Elorah Amsler
Each day of the summer before first grade seemed like a clone of the last. My older brother Marcus was the reluctant babysitter of my little sister Savanah and me. Every time he watched us, it was clear he’d rather be anywhere else. Our mission was simple: remain quiet, practically invisible. Our reward for completing Mission Impossible was a trip to the gas station, the magical place of bright, neon lights, where happiness and sugar lived. Looking back, I realize these trips were more for his benefit than ours. Our grandparents owned the convenience store just off the I-90 exit, something I liked to brag about as a six-year-old. Grandpa’s night shifts were the foundation of Marcus’s weekly routine of securing a 30-rack of Busch Light, with the help of a sneaky exchange of cash.
I remember that evening well. We had just gotten done eating supper, and the living room was tinted with light from the big box TV. Elmo danced across the screen as Mom asked Marcus to run to the gas station. Savanah and I exchanged the same look and carried out the plan. We bombarded Marcus with pleas, our voices rising in desperation, getting higher with every “pleeaseee.” His initial refusals did not dampen our determination. We then shifted to our most lethal weapon: Mom. As we piled into the backseat of the black Jeep, our excitement radiated. Marcus’s silent treatment did little to diminish our spirits. The gas station was waiting, a promise of fountain pops and Tootsie Rolls.
With the mission accomplished, we settled back in our seats, contentedly savoring our sweets, while Marcus went looking for his own goodies. On the way home, emboldened by sugar, I approached the subject of Mario Kart. Savanah and I had been practicing, and we wanted a rematch, scheduled for as soon as we got home. Do you want to play on the Wii when we get home?
Silence hung in the air, interrupted only by Savanah’s obnoxious chewing and smacking from the backseat. Finally, just when I thought he had chosen not to answer, he agreed.
Years later, the summer before I went to college, Thanksgiving arrived in a mix of family chaos. My grandma’s house, usually quiet, was now bustling with activity, overflowing with relatives and the aroma of food. As the afternoon progressed and the post-meal naptime settled in, Marcus extended an invitation to the gas station, just like old times. The familiar route unfolded, each turn a nostalgic reminder of my childhood. On impulse, I recounted the story of that night the summer before I went to first grade, thinking he might not even remember it.
I had never seen my brother cry. I sat up front, the vinyl gluing the back of my legs to the seat, and what felt like cotton stuck in the back of my throat. My brother, usually emotionless, was wide open, vulnerable. He confessed he hadn’t planned on coming home that night. I took Dad’s pistol. He had walked into Dad’s closet and unlocked the safe.
I sat up front, the vinyl gluing the back of my legs to the seat, and what felt like cotton stuck in the back of my throat.
The image of the gun in his hands flashed in my brain, and I could hear my sister sniffling in the backseat. But then he said it. Looking at you and Savanah, happy just to have candy and play a video game with me, changed my mind, and kept changing it.
The weight of what he said was a burden too heavy for a kid, but one I am glad I unknowingly carried that night. Even now, the taste of Tootsie Rolls still hits me with a sharp reminder of that night and the hope we offered him amidst the humming neon lights of the gas station.
The Rocky Mountain Review 