Karen, Mark and Richard

When I was little I had 2 sets of grandparents, 3 Aunts, 3 Uncles and 7 cousins. They (except for my paternal grandparents) were all on the mother’s side. My mother and her 3 sisters were all close and all the brother in-laws genuinely liked each other so we were all together a lot. We celebrated every holiday, birthday and anniversary together. We also had a lot of “pop-ins” (a pop-in was exactly was it sounded like: a spontaneous get together for no particular reason.) So between all the scheduled events and pop- ins, we saw each other at least 3-4 times per month.

As in most families, there was natural age delineation: the adults and the kids. But because of birth order--the kids—the cousins—were further separated. The cousins in our family were simply divided this way: Karen, Mark, and Richard-- and everybody else. Me, my brother Mark, and my cousin Richard were the excluded little cousins. We sat at the kid’s table. We were the pests that were tolerated by the older ones. Occasionally my cousin Ann Marie would join us—she was a floater: somewhere between us and the older ones. But virtually all the time we would be together, Karen Mark and Richard were a trine.

My brother was 4 years older and my cousin Richard was 3 years older than I. Mark and Richard were less than a year apart. Mark and Richard were like Oscar Madison and Felix Unger. And just like Oscar and Felix their appearance and personalities were polar opposites. My brother was all-boy—stocky, antsy and not terribly interested in pensive things. Richard was lean, sedate, and liked to read. Mark was always sloppy—his shirt tails were perpetually hanging out and he always managed to get dirty and spotted. Richard was neat—always tailored, freshly pressed and spotless. My cousin Richard wore white denim jeans to go out and play (he did—I swear). So Mark and Richard’s relationship was both concordant and antagonistic---depending on the circumstances—just like Oscar and Felix.

What I remember vividly even after all these years was that both Mark and Richard would wrestle in the basement of our house in Yonkers. It was always prompted by my cousin Richard’s suggestion ( I realize now, but not back then, that my cousin was being manipulative). And so they would roll around on the floor and bang into things until the ruckus reached a roaring crescendo. And it was at this point that my mother would yell down the steps in her cacophonous, irritating,  fingernails scratching across the chalkboard, AFLAX-duck-like voice: Are you boys getting rambunctious down there?!!— Get up here! Karen--you too!!

So with heads hung low we climbed the asbestos tiled metal edged steps my brother tripped me on everyday of my life and met my mother in the kitchen. My mother would be pissed. My brother would be out of breath and dripping with sweat and my mother would grab the first available absorbent piece of cloth—often a used dishcloth (a mopeen) or a washcloth with Comet residue--and she would rub his head and face like she was buffing a bowling ball. The entire time she would be yelling at him for being perspired—as if he could help it—as if one could voluntarily control involuntary responses--and perspired is the precise word she would use while she was buffing his head—she would cackle at him and say Mark you are all perspired!! My mother hated sweat.

The thing was, my cousin Richard never got in trouble—even though he was always the instigator. And I think it is because even after rolling around the basement floor wrestling my brother, my cousin Richard never got out of breath, his shirttails remained intact, and he wasn’t sweaty. He didn’t appear guilty. And he enjoyed every minute of not getting into trouble. And I never ratted Richard out—even when my mother would ask me how it started. It was my revenge for my brother always tripping me up the steps when I walked and Mark taking his Motorific car and running it through my perfectly set-up dollhouse.  My cousin Richard made his childhood career by saying: Mark did it—and I was the accessory to the crime. I bore false witness. And bearing false witness is number nine on the 10 commandments do not do list.

The good news is my cousin Richard did not grow up to be master maniputor like Charles Manson. He is a well-respected CFO. And my brother graduated from law school and specializes in wrongful unemployment/compensation cases. Maybe there is a connection there. They are both successful and happy and have children and wives who love them. And they forgave each other for their escapades as children long ago—just like Felix and Oscar did every week on the Odd Couple.  And I am proud of them both.