My Brother, Phil

This is a true story.

It did not happen to me, though I narrate the tale; I have tweaked genders and family facts and other pertinent information to obscure its origin, though I believe if the subjects described were to read this writing, they would recognize themselves quickly, if not immediately.

I learned of these facts today, and they led me to write.

No sex.

I was betrayed.

It was painful beyond belief, and all the more because of who, and how, and when.

I felt so betrayed.

++++++

I grew up in a normal home.

At least, from my perspective, my home was normal. My parents loved one another, and did not disguise that fact. I mean, they didn't grope in the living room, or at the dinner table, though that's what it looked like to me, in my younger, more innocent days.

Our younger days, I should say; I had a older brother named Phil.

Check that: half-brother.

Okay, my mother was married once before; she had Phil, and when a freak blue-sky lightning strike struck down her husband, Phil's father, she turned to my father-to-be, a friend to both of them.

It took a couple of years, but eventually she married my dad, and I came along; and due to complications during my arrival, my mother was rendered unable to produce more offspring.

So my folks had a six-year-old and a newborn. Enough, I suppose, to cause them to count their blessings and leave regrets by the wayside.

++++++

I grew up idolizing Phil. He was my main man, my dad notwithstanding; half-brother or no, he treated my like a full sibling and a cousin and a son, all rolled into one.

My dad, for his part, doted on both of us. Phil loved my dad, and vice versa; my mother was the common link, and we were just one big happy family. Okay, not so big.

My dad grew in his career path, and was away more than he liked; but Phil, good ole big brother that he was, filled in. Between them they taught me the finer points of Little League and Pop Warner and basketball, and just everything else.

Of course, with the fullness of time, Phil broke away from the family. He went to college, locally, a four-year school, and took a degree in Civil Engineering. He left home, staying close as he found a job with a regional contractor, on the east side of town; and began to assert himself in adult society.

++++++

I was working at the Food Emporium, a large, upscale grocery chain catering to the abundant yuppie population in our area. It paid well enough, and at seventeen, I had my priorities sufficiently straight that I was able to bank the majority of my earnings in the FECU (Food Emporium Credit Union).

As I recall, it was a Thursday evening.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the manager coming toward me, accompanied my another figure. I looked their way, and saw the other figure was my dad.

Neither was smiling.

My heart fell.

The manager saw me see them, and motioned for me to accompany them.

We walked, wordlessly, through a door at the back of the store, to a break alcove. The manager shooed out whoever was there, closed and locked the door.

"Son, you'd better sit down," said my dad; the manager looked at me with very full eyes.

"It's Phil," said my dad. "He was... injured today, on that road construction site."

Phil had been given his first command, so to speak, prepping a section of road for paving and grading; a big feather for a young man so new to the business, one he'd earned.

My heart caught. I knew what was coming.

My dad continued: "There was an accident. Phil was hurt. Really, really badly hurt."

A few tears overflowed my lower dams. "He's dead, isn't he?" I asked softly.

My manager turned and lost his composure.

My dad, the stoic, simply nodded. "Yeah, buddy, he's gone," he said in a near-whisper.

++++++

The next few weeks were both heaven and hell.

The hell was losing my brother, my best friend, the best man at a wedding I hadn't even conceived; my mother losing her firstborn; my dad, bereft of the young child he'd taken to his bosom and nurtured, and given a younger brother with whom to do all those things in return.

The heaven was in seeing great cloud of support I received from my FE friends, managers and associates and stockers and cashiers, even a rep from the front office.

And so, with support and love and encouragement, my family moved forward.

++++++
 One never really recovers from a loss like a child or a sibling, I suppose.

Still, my folks put the past in the past, encouraging me to do the same. I was able to do so, though I'd not have believed it that Thursday evening.

I finished high school, and went to the same college Phil attended; I received a degree in Accounting in three-and-a-half years.

++++++

That's when the shock hit all of us.

I had my degree in hand; I interviewed at three regionally important accounting firms, and six lesser companies.

The interviews had all gone very nicely, I thought; I got very polite calls of thanks-but-no-thanks from each within a week.

I was puzzled; so were my folks, but they said the economy was a little capricious, give it a little time.

A month into the process of separating from my home, establishing myself in adult society (what symmetry), I received a shock to the system.

I attempted, on virgin credit, to rent a studio apartment.

It was a nice complex, near the downtown grid; easily accessibly to all major businesses and arteries leading out of the downtown proper. The apartment was nice, exactly designed, if I believed such things, for me; and then I got the answer, "NO."

I was beside myself. My folks, too, were enraged; my dad, always the realist, suggested we talk to the property manager.

Long story short, my credit was shit.

We argued with the property people; but they could tell me nothing other than that my credit rating was less than toilet, it was septic.

++++++

It didn't take long, of course, to discover the source of the problem.

I'd rented an apartment, over on the east side of town, and defaulted on the lease.

I'd taken out three credit cards, racked up a couple grand on each, and defaulted on them.

I'd bought a car, and it had been repossessed after I'd missed seven payments.

Repossessed?

Yes, from an apartment. Over on the east side of town.

East side.

Near where Phil had been...

Oh dear God, no!

++++++

But yes, it was true.

When he'd turned eighteen, Phil had taken out credit cards in my name; when he finished school, he'd rented an apartment and bought a car, in my name.

Why not his own?

Two theories floated; neither satisfied.

First was that his father, Phil Sr, had some troubles with his credit, and Phil wanted to steer clear of his family name; thus he used mine.

Well, that made no sense. Phil Sr had been an upright guy, current on all his bills (or so my folks later told me); and besides, it had been twenty years earlier, way more than enough time for the bad credit to drop off.

Second, and the one I favor, is that Phil wanted to build my credit, to ease my entry into adulthood. If I had good credit, I could buy a car, rent an apartment, do all manner of things the awkwardly-credited cannot.

As I say, I prefer the second.

++++++

It took years to straighten out my credit.

To this day, I rarely make a purchase if I can't cover it in cash. I have some credit cards, and I never charge more than I can pay off at the end of the month.

My credit is again perfection, and I intend to keep it that way.

My image of my beloved brother, though; that is forever tarnished.

And more's the shame for it.