Wherein He Breezes in and Does Strange Things (Like Always)

It hasn't been a great day. Earlier I sat down with a fresh pile of essays from my students and the very first one I read was plagiarized. The student had gone to the internet, copied, pasted, slapped his name on the page, and handed it in. This was the very first paper I read. There are, like, seventy-nine to go.

That plagiarized paper didn't give me the greatest feeling about the day. In fact, I decided it was probably going to suck. I also decided there was no way to get through it (or, at least, get to the point in the night where I would be able to grade in front of the Sabres game and my future husband's slick moves) without a jug of wine. The wine rack was full of my father's merlots, so I put on some shoes and went to the liquor store. When I came back, toting three bottles of wine, my brother was sitting in the living room. He was watching Employee of the Month. He was guzzling DanActive yogurt.

"Hello," I said.

He looked at me.

"Hi," I tried again.

"Hey," he said, then turned back to Jessica Simpson's massive breasts as they took center screen.

"Nice car," I said. About a week ago, my brother went out with my mother's boyfriend and bought a car to replace the wheels he's had for the last three years. His last vehicle was a 1994 Nissan truck--tiny, silver, beat to hell. Adam got it from our uncle. He got it for $500.

After forking over the money for that truck, Adam spent a lot more to make it uniquely him. He painted the dashboard blue and orange. He bought special lights for the interior. He installed a flashing bulb for the end of his shifter. He hooked up an expensive CD player, which was promptly stolen.

Eventually the truck started to fall apart. The transmission went, so did the radiator, so did the heat. This entire winter, my brother cruised around Buffalo without a working heater in his vehicle. He wore extra coats and gloves on the drive to work. He kept blankets behind the seat in case he had a long drive ahead of him.

But now he has a new car--well, a new used car. And this afternoon it was sitting in our driveway.

"Want to take me for a ride?" I asked. What I really wanted to say was, Can I take it for a spin? because I feel I am owed it. I have been a very giving sister when it comes to my car--letting that child have my keys, letting him drive it while I am out of town, letting him take it God knows where (Hooters? The strip clubs over the bridge in Ontario?). But as much as I wanted to ask him if I could drive, I didn't. I kept it in check. I told him to take me up and down our street.

"Alright," he said in that grudging way that was not grudging at all. Really, he'd probably been sitting there for twenty minutes hoping I'd hurry up, get home, and ask him if he'd take me for a spin.



He took me a mile up the road and let me ask him standard questions: How many cylinders does this thing have? (Four) What's your gas mileage like? (30 mpg, highway) How many times have you washed it since you got it? (Two)

Then Adam decided he'd had enough of driving me, that it was time to turn around and go back to the house so he could resume watching Jessica Simpson's breasts. He was also in the mood for some leftover stir-fry.

Of course, right now the countryside is swampy with spring. Shoulders and driveways are muddy lakes. And since he'd just washed the new car, he wasn't in the mood to get anything on it. So my brother slowed down, checked his mirrors for traffic, and then proceeded to do a six point turn to get us turned around.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I laughed a lot.

That's when he turned to stare at me. "What?" he demanded. "Just what's so funny about that?"