The Prodigal's Brother

Fictionalized from Luke 15.

Dear Pop,

I told myself to shut up.  But I can’t let it go.  I have to speak out.

I can’t believe what you did.  

I can’t believe you could hurt the family like this.  How could you do it?  I’m talking about my idiot brother Richie.  He’s no good.  Ever since he was a kid, he never held up his end.  Always, something needed to be done, it was who?  Me, that got it done.  I worked.  I sweat blood for the family. 

And what did you do?  

When Richie came to you, it makes me sick to even think of it.  When he asked for the money, half of everything?  Instead of smacking him in the mouth, like you should have done, what’d you do?  You gave it to him.  You gave him the money? 

You stupid old man.  You ruined us.  You cut us in half.

And then what did Richie do?  He blew it all – up his nose, into his arm, on the ponies and the whores.  Now it’s gone.  All of it.  Gone.  And for what?  Nothing.

Now there’s hard times.  The whole neighborhood is on the bones of their ass. And we’re barely scraping by.  What if we had that money now?  We could be squeezing the other families and build up our own.  We could have doubled, tripled what we control.  But, no. We’re busted out like everybody else.  All because of you.  And Richie. 

What about me?

I’m the oldest, it should be me that got the first fruit.  I should have had it all  instead of the crumbs of what’s left.  I would have made something out of it.  Made you proud.  I could have made us great.  All those years of working and putting up with your crap and what do I have to show for it?  What do I get?  Sneers.  People look at me and they laugh.  They know about Richie, they see.  And I work, day in, day out and I see them laughing and I know what they think.  It’s a disgrace.

You said you heard from him.  So what are you gonna do?  He should be cut off.  We can’t open our doors to Richie again.  Send him away.  He should sit at our table and eat our food?  He made his choice.  He got his and it’s gone.  He’s gone, dead to us.

Don’t shame us more than we’ve been shamed already.

I can’t even believe Richie had the nerve to reach out.  That stupid kid, he never learns.  What does he think, we hold out our arms and welcome him?  Oh, the poor little sheep, he’s lost his way.  Forget about it.  After what he did?   There’s no coming back, not until he’s paid the last dime.  Even then, he can never be trusted.

I’m sorry.  I know I’m way out of line.  But it’s the truth and somebody got to say it.  I’m sorry I called you stupid.  I know in your heart you meant to do good.  But we can’t be soft on a thing like this.  This is business, the family business and without it where would we be?  We can forgive, but we can never forget.

Richie, wherever you are, I wish you well.  May you find your way.  But you can never come back.

And Pop, don’t worry.  Somehow we’ll get through this.  We’ll be OK.  Just remember I’m here for you and the family.  Just like I always been.

                                                                        Your faithful son - Johnny

A Tar's Advice

And so you’ve come, my lad, to sea,

                to share this bravesome life, as we

the hearty tars who cruise the line.

                Consider now and change your mind.

What promise brought you here to be?

                To sail the globe so wide and free?

To see the island girls so fair?

                Or claim your rich and oily share?

‘Tis true, the world you’ll see and more,

                and many a comely lass offshore.

Of riches, well, you’ll have your bread,

                and pocket money to drown your head.

‘Tis manly stuff and good clean fun,

                to sail the seas under the sun,

with distant shores and yarns to spin.

                Aboard, my lad, your prize to win!

Hear the watch sing, “Thar she blows!”

                We’ll fetch our line and down we go.

Snug in our boats upon the waves,

                all stalwart men and fearless mates.

To chase the whale-fish for miles far

                with wood and iron, line and dart.

In leviathan’s wake we shall ride

                until our lance snuffs out his life.

“All hands to oars, boys, pull for home.”

                "To boil ‘em, boys, and take his bone.”

A hundred-barreler, all to share,

                we’ll drink our health when we get there.

Come ride the waves before the wind,

                a-follow’n where the whaler’s been.

Over oceans and ‘round the horn,

                while sweethearts pine and mother’s mourn.

When gales they blow up heavy seas

                you’ll skip upon the shiv’ring trees.

You’ll furl the sails and bind them well

                while swingin’ free twixt heav’n and hell.

The world you’ll see from end-to-end,

                and pray one day your soul to send

back home, my boy, to bosom warm,

                the day you face the sparmer’s scorn.

Such tender youth with fateful choice,

                did hear the sea’s soft, briny voice.

The sailor’s life, fine, cruel and hard

                when lashed by gales upon the yard.

When up the tree while rough seas toss,             

                never a cruise without a loss. 

Some boy whose mother spurned the day,

                or widow-wife whose husband lays

so far from home, lost to the deep

                ne’er to return and so she weeps.

O father, son, so far from home

                a-followin’ where the whale-fish roam.

‘Tis great adventure, my true lad,

                draw tight your belt and hearken glad.

Hear the words of this salty dog.

                Ship on, now boy, and sign the log.

© 1998 Craig Roberts