It’s nine-thirty in the morning on a Football Sunday.

Crap. Snow is falling and the sidewalk looks slick, so we struggle into long underwear and hiking boots. It’s finally time to help my boyfriend’s brother move his stuff out of my boyfriend’s house and into his new place. We are not happy to be pressed into service on a slushy, cold, Football Sunday, but at least he’s leaving. We had told him in advance that we’d help until the noon kickoff.

By the time we get to E’s place, Brother has started piling random crap in the back of the U-Haul in no practical fashion. There is slush all over E’s floors, clothes on hangers are strewn around the living room, half-packed boxes lay open in the dining room, and Brother is flinging things haphazardly into a laundry basket.

“You said you were packed,” I say accusingly. “You didn’t use any of the good boxes I brought you.”

“I am packed. And I had these boxes,” he said, gesturing to a pile. “Those can go, by the way.”

I already want to curse him because seriously? He’s had months to pack. He’s had the key to his new place for over a week and hasn’t moved a damn thing. He waits for a snowy weekend when he knows everyone would rather be at the bar for the games. He ASKED for good boxes and I brought him some, the nice ones with handles and lids.

And now I am carrying a Crock-Pot box held together with duct tape, with a block of knives poking dangerously out the top.

I lug it out to the truck and hop into the back, pushing things around to make space for the couch, the chairs, the big television, and all the other stuff he’s been storing in the basement since he got kicked out of his old place and had to move in with E five months ago. It will be so good to have him gone, I tell myself as I shuffle and stack, just deal with this for one more day, one more day…

“Everything’s out of the upstairs,” Brother says when the truck is about three-quarters full. “Let’s go.”

“You still have a bunch of boxes in your room,” E points out.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t decided about those. I might give that stuff to the Salvation Army, I dunno. But why move them twice?”

“Because they are taking up space in MY HOUSE,” E says flatly.

“Whatever.”

“We’re not making a trip till this truck is full,” I announce, so we troop down to the basement. I start grabbing things and Brother stops me on every other item – not sure about this, might give that away. It’s classic Brother, never making decisions, waiting till the last minute for everything and still blithering, expecting everyone to sympathize with poor him.* Five months of tension finally snap, and out comes The Crazy.

“What do you mean you haven’t DECIDED?”

“I just need to think for a day or two if I should keep that – ”

“You have had MANY days. You had Saturday. And Friday. And all last week while you had your new place. And all the last five months while you kept talking about moving out, to pack properly and make these decisions. Do not call people to get up early on a Sunday and help you when you haven’t done your part! You are wasting our time, so get your shit together!”

I storm off with a box, not caring if it was meant to go or not. It was going.

I felt bad for a little bit. But good GOD, he was on my last nerve, after everything he’s done to E, his own little brother who took him in, and after everything he’s done to take advantage of both of us – up to and including opening MY Christmas presents and eating MY food while he gambled away his paychecks and borrowed money because he was broke  – E and I used to practically live at his place, and lately we haven’t even slept there because Brother has made it so miserable. It was that bad.

We finish loading the truck and drive to the new place. I carry an armload of his on-hanger shirts upstairs and lay them on his bed.

“You can hang those up,” he calls

“No, I’m making that your ‘deal with it’ pile,” I say, stomping out to the truck to get more. I could have brought them all in one load if they’d been in a box.

E and I schlepped back and forth angrily for another hour. We were late for kickoff, we were wet and hungry (who asks for moving help and doesn’t have pizza or beer?!), and when we left, Brother asked when we’d be back.

I told E later that I felt a bit bad for yelling. “Don’t,” he laughed. “He deserved it, and it was pretty funny. He kept looking at me like I could somehow shut you up, and I just smiled and said ’she’s right, dude.’”

I think I secretly hoped that he would change, that maybe if he heard from someone other than his dad or his little brother – who has fought with him all his life and told him this a thousand times – that he’s a rude and irresponsible bum, maybe it would make something click. You know, confirmation from a third party. But I realize now that I may as well have been yelling in Welsh, for all it was worth. E explained to me that his brother is like a dog: he hears loud noises and sees angry looks from humans, but he cannot associate them with his actions.

“How was moving?” E’s best friend asks when we get to the bar. Said friend is familiar with the horrible living situation, of course.

E tells my story.

And I get a slow clap.

———————-

* There were actually several other instances where he treated E and me like total crap that day, but they make the story too long. Trust me. He deserved this.