Ice Man

When we were kids, my twin brother, Keith, and I used to mix it up pretty regularly. We were evenly matched, so the combat was usually confined to body blows until somebody broke us up.

My brother Steve, though … when riled, he would punch me in the face and just saunter away, clearly wound up but with absolutely no bluster. One time he did that and I fell backward into an outside corner, and I pretended that I might have a spinal cord injury. I screamed and screamed so much our Mom – a nurse who’d have spotted the phoniness in a less gifted actor – actually took me to the hospital. But as I was being wheeled out to the car Steve whispered in my ear, “next time I’ll take a finger,” his icy breath on my neck. Not much bothers him, but he has no patience for anything that does.

When he wasn’t attempting murder, Steve was always the fashion-forward kid in the family – still is, really. Check any old family photo and you’ll spot the plaid pants and wire-frame glasses right away. Player! He listened to Journey while we were playing the Who. He reads Italo Calvino, I read Elmore Leonard, Keith can’t even read, and Dave and Lisa are both just totally into truckstop porn novellas. Steve painted an undulating rainbow tri-stripe on an antique white base all the way around the perimeter of his bedroom, and he went out and bought a special, flat toggle light switch -- wired it himself. He’s, like, 11, he does this.

Later he got a degree in Landscape Architecture and now he works in: Landscape Architecture.

Today’s his birthday, and he looks great for 44. He’s beginning to turn into a really nice guy. Recently he even gave me my favorite excuse for calling in sick: “hurt my back fucking.” But he’ll pass 100 before my fingerless nightmares cease.