He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

A few years ago, my brother and I watched a Blue Jackets game in Columbus. It was a warm night, so we found a nearby restaurant near the arena that had an open patio to sit and drink beers.

We had to wait for a hostess to seat us.

She slowed her walk as she approached us, giving each of us a long look up and down. We asked to sit outside.

Grabbing two menus, she said brightly, “Oh, I know a perfect table for the two of you!”

She walked out on to the empty patio, made her way to the back, and pulled some chairs from a secluded table near a hedge.

“Uh, cool,” I said, “But I think we’d rather sit out front where we can watch girls walk by,” I said. “I realize I’m too old for that, but it’s all I have at this age.”

She looked surprised. “Oh, of course! Girls!” she said, pausing before she said “girls.”

She sat us out front and started to walk away.

“He’s my brother,” I called out, smiling.

She didn’t turn around.

I could see the air quotes above her head: “Your ‘brother.’ Right.”