Two years ago
My dad had disappointed me, yeah, but what parent hadn’t let their kid down at some point? He’d missed a few of my big games, but I’d never cried about it or made him feel bad. He wasn’t perfect. Who was? So when Oscar refused to speak to him for, like, a week after Dad missed his art show, I was fired up. I told him he was being a selfish baby and that Dad could see his stupid paintings or pieces or whatever-the-hell he called them if he just brought them home.
Oscar ignored me, of course.
I swear he didn’t eat with us for days and days. He went straight to his room after school and didn’t come out till morning. I have no idea what he ate, or if he ate at all. If he was looking for pity, he would get none from me. People forget shit all the time. Who did he think he was? The king of the world?
Dad was usually clueless about emotional stuff. That was Mom’s job. She’d go talk to Oscar. I don’t know what she said to him, but he always came out of his room happier. Now she was gone, so no one went to talk to Oscar.
Dad acted like everything was totally normal. He made dinner, set a place for Oscar, called him down. Nothing. We’d be jamming to reggae. We’d eat dinner. Tell stories. Regular stuff.
This went on for a while. Then one night Oscar just showed up at the table, as silent and moody as ever. I opened with a jab, “Look who decided to grace us with his presence tonight,” and I got the evil eye from Dad. That didn’t stop me. “No, Dad, he needs to grow up and realize the world doesn’t revolve around him and his little drawings. You were working. You weren’t out partying. Wor-king.”
Oscar stood up and walked upstairs. We didn’t see him at the table for another week.
The baby.
I’d admit it: I liked not having Oscar around so much. He had a knack for annoying Dad with his high-and-mighty crap, which was something I rarely did. Dad and I spoke the same language. Oscar was like an alien.
While Oscar was sulking in his room all those nights, Dad and I had tons of time to talk lacrosse strategy and music, shit my brother didn’t care about. We jammed to tunes as loud as we wanted. He said I could go to the upcoming Reggae Sunsplash concert at the Mann, said he’d drive me and Growler and pay for me if I scored a hat trick in my next game. I took the challenge.
It would be great to get stoned out of our minds, listen to Jimmy Cliff and Toots and the Maytals, and not have to worry about driving home.
Perfection.
See, Oscar didn’t even know what he was missing. If he would stop being such a whiner, he could actually have a life.