Story: Recollections of a Weakling

Story One: The F-Bomb
This is the story of the time I called my brother an “effer.” You know what I mean by that, right?

Patrick and I used to get home from school by bus, usually before Mom got back from work. Our older siblings were off doing their own thing, so it was often just the two of us. Patrick knew exactly how to push my buttons. He was older, bigger, and stronger—and he loved to torture me.

One day, after relentless teasing, I finally snapped.

“Pat, you… FUCKER!”

Now, keep in mind—I grew up in a house where swearing was basically forbidden. I had never heard my parents, or even my siblings, use profanity. My bad-word vocabulary was almost nonexistent. The f-word was my nuclear option, my desperate attempt to claw back some tiny shred of power.

Patrick froze, eyes wide in disbelief. Then a slow, wicked grin crept across his face.

“I can’t wait for Mom to get home,” he said. “I’m going to tell her what you said—and you are so busted.”

I was doomed. I’d never been in trouble for swearing before, and I imagined the consequences would be biblical.

Mom didn’t get home for another hour, and Patrick spent every minute gleefully reminding me just how much trouble I was in. By the time she walked through the door, I was a nervous wreck.

Patrick ran up to her.

“Mom! I have to tell you something! Before you got home, Dan said a really bad word. He called me… I can’t even say it. You know—the bad one. He called me an effer!”

Mom blinked. “What? What did your brother say?”

“You know, Mom! He called me an effer!”

Slowly, realization dawned on her face. She turned to look at me, still cringing in the corner, then back at Patrick. Without a word, she grabbed his arm, spun him around, and delivered a swat for every syllable:

“What—did—you—do—to your brother—to make—him—say—such—a—bad—word?”

Then she walked over to me. But instead of a spanking, she knelt down, looked me in the eye, and said softly:

“People who use bad words like that usually aren’t smart enough to say something better.”

I just nodded. “Okay, Mom.”

That was the first time I remember seriously wondering if maybe—just maybe—there was a higher power out there watching out for me.

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Story Two: The Three-for-One Rule
Of all my brothers, the one I clashed with the least was Jim.

Jim was the fun brother. He invented games—lake games, yard games, and legendary night games that brought together kids from all over the neighborhood. When word got out that Jim and our brother Chip were organizing something, kids came from blocks away to join in. My childhood often felt like a dream because of it.

But even Jim and I had our moments.

Our fights were never serious—no punches to the face or gut. Mostly arm and leg stuff. Still, I usually ended up on the losing end. But I always had this unshakable belief that Jim wouldn’t ever really hurt me.

That didn’t mean I didn’t get mad.

Sometimes, in a blind rage, I’d haul back and swing at his arm. And every time, Jim would calmly remind me of his personal policy—the Three-for-One Rule.

“Dan,” he’d say gently, “I know you’re upset and I know you want to hit me. But just remember: for every one hit you give me, I return three. And not just in number—but in intensity. So think carefully.”

Usually, I’d land a light tap.

He’d nod solemnly. “Smart move. Now hold on—here come your three. They’ll be a little harder than yours, but hey, you made a wise choice.”

Then he’d give me three firm—but fair—pops on the arm.

Eventually, Patrick and Chip adopted Jim’s Three-for-One Rule too.

For the most part, I was more of a wrestler than a puncher. I’d try to grab them and throw them down, but I usually ended up pinned until I calmed down.

“Are you calm? Are you calm?” they’d ask.

Once they let me go, I’d storm off to their rooms, pull open their dresser drawers, and dump all their clothes onto the floor. Sometimes I’d mess up their beds for good measure.

My room was always such a disaster that they couldn’t retaliate.

“I win!”

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Story Three: Dad’s Towel
In a house with two working parents and six kids, there was always plenty of love—but almost never a clean towel.

Everyone knew the rule: Dad’s towel was off limits. It hung in his bathroom, dry and pristine, and nobody dared touch it. To do so was to risk his wrath—and that was no joke.

But there were only two showers in the house: one in the middle bathroom, and one in Mom and Dad’s. The towels in the middle bath were usually damp, sometimes smelly. Dad’s towel? Clean. Dry. Heavenly.

And tempting.

Every so often, Dad would call all the kids into the living room and ask, in that calm but terrifying tone:

“Who used my towel?”

We’d stand there in silence, eyes wide, lips sealed, while he repeated the question.

One time, after an especially long standoff, Jim finally said, “Dad, it was me.”

Dad stared at him.

“You’re just trying to protect your brothers. I know it wasn’t you. You can go.”

Jim left the room, and Dad turned back to the rest of us.

“Now—who was it?”

I’m pretty sure it was either Patrick or me. Honestly, it was almost always Patrick or me when something went wrong.

Thanks anyway, Jim.