Butthead Bonanza

Gifts gifts everywhere and not a box for me. I kicked through discarded wrapping paper, bows, and tags, fruitlessly searching. I knew I was unlikely to find what I needed, but I had to look.

It’s not easy being the second-to-youngest of 12, continuously lost in the shuffle. Imagine waking up Christmas morning to find out there weren’t any presents for you under the tree. Had your parents forgot? Or, as per usual, was an older sibling to blame?

I let it go until that May when my brother was tooling around the driveway on a bike he claimed he got for Christmas. As he popped wheelies & endos, I started to notice details about the bike. It had rainbow streamers on the handlebars & the glittery banana seat was hot pink.

"Nice bike," I said in a low voice "where'd you get it?" "What's your problem weirdo?" he snorted. "I told you, Santa gave it to me." Somewhere a little girl was crying, I could feel it in my bones, and my brother was responsible. That tore it, something had to give.

Now, with all of the things I knew I could do to him at that moment, every option a burning desire to smack the grin off his stupid face, I had to make do with the moment. With the resolve of that girl in me, I ran and pushed him angrily towards the street "It ain't yours, ass!"

He stumbled toward the street, stopping right before entering traffic, and breathing a sigh of relief as the car whizzed past. He was white as a sheet, with eyes as big as plates. The grin was gone. That’s where his version of the story ended. Mine included the pants-wetting.