It’s always there, simmering with latent heat under our mostly cool conversations.
“How are the Heat doing?” I ask. But I’m thinking, “Does he have time to watch TV? Is he working all the time?”
“Good, better now that LeBron and Wade are really starting to click.” Is there a hint of condescencion in his voice? A tease that he, the successful one, has the right to watch sports, but not me. No, not me, the one still in school.
We chat about useless things mostly. Sports (basketball is the favorite though neither one of us can play worth spit), weather, news — but not politics.
It’s always there, lurking in the corner of my brain and just beyond the whisper of my thoughts.
It’s 5pm, time to head home. Papers stack, laptop closed — but wait. Is he still working? Would he go home now? Is that the difference between us?
In the morning, it’s already 7am, and I’m just waking up. Is he already been up? Is he already working? Is this why he’s so successful?
It’s like having a metronome follow me around. Click, click, click. It sounds in my head. But no matter how fast I move, or how hard I work, the beat is faster, quicker, more dominating than ever. I wake up early, try to get a jump on the day. I’m at allegro, but the metronome is already at presto, click-click-clicking wildly. I skip lunch and dinner, move up to presto, but by then the metronome is at prestissimo.
How did we end up like this? We were thick as thieves once. We had the same friends, played on the same soccer teams, won (or in my case, lost) at the same video games. (We did, however, never date the same girl, though there were a couple of close misses.) We were mates, protectors, friends, but, above all, brothers. But he was the driven one, the ambitious one. Worked like a machine, or like a laser. I was the dreamer. Big dreams, dreams with no foundation.
There was no conscious choice. No break up or wild confrontation. We drifted apart, but we’re brothers, not acquaintances, so we have a radar relay for each other that has unlimited range.
Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s all because of Mom. (She was, of course, always saying things like, “You’re good at that, but he’s good at this,” etc., etc.)
I hope it’s all in my head. It’d be nice to have a mate, protector, friend and brother again.
Philadelity 