Jag Button

Sibling rivalry.

Unless you’re an only child, you’re only too familiar with it. I had three brothers and I loved them all. Even Rick.

But I didn’t always like him.

He was a bully. Six years older than me, he picked on me without relent. He would put me in a headlock and apply a Dutch rub daily. Or he would pin my back on the floor with my knees tucked up to my chin so I couldn’t breathe. He wouldn’t stop until I said “uncle.”

I hated saying “uncle.”

What did I ever do to deserve such abuse? I was always kind and meek.

Well, except that one time I heaved a cast iron skillet at his face.

But hardly ever did I do anything that should cause him grief. Almost never.

As we got older I got tougher and wiser, but he still tried to humiliate me whenever he could. I could never trust him.

Rick was a car guy. Growing up he and dad were out in the garage fixing our Fords all the time. I don’t think he ever learned how to drive, he always just knew. When he was fifteen he bought his first car, a 1951 Plymouth. And he bought more cars. At least a half dozen just in his teens.

Dad told him he had to quit or he would have to buy a dealers license. In reality, dad didn’t want more cars in the yard, and mom hadn’t been able to park in the garage for years. Until then, I wasn’t aware the garage could be utilized for such a purpose.

At twenty years old he bought a 1955 Jaguar XK 140. A sleek, sporty English classic that sat low and long. It was his pride and joy.

He liked showing it off. One day he gave me a ride in it. When we got back home we sat in the driveway while I admired the walnut-veneer dashboard. I wondered about all the gadgets and gauges on it, asking him what each one does.

“What’s that button do?” I pointed to a little chrome button off to the right. It was the only thing he hadn’t shown me yet.

“Push it.”

“No.” I didn’t even have to think about it. If he wanted me to push it, I knew it was the last thing I should do.

“Why not?”

“Cuz.” Because you want me to and that’s reason enough.

“It’s not like it’s going to hurt you.”

Studying his face, it was apparent he tried to conceal a smile. “You push it,” I said.

“I’m not going to push it. If you want to find out what it does, you have to push it.”

With a sideways glance I asked, “Is it a horn?” He’d installed half a dozen buttons to the dash of his ’51 Plymouth, each one operating a different horn he’d salvaged from a junkyard. One uttered a “beep” sound like from a VW Bug, another belched an “aaoogah” horn, and so on.

“Maybe,” he said. “Push it.”

Examining the interior, I searched for booby traps. Would the mysterious button activate a jet spray of water to my face? Or would a spring-loaded boxing glove explode from the glove box?

I wouldn’t even put it past him to have installed an ejector seat.

“Hmmm. I don’t think so,” I said.

Rick heaved an exasperated sigh. “Are you chicken?”

“I’m not scared,” I lied. To show him how un-scared I was, I extended my left hand toward the dash — my shaky finger hovering over the pushbutton. But I hesitated. I envisioned Soviet Premier Leonid Brezhnev with his finger over the infamous red button that would launch thousands of nuclear warheads toward the U.S. Would he do it?

Recoiling, I reconsidered. He probably would, but I wouldn’t.

Rick shook his head in disgust. “Okay by me. You’ll never know what it does then.”

At fourteen I was old enough to recognize reverse psychology when I heard it. Nevertheless, both of us knew my distrust of Rick combined with my fear of the unknown were only outweighed by my fierce curiosity.

I had to know what that button did!

Licking my lips in anticipation, I wavered between looking like a fool or a scaredy cat. My nerves were frayed, my muscles tense, and my mind raced. On an impulse, I lurched forward and depressed it. At the same moment Rick jabbed my side with his elbow and blurted out a loud buzzing sound. “Ehhhh!”

As I said, my muscles were tense, and when my gluteals flexed they rocketed me skyward.

Did I mention that his Jag was not a convertible? If it had been, the button really would have activated an ejector seat.

Instead, the launch aborted when my noggin whacked the roof with a loud “bang!”

Looking to retaliate, I rubbed my head and turned to confront Rick. But his burst of laughter had already turned into an expression of grave concern. Was he actually worried that I might be hurt?

He leapt out the driver door and stood there. Confused, I climbed out and looked across the top of the Jag toward him.

Sweeping his hand over the roof, he sighed in relief and said, “For a minute I thought you dented my car!”

So much for brotherly love.

***

Sibling rivalry. Tell me about yours.