Go Time

There I was 42 years old and about to get into a bar fight, a bar fight at 42? Who was I? And what led me to this ridiculous moment in my life? As I untucked my flannel shirt and hit my flat hand against my knuckles, I had a weird sensation that it was GO TIME.

GO TIME were two words that I learned very early in life. When my little brother was being teased at the playground because of his lisp, well that was Go Time. By the time I was done with Ricky Marshall and 'Big Bob their mouths were stuffed with dirt, leaves, with a touch of Labrador excrement, they learned their lesson of never to make fun of my little bro in my presence.

Punishment? Well when Dad heard of what I had done he treated me to the Ponderosa, which was the home of the best salad bar, desert bar, and A1 covered skirt steak all for under 10 bucks. Mom was out of the picture, heck she was out of the picture frame, off the wall, and out of our memories. All we knew was that she left when I was 4 and I could vaguely remember the smell of fresh cut flowers and the shattering of dishes.

For Dad, music was his life. He was a Johnny Cash wannabe, he wore black, played every instrument, and turned our small house into a vintage record and music store. I was my brother's keeper, Cody was 9 when the playground incident happened and I knew that if he didn't work through his lisp, he would be treated differently his whole life. So we started with Kenny Rogers and worked our way to his namesake, Glen Campbell. "You got to know when to hold them", Campbell worked through the W with know and when all weekend. He sang like he lived life, with great joy and a huge smile on his front teeth missing mouth. By the time we got to Glen Campbell's Rhinestone Cowboy my brother was pronouncing all of his letters like Morgan Freeman. End of Part 1

Author Notes: Coming of age story, in parts.

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