’t something I was able to cope with.

Three fights, three losses, but not even that would allow me to witness my brother taking a beating without me doing anything to help him. Fortunately, that night wasn’t going to mark my fourth lost battle… a fight didn’t break out.

Fights. Arrests. Imprisonment. That’s my brother’s life in a nutshell. In his credit, however, I gotta say that the last few times he has come to visit, my parents have been pleased with his behavior. I don’t know if it’s an act that he holds only for the duration of his visits, or if he has in fact changed. I do hope it’s the latter.

My parents love him so much, specially my father. I recall that some years back, in one of those nights that he’s enjoying a beer and thinking of my brother, my father said, “Damn he, or those, who placed my son on the wrong path.” I second that.

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