Little Brother Wars

I’m the eldest of three brothers, with one brother two years younger and the other nearly five years younger.

Wayne, the youngest of us, liked to stir up trouble and then say things like, “If you touch me, you’ll have to deal with my brother.” And he wasn’t wrong. By my teens, my best friend Quinn and I were getting into fights around town and weren’t afraid to mix it up. We liked the idea that being connected to us meant you belonged to a protected class. Wayne was part of that circle—if you laid hands on him, we’d lay hands on you.

Once, Wayne got beat up by a kid his age who I couldn’t rightly go after. So, I threatened that kid’s older brother instead. I told him that if his brother messed with Wayne again, I’d come for him. It seemed to do the trick. I’m not saying it was fair, but that’s how things work sometimes, especially in poor river towns like Lawrenceburg.

Unlike me, Wayne had it easy through middle school and high school just because he was my brother and I ran with a certain crowd. 

I think of this often when I get dressed. In my closet sits a box with Wayne’s ashes. I still need to buy a grave plot for him. Wayne never did learn to fight his own fights.

I was tougher on my other brother, Justin. He was only two years younger and, by our teens, only slightly smaller. As obnoxious as Wayne could be, he wasn’t nearly as reckless as Justin in his youth. Like all teen boys, he was trying to learn to stand up for himself and could do in questionable ways. 

I don’t recall all the details, but a girl was giving Justin trouble, so he spit in her face. Her brothers—who I was becoming friends with—chased Justin down and were about to rough him up. When I asked what was going on, they told me the story. I turned to Justin and said, “Brother, you’ve got this coming. You’re on your own.” I don’t remember exactly what my friend did, but I know it wasn’t a full beatdown. Our friendship muted the consequences.

Justin did have to fight a lot of his own battles. Wayne was just a little kid, but Justin was older—he had to learn to take care of himself. Once, Quinn and I even forced him to fight a kid he had been avoiding. Let’s call the other kid Tony. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember us setting a time and place for them to fight. The deal was simple: Justin would fight Tony, and after that, Tony had to leave him alone, or we’d get involved.

The fight happened, but Tony kept messing with my brothers. So, one night, when I saw him coming to Walnut Theater, I jumped him in front of everyone waiting for the doors to open. My brothers might act like idiots or be weird, but they were my brothers.

In time, I came to resent Wayne for all the trouble he brought into my life. Justin learned, for the most part, to fight his own battles. I don’t have to bury him; he’s off on his own now. 

Sometimes, you stand up for your little brother. Other times, you let him get his butt handed to him so he learns not to pick stupid fights or act like a complete weirdo. When they ask, “Why didn’t you stand up for me?” you say, “We’re not kids anymore, and we all have our own battles. If you’re in real trouble, I’ll be around.” 

At a basic level, all men need to be able to fend for themselves.