• Looming over me he stands. My boss, former co-worker, and, worst of all, my younger brother. His speech of “The proper worker” is long and useless. This is my parents fault.if he wasn’t so spoiled as a child maybe his pocket protecter would be a nametag for Wendy’s. But no. All my parents ever did was give him the heads up. I thought having a younger brother would mean someone would look up to me, if not in respect, but in height. And again, no. he was at least twice as tall as me and three times my weight. Oh, joy.
    When I tried to join the wrestling team to gain some mass, he joined karate and I was forced to quit thanks to the endless beatings he gave me at home. Ma and Pa were so proud. Then they turned to me and yelled at me about mysteries hospital bills they kept getting sent in the mail. Gang fights, they thought. Sure, if one person could count as a gang.
    But of course I’ve survived, wish I hadn’t though. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here listening to the longest winded speech never recorded. Their fault, he says. “Who?” I ask. “Mom and Dad, of course,” What is he talking about? “If they hadn’t spoiled you, your name tag would be for McDonalds!” Okay, I’m done. I stood on a chair, looked him in the eye and threw my fist. I was rewarded with a very satisfying crunch. As the blood pooled so did his tears. I walked out of his smelly office, gave my name tag to the front desk and used the phone to call my family and tell them we were moving to Canada. Mexico is an option, but I like snow more than sun.