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

Today's The Day

“Son, it’s time we got you a real bike,” Dad said.

I couldn’t believe my ears.  I had been learning to ride a little kid two-wheeler with training wheels, a hand-me-down from my older sister.  I didn’t like it, but even a girls’ bike is better than no bike at all.  After a week I was getting the hang of it.  With the training wheels up as high as they would go, I could ride down the whole driveway and back without the little wheels touching.  When Dad got home from work that afternoon I showed him.  He sized me up and that was that.  Today was the day!

Dad and I climbed into the station wagon and headed for the tire store.    I was so excited I don’t remember the ride and we got there before I knew it.  As we walked into the store I smelled fresh rubber.  There were tires everywhere, in stacks on the floor, on shelves with flashy signs and on racks hung from the ceiling.  I scanned the room taking it all in, then zeroed in on the back of the store.  There they were!  Bicycles, dozens of them, lined up in neat rows, all shapes and sizes, everything smelling like rubber.

Dad went out back to find a salesman.  I was left to wander in wonderland, rows and rows of shiny new bikes.  They were more than I could count and I’m a pretty good counter.  In front were little kid bikes, which I walked right passed.  Next was a row of  spider bikes, six of them, with high handle bars, banana seats and small wheels with fat tires.  They were racy looking, some with streamers from the hand grips, but not right for me.  Bobby, the kid next door, had a spider and he had to pedal like crazy to keep up with the other kids.  But I was planning on covering a lot of ground so I gave them a good looking over and moved on.

Next were the English bikes with downturned handle bars for racing, hand brakes and skinny road tires on tall spindly rims.  One even had a tire pump hooked on its frame.  These were built to travel and I liked that.  I looked around to see if anyone was watching.  The coast was clear, so I thought I’d try out a fast looking Schwinn racer.  As I swung my leg up my foot sort of got stuck on the bike’s crossbar and I nearly fell over,  taking the row of bikes with me.  Hopping on one foot I managed to catch my balance and unhook my sneaker from the Schwinn.  That was a close call.  Maybe these English bikes aren’t as good as they say.

In the last row were the regular bikes, touring bikes some people call them.  The first few were girls’ bikes, with no top crossbar.  I think that makes it easier for girls to ride with skirts on.  Next to those were four boys’ bike, heavy and strong, built for action.  There in the middle of the row I spotted her.

It was a dream bike, tall and red, long and shining like a new penny.  She was a Western Flyer, with its frame curving up from the rear axle to meet the steering part in the front.  Above the bar the frame widened into a tank, just like a motorcycle, which was just for looks, it didn’t hold any gas.  The tank had a headlight stuck into the front.  She had chrome fenders, chrome rims and white wall tires, a red and white seat with a red carrier rack on back.  All red and chrome, just like a fire truck, or at least a bike a fireman would ride.  This was the one for me!

Dad came back in with the salesman.

“How old are you son?” the man asked.

“I’m seven.”

“You’re big for age,” he said.  I liked the sound of that so I grinned and nodded.

“Our small frame bikes are over here,” he said, pointing towards the kid bikes and spiders. 

My heart sank.  I didn’t want a kid bike.  I looked down at my feet, still holding the white handgrip of the Western Flyer.

“How about these?”  Dad asked, pointing to the regular bikes.

“Yeah, how about these?” I said.

“Well, those are mostly full-size, might be too much for him to manage. But that red one there might be okay.  It has 25-inch wheels.”

“Wanna give it try, son?” Dad asked.  I nodded eagerly and got ready to mount.

“Here, let me get this,” said the salesman, flipping up the kickstand.  I took hold of the grips and swung my foot, hooking it on the seat the same as I had done on the Schwinn.  I struggled free and swung again.  No luck.

“Let me try something,” said the salesman. Stepping over to the counter he grabbed a wrench.  He gripped on a nut below the seat, loosening it.  Giving the seat a twist, he wiggled it from side to side until it slid down, hitting the frame with a clunk.  The hair on the back of my neck felt prickly as he worked.  He lined the seat up straight and tightened the nut.  “Now give it try,” he said.

Once more I held the grips and with everything I had I swung my leg up.  I made it!  I was on top of the bike and I slid up onto the seat, one foot just touching the floor on the tippiest tip of my toe.  

“How’s that feel?” asked the salesman.

“Good.”

“Looks like a bit of a stretch.”

“Well, I have my short sneakers on,” I said.  “My other ones are taller.”  The men laughed and smiled at each other.  The truth is I couldn’t reach to put both feet down, but I could just reach with the toe of one foot.

“Are you sure it fits okay?” Dad asked.

“Yes sir,” I said with confidence, struggling to stay up.

“This is the one you want?” he asked.  I nodded eagerly. 

“I can give you a deal on this,” said the salesman.  “It’s a holdover.  The company quit making ‘em a couple of years ago.”  That cinches it, I thought.  Dad loves a bargain.

They went and wrote up a paper and Dad gave the man a check.  Then the salesman wiped her down and checked the tire pressure with a pen looking thing he had in his shirt pocket.  “Be sure to keep both tires pumped up to forty-five pounds, son,” the salesman said.  I agreed, even though forty-five pounds sounded pretty heavy to me. 

I walked the bike out the door with my Dad’s hand on my shoulder.  “Thanks Dad,” I said, as we loaded her into the back of the car.

“You’re welcome son.  I still remember my first bike.  You enjoy it now, you hear.”  I smiled and nodded, then smiled some more.

It seemed like a long ride but we finally arrived home, Dad, me and my Western Flyer.  Lifting the bike out of the back of the car, Dad said, “Why don’t you give her a spin while I go in and tell Mom we’re home?”  I nodded as he handed me the bike. 

I jumped on and wobbled my way along the driveway.  It was scary and I took a couple spills, but after a few laps I could manage okay.  I was riding high above the ground, rolling easily along and feeling the wind in my face.  I was free.  It was the first day of the best summer of my life.