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We Were Brothers

by

Tom Ketchfish

 

I've written just a bit about one of my adventures as a young adult.  I started with some background material that introduces the major cast of characters.  This is the first of many elaborated true stories I have that include Keith and Doug.

 

 

My ‘graduating year�?was 1975. That was the year Nixon got the rest of the troops out of Vietnam. My brother went. I was proud of him even though most of the young people thought he was a baby killer. My sister was a little conventional to be described as a hippie chick but she was close.

 

I, however, the third child of four, found it difficult to fit in. My musical tastes were, (and remain), eclectic. Sure, I liked Led Zep, but not as a religion. I dug Johnny Cash, Spike Jones and Joni Mitchell too. My taste in drugs ran to daily use of lots of marijuana and occasional ventures into the psychodelic realm. Escaping. I was good at running away, even when I ran in place.

 

I was a short, fat kid until my freshman year of High School. That’s when I grew nearly a foot but kept the same weight. Between that and the normal third child insecurity, I was subject to the torture that cruel elementary school children administer with impunity. That gave me an early bitter taste of what the world was like.

 

There were a few kids that endured the same kind of torture but even fewer in High School that didn’t have an obvious defect to exploit anymore. Enter, my friends. The cool kids I knew to be assholes. The nose-pickers, pants-shitters, stinky kids and nancy-boys were nobody I wanted to associate with. That left Doug, the fat kid that took no shit and Keith, the third child of eight with an unfortunate haircut that he defended with his fists. They were my true compadres. We each maintained our own circle of friends and would draw each other into the other groups but, we three were inseparable.

 

Keith played football in his freshman year until he was injured. His other group were the jocks. It expanded my horizons into how the popular kids operated and gave me a couple big athletic friends that were handy in a tough spot. He was also had the most patient manner. Only once was he ever angry with me and I was not an easy person to get along with. I've lost touch with Keith. When I stopped drinking we had much less in common and I slept with his wife before he knew her. He still doesn't know and they've been married over 20 years now. We were brothers.

 

Dougie got the chicks. All three hundred pounds of jiggling fat and stretch marks oozed charm. He always had a joke and a smile, even in the most dire of circumstances and hooked Keith and I up with the bahes where ever we went. I knew the sad secrets behind the jovial front but would have defended them to my death. His death came first. He died of complications from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma 16 years ago. We were brothers.

 

Me. I knew all the crazies, druggies and criminals. I scored the weed and acid. I arranged the mischief. I found the parties with bowls full of joints and electric lemonade. I had the cash from my wheeling and dealing and various illegal activities and I both shared it and the knowledge of how to get away with almost anything. I had a sense when things would go South and always left five minutes before the cops showed up. When I led an adventure, nobody got caught that stuck with me. We were brothers.

 

Keith, Doug and I had some intense adventures together. Other people drifted in and out of our circle but we were always there for one another. Like I said, we were brothers.

 

  

 

part 1 

For several years, only one of us would own a car. The others would use it when they needed it or we'd drive each other around. I was the first to get one. I had a 1962 Ford Falcon with fading and chipped dirty white paint. We'd line the trunk with plastic trash bags, put in 3 cases of beer and ice, roll up an ounce of high grade Columbian and head out with no destination in mind nearly every weekend.

 

One weekend, it was raining hard so we headed for the ocean to play the breakwater game. The object of the game was to hang onto the jagged rocks as far out on the breakwater you dared to venture while the gigantic Atlantic storm waves broke above you. There were four girls in the car with us, one each for Keith and I and two for Doug.

 

When we got to Brant Rock, we parked and exploded out of the little car in a yellow cloud of pot smoke and tinkle of empty beer bottles. The girls briefly complained about the driving rain but their high pitched squeals were drowned out by the howling wind and crashing waves.

 

With the girls huddled at the base of the seawall, first the fearless Doug, then myself (not to be out done) and finally the cautious Keith bringing up the rear, we carefully ventured out onto the granite boulders and blocks.  We knew he'd be the first to brag about the exploit later but that was cool. He carried a six-pack in each hand.

 

Doug was only 20 feet out when the first of a series of three big waves crashed down over us. It was only about 6 feet over our heads and we grabbed the rocks and held our breathe quickly. "Yeehaw!" came bellowing through the dark storm when Doug's big head was exposed by the receding water. It was barely out of his mouth before the next wave hit. Just a little one, we were only three feet under and you could see the lights of the down through the foaming brine. "Oh shit!", I heard behind me as Keith turned and ran in fear. This wave was huge! "Hold on tight Doug!" I screamed before I grabbed a deep breath and hugged my jagged boulder in a death grip.

 

It was a few minutes before I could spit out the seawater and get my bearings but when I did, I was horrified. Doug wasn't there. I ran toward where we'd last seen him on the breakwater but was passed by the now courageous Keith, throwing caution to the wind in concern for our brother.

 

"Get me the hell out of here!" I heard as I looked into the frothy ink for Doug. When I turned and looked, there was Doug, wedged down between the rocks with his head barely even with our feet. Keith then yelled "Hold on, here come some more. Get your breath."

 

After another series of waves, one large, one small and one huge, Keith and I each grabbed one of Doug's hands and we pulled him out of the crevice. He said, "I can't walk, my foot's hurt" so we half dragged him back to the safety of shore and, with much grunting and groaning, got him up the ladder to the parking area somehow.

 

"I don't feel so good" were the last words he said before he passed out. We looked him over and their was blood oozing out of his foot at an alarming rate and his skin had gone gray. Keith pulled a big hunk of beer bottle glass out of his foot and firmly pressed a dry pair of socks to the wound as I wound that old Falcon up to 95 in the mile and a half to the local fire station.

 

Later, at the hospital, they told us we'd saved Doug's life with out quick action and our mother's shook their heads as Keith's Dad chided us for our stupidity. My Dad, he was cool about it. He said in a low voice, "You're not the first ones to play you know. When you go back, I'd better not find out you dipshits weren't wearing Mae Wests. Getting beaten against the rocks is the risk you take. Drowning would be stupid. It's just as much fun with one on."

 

  

 

I reckon' this would be part two of 483 parts.
 
 The Maple Lounge and The East Side Gang

My brother Steve's pretty complicated for a simple kind of man.  He's been drowning the demons of his Vietnam experiences in alcohol since he came back and has always been a reckless adventurer type.  Put he and I, crazy drunk and oozing attitude into a rugged kind of neighborhood bar frequented by a dozen small time hoods in their twenties and there's bound to be a wild west show right here in New England.
 
I was all of about 19 and Steve 26 and we were sharing an apartment.  He picked me up at work one day and we stopped at a bar for pizza and beer for dinner on the way home.   I was wearing my new 'High Plains Drifter' hat when we went in the place.
 
When I'd just started drinking my first beer, a burly guy came over and snatched my hat off my head.  Placing it on his head, he said, "Nice hat, I think I'll keep it."
 
I looked my brother across the table straight in the eyes and signalled him with my finger to stay put.  I didn't respond the guy at all and he went back to the bar, wearing my hat. 
 
We had a few beers and ate our pizza and I said to Steve in a low voice, "When I come back from taking a piss", heading over to the bathroom in the back of the joint. 
 
When Steve saw me coming back, he got up and sidled his way to the left of the guy, nearest the door, as I edged in next to his right.  I tapped him on the shouder and through gritted teeth said, "I get my hat back now or I'm going to have to step on some toes around here".   
 
"Who's you gonna start with punk?" was barely out of his mouth when I jumped up and landed the heels of both my size 9 1/2 combat boots sqare on his foot with all my weight.  I could hear the crunch of bones over my answer, "Yours, motherf*cker!"
 
About 15 guys then moved toward us at the bar.  I grabbed my hat, put it on and pushed the big guy into the lap of some chick at a table.  Steve grabbed a bar stool by the seat and held it up to fend off the coming attack and I followed his cue.  With our backs to each other and the bar at one flank we moved towards the door, swinging and jabbing with the aluminum legs of the cheap furniture.
 
When we got to the door, we burst through it, flung the chairs and ran full tilt toward Steve's old Rambler American.  We hopped in and Steve turned the key.  The engine turned but it didn't start.
 
The angry mob was just getting to the car when it started and lurched away as Steve dropped it into gear.  The fastest guy leapt on the trunk, (or boot as those of you on the other side of the pond refer to it), and was clinging to the top edge with one hand and banging on the rear window with the other.  Steve spun the wheel to the right and jacked up on the brakes sending him skittering off across the pavement and up against a light pole.
 
Then he looked at me and I looked at him and off we were, racing in the direction of the now retreating gang.  He cut them off from entry into the bar and I managed to send three of them flying by hitting them with the door of the car.
 
About two weeks later, I was out carousing with Keith and Doug.  I suggested we go to that particular bar again but first we hook up with my brother and some of his friends. 
 
The look on the faces when first Steve, then I, then our 6 man entourage of merry men entered the bar.  All conversation ceased.
 
We stood at the bar and ordered our beers and eyeballed the situation.  A couple of the guys there, including the guy that had taken my hat - now sporting a shiny white cast, moved behind the pool table in the back of the bar and talked amongst themselves in low voices.  Everything else was quiet.
 
After a couple beers, we filed towards the door.  Doug was the last one out and he turned to the crew there and said, "Well, are you coming?"  Sure enough, the same case of characters followed us out the door.
 
We formed, as planned, in an arced line shoulder to shoulder with our cars and motorcycles two rows away behind us in the nearby Department Store's lot.
 
They approached us willy-nilly with pool cues and fists flying.  Our organized line quickly overwhelmed them.  Doug and I never had a punch landed on us.  Keith caught one on the jaw but it didn't catch him square so he just had a little red chin and a stiff neck the next day.  Steve took a pool cue across his shoulder and couldn't raise his left arm for a week.  None of the other boys were hurt badly either
 
Our opponants were all sitting or lying on the pavement except the smart ones that had cut and run.  "The moral of the story, " I said as I flicked my cigarette into the face of the guy with the cast, "is don't f*ck with strangers.  You never know what you'll set yourself up for."

 

 

 

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