Whitie

My sister was sixteen, nearly seventeen, when she had her first date. It was the Father's day the summer before my daughter was born. I was out visiting to pay my respects and grab a free meal after an annoying stint as a check-out boy in a grocery store, before kiting back to the city to be with my wife at the time, who was expecting our first, and only, child.

Now, my brother was very excited to see me. Our sissy was having her first date. The boy was on his way to get her. I just had to stay until he arrived. My sister was a little tepid about this for some queer reason I've yet to ascertain.

When the boy showed up, I was in the kitchen. My father and brother met the boy in the driveway. My father is one of the few hominids that has ever intimidated me, standing just a few inches shorter than me, but outweighing me by at least seventy pounds with just that kind of bearing. He introduced himself with his full name and the type of handshake men give when exerting a subtle challenge. The do-not-fuck-with-me-and-mine grip that I only take seriously when my father gives it.

My brother, being the youngest, was only fourteen, almost fifteen. He still had his baby fat, and looked the part of the baby of the family. Young and cute, my sister and I will say to this day. He was harmless.

The boy got to the front door where he was greeted by my sister and received by my mother in foyer. My mother had no chin, and I am not making this up. Ask anyone who ever met her. There's nothing intimidating about that.

My sister led the boy to the kitchen, where I was waiting. She was excited about her first date and that both her parents and brothers were getting to meet her potential beau. I could hear her talking as she rounded the corner to the kitchen.

"And this is my big brother...oh shit..."

I was perched, quite innocently, wholesomely, on the counter, with my bali song out. Sharpening it. It was a cooler day, so I was wearing my graveyard jacket over my Ministry t-shirt. My hob-nailed steel toe boots could've used a spot of polish. I'd have not shaved in a few days and my hair hung loosely in my face. I looked over, through my hair, and with a predatory smirk and a chuckle, which carried a slight whisper of a growl, I said;

"How are ya?"

My sister didn't speak to me again for a month after that. Though, I cannot imagine why. Stranger still, the boy never came around again.

***

I'd not been back from the south and burying my father's mother an hour when I was introduced to a man my sister decided to have as her boyfriend. He was well-pressed with closely cropped brown hair. The most notable thing I saw was his pronounced canine teeth. Fangs. He looked slightly vampiric with those, despite the slacks and tie, but his bearing was much like that of a wolf. Protective to pack and mate. On a bestial level, I found I could admire that quality.

He shook my hand with the type of handshake men give when exerting a subtle challenge. The do-not-fuck-with-me-and-mine grip that I only take seriously when my father gives it. I chuckled, with the slight whisper of a growl and inclined my head, but didn't say much of anything. Sabina was there and I was tired, wanting nothing more than to go home and listen to music from Africa.

My sister came over for dinner, a few nights later. We dined upon most excellent Moroccan chicken with tomatoes and honey, and asparagus with flawed hollandaise sauce. As we chatted, she mentioned that her boyfriend was convinced that I disliked him. Something about how I must think he works for the Man.

Now, were I truly sadistic, I could've really had fun with that. Fuck with and monster the poor boy for lifetimes. I am not truly sadistic. I gave my sister a look, and with a predatory smirk and a chuckle, which carried a slight whisper of a growl, I said;

"Tell him I said; 'hi, Whitie.'"

I figured if he got the joke, he might just be worth keeping. That was four years ago. My sister and Whitie have been married almost two years. Their son, my nephew, will be a year old the day after Easter. Nowadays, if I address him by his given name instead of Whitie, he worries I am upset with him, which, when I think about it, gets me to chuckle.