My brother Rick purposely dribbled water down his chin as he drank. He set the glass firmly on the dining room table and exclaimed, “Bad water! Bad. Bad water!” slapping the water with his index finger, wagging it at the water as though chastising a wicked child. Water splashed out of the glass, all over the Formica table top.
I thought my big brother was funnier than Eddie Murphy.
My father put his fork down and swallowed a hunk of pork chop. He started coughing ferociously, but could be heard clearly saying, “You...”, “Are...”, Cough, Cough, “A weird...”, “Fucking kid.” He drank his water down, leaving a thumbs length in the glass which he flung in my brother’s face. He slapped the table, his cough turning into a full belly laugh.
My brother looked straight into my father’s eyes and lifted his glass. He dangled it at arm’s length, swirling the half full glass of water. It was a grey glass, and as it hovered over our dining-room table it looked like a bomb that had just been dropped into a cloudy sky.
“Don’t even think about it champ,” my father said.
My brother smiled, showing teeth like a crocodile ready to strike.
“If you do it champ, this won’t end with you moving in with your grandmother, or taking a long trip with your Aunt Marie or any of that shit. There will be scuba divers and grappling hooks involved in this deal.” My father’s New York accent was coming out strong, as it always did when he was agitated.
I looked at my fourteen-year-old brother with pride. I nodded slightly, almost to myself. My father would finally be confronted. The tyrant would finally be felled. The great shitter would be shat upon.
My father closed one eye and tilted his head to the right. He looked like Popeye. “Do it champ. Come on!”
My brother swirled the water once more and flung the water in my face.
My father started laughing and my brother joined him. Both of them coughing as though choking on a hunk of meat.
My father grabbed my water and before bringing it to his lips feigned sloshing the water on my face. He drank the water down. My father then reached across the table and grasped my brother by the left forearm. My brother squeezed my father’s elbow. They were coughing and laughing, snot running down their noses. Both of them wrapped their lower lips over their top lip and simultaneously sucked in the snot.
I had never seen them so happy in each other’s presence.
Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, Mark LaMonda is an artist and writer who currently lives in Santa Clara, California. His work has appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January House Literary Journal, South Florida Poetry Journal, and Tough Poets Review; and is forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, Shadow and Sax, and Still Here.
