The King of Pranks

Another crisp Autumn day, but the sun was smiling. That was what he liked to see. Smiles. But as I drove past the cemetery gates, the realization that I had lost my best friend suddenly overwhelmed me. My brother, William, Bill, "Willy" had died and I had just buried him. We remained in contact by telephone, but between his health problems, my business ventures and the distance that separated our homes, we rarely saw each other. The last time we sat together was over a drink some five years ago at Dad's funeral. How I wish now that I had made the time to have another drink with him.

Driving back to the hotel, I spotted a liquor store. I was struck by a sudden impulse to have that one last drink with "Willy." I stopped and purchased two small miniature bottles of liquor - one each of his favorite bourbon and my favorite scotch. I drove back to the hotel and once in the room, I filled two glasses with ice and the booze placing them on the table in front of us as we once again sat across from each other.

My mind drifted back to the last time we drank a few toasts to the old times. Those good times. We reminisced about the little pranks -tricks- he played on me when I was six and he ten. Never with malice, although I did cry that once, but with fun and brotherly love. He was the King of "Gotcha." He had taken me to the park so that we could fly our kites in the brisk March wind. Little did I know that he had fashioned a small pocket in the cloth tail of my kite and hid a fishing weight in it. His kite soared high in the air, while mine struggled to reach a foot off the ground. Then when he saw I had enough, he walked up to me and said, "Gotcha." He removed the fishing weight and soon I was smiling again and both of our kites were high in the sky.

Then there was another "Gotcha" episode. Once, Mom was on a cleaning spree, organizing our closets, discarding old clothing including my favorite shirt. Willy retrieved the shirt from the trash, hiding it in the basement. He cut off one of the buttons and told me he had found it on the floor and was sure that if we planted it, my shirt would grow like a flower. We found a place in the corner of the back yard and covered it with dirt. He urged me to water it daily. After two weeks, he dug a small hole and buried the shirt but left the cuff of the sleeve visible above the ground. I was simply amazed. Each day he pulled a bit more of the shirt up as if, indeed, it was growing. I watched each day continuing my garden chores of weeding and watering until that day my shirt was in full bloom. I was ecstatic. My shirt was mine again.

I tried in vain several times to play a "Gotcha" on him. He was too savvy and smart, while I was unsophisticated and immature to play against him in the battle of pranks. I stuffed his shoes with mashed potatoes; I filled his pants pockets with green peas. He never once flinched. Never once did he ever give a hint that the tricks had made the mark.

That night, years ago, when we finished our drinks and storytelling, Willy turned his glass, as was his custom, upside down and said good night. On this day of our final drink together, I did the same.

I decided to take a nap and then a quick shower before heading to the airport. I finished packing my suitcase and looked around the room to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. I looked at the table and something strange caught my eye. My glass remained as I left it, but the other glass, Willy's glass, was empty and also turned upside down . A big smile came across my face. I laughed out loud. I bent slightly at the knees and gave a celebratory fist-pump. "Yes!" Once again he made me smile.

As I walked toward the rental car, I felt a gentle breeze in the night air. It whispered through the trees and into my ear. "Gotcha."