Even Stevens

1979 - Outside a movie theatre

"Hey! Get outta the way will ya," shooed the box office clerk as Jack and Stanley Stevens disrupted a young couple trying to pay for tickets.

"Hee-yaww," said Stanley, adding sound effects as he threw an open palm at Jack's torso, to which Jack leaned back like a limbo champion to avoid.

"Eyat!" Jack made his move—a springing jump-kick aimed at Stanley's upper leg. A muffled thud came from his jeans when Jack's dirty converse connected with the back of Stanley’s thigh.

"Waddaw-yaht!" Stanley leaped at Jack, spinning his body around with an extended elbow aimed at Jack's head. 

Jack ducked and with a stiff open palm, punched his barely-younger brother in the ribs under his outstretched arm. Stanley folded over clutching his side. With the wind knocked out of him, he succumbed to defeat and took Jack's offer of 'quits', shaking his outstretched hand.

“Even Stevens,” said Jack as they smiled at one another.

The boys loved Jackie Chan, Chuck Norris and Jet Li. Their dad later tried to put them onto Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme but they only enjoyed certain scenes; they'd fast forward and rewind tapes to watch and rewatch and watch once again, ‘the kung-fu parts’. They'd even sit through a subtitled black-and-white movie so long as it was mostly epic fight sequences.

The boys cherished a torn-up poster of Bruce Lee in The Kid, which was crowned on their bedroom wall next to their bunk beds. Bruce was only 10 years old when he starred in the film and already showcased a tremendous command of his body with some of what would become his trademark moves. He was their soul of inspiration. Not their sole inspiration but they couldn't afford posters of each of their favourites so they channelled all their energy and worship into one. And it showed; each night before bed, the boys would place a hand on the poster—which had to be spaced equally between the top and bottom bunk so that neither of them could see more of it from the view of their pillows—and pray to the kung-fu gods. They would do the same thing each morning, waking each other up before starting.

That poster had more wear-and-tear than any of their shoes and not much less than their bunk beds.

The boys’ room held a Frankenstein's Monster of bunkbeds, sitting not-so-pretty as the focal point of the room given that it was the only piece of furniture in there. It had parts missing and limbs tacked-on of all colours, shapes and sizes. There were four different kinds of wood in the slats of those beds and in seven different shades of brown. You had to be lucky not to rip your shirt on a stray nail climbing up and down those bunks—not that Jack and Stanley were careful.

Their mother spent her mornings shouting and screaming at them to stop all their hollering as she whipped up breakfast using cheap pancake mix. Those beds were a jungle gym from kung-fu heaven, an object of calamity, a device for ‘naturally gifted’ swings and kicks. Their father spent his evenings shouting much the same, though he would always patch the beds up without complaint.

2001 - The function room of a hotel

"There he is, Mr. Moneybags," says Cousin Rob.

"Getting too big for his boots. Surprised to see ya back here, Jack, thought you were too good for this town?"

The patrons of the table laugh, rosy cheeks and sweaty armpits occupy crinkled shirts.

Jack gives Cousin Rob a noogie—rubbing his knuckles on the top of his head. "I couldn't disappoint Cousin Marge on her big day, now, could I?" he says sitting down, spreading his arms wide and yanking at his suit jacket to fit snugly on his shoulders. "But any of y’all get married in this town, the best ya can expect from Jack Stevens is a nicely written postcard…I'll even stamp it for ya."

Everyone chuckles.

“Hey–” says Cousin Rob, leaning over the table, “–so long as it’s got your signature, I can sell it to pay for the honeymoon.”

The table erupts into laughter, enlivened by cheap spirits and dollar store wine.

"Where’s the wife and kids?" asks Cousin Marlow.

Jack beckons a waiter to the table with the flash of a crisp fifty-dollar bill folded perfectly in half. "They couldn't come, Tawnie has the mumps."

"That's a shame." Cousin Marlow takes a sip of his beer. “You buyin’ the next round?” he asks with a sarcastically-arched brow.

Jack laughs along with everyone else. He was about to give a humorous reply when Stanley approached from behind, a bottle of lager swooshing between his fingers like a pendulum.

"Speaking of shame," says Stanley, "It's a shame ya weren't seated at my table, we could've had a real good talk." He places a hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack shifts his arms, tugging at his blazer under Stanley's grip. "But you probably didn't want that, did ya?" Stanley pats him—a little harder than necessary.

Jack lifts Stanley's hand off by a single finger. "Ya wanna talk, Stanley, we can talk."

Jack’s barely-younger brother sways in place and lifts the bottle up to pursed lips, mumbling over the head before taking a swig. "Whatever."

Jack stands and takes him by the arm, leading him away from the table. "Don't you go making a scene, now. Not on Cousin Margie’s big day."

Stanley hiccups. "Trust me to make a scene, huh?" His eyes well up as he puts the bottle down on a ledge. "I'm a fuck up," he says, leaning against the ledge. Jack sighs. "Ain't got no woman. Ain't got no kids. My own family is ashamed of me." Stanley sweeps his arm, gesturing around the room. He hiccups again.

"You're not a fuck up, ya just need to straighten your head on your neck. Nobody here’s ashamed of ya."

"I heard what y’all were saying at the table before I walked over."

"What are ya talkin’ about? That had nothing to do with you." Jack awkwardly rubs Stanley's shoulder.

A tear streams down Stanley's cheek.

"Listen," says Jack, turning his brother to face him. "Mom loves ya."

Stanley huffs a laugh. "Like all mothers do."

Jack stands hands on hips. "The kids love ya. They're always askin’ about their uncle Stanley."

"Probably wondering who I am."

"You should visit more."

"All the way to LA?" Stanley shoves Jack’s hand away as he tries rubbing him on the shoulder again. "I can’t afford the plane ticket even if ya bothered to invite me."

“You need money? Here,” says Jack, taking a wad of notes from his wallet and dropping them one-by-one at his brother’s feet.

Stanley scoffs and kicks a hundred-dollar bill off his shoe. He takes a swig of his beer and his eyes well-up again.

Jack grabs Stanley's face in his hands. Stanley's cheeks puff out.

"You're still my brother," says Jack, alternating his gaze between his sibling’s eyes.

Slowly, Stanley grasps Jack's hands at the wrist and removes them from his face—wet with tears. "Am I?"

For a moment Jack stands with his hands on his waist. Then he spreads his arms wide.

"What are ya doing?" asks Stanley, swaying on the spot while drying his face.

"Come ‘ere."

"Don't pity me."

"I'm not takin’ pity on ya, you're my brother. Now come ‘ere."

Stanley reaches out to hug his older brother but Jack side steps and grabs hold of him by the neck.

"What are ya doing?" huffs Stanley, with his knees bent and face red.

"Good ol’ headlock,” says Jack, “Always reliable."

Stanley scratches at his brother's sleeve, trying to loosen his grip. "What are ya talkin’ about?" he says, his voice straining.

"What? You don't remember?" Jack releases him and dances in a sidelong pose with one foot in front of his body.

Stanley brushes his hair from his face. He stares, as Jack prances in front of him like a dear in a Disney movie. 

Jack puts a hand out in taunt, beckoning an attack. "Whadd-awww!"

Stanley plants his legs, grimacing at his older brother. 

“Come on,” says Jack. “Show me what ya got.”

Stanley throws an open palm at Jack's torso, to which Jack leans back like a limbo champion and avoids.

"Eyahh!" says Jack making his move, a springing jump-kick aimed harmlessly at Stanley's upper leg. A muffled thud comes from Stanley's jeans when Jack's brown loafers connect with the back of his brother's thigh.

Stanley leaps at Jack, spinning his body around with an extended elbow aimed straight for Jack's head.

Jack ducks and with a stiff open palm, punches Stanley in the ribs under the outstretched arm of his checkered shirt. Stanley folds over clutching his side. With the wind knocked out of him, he smiles.

As the wedding band plays at the back of the room, Stanley rises to his feet with the help of Jack's outstretched hand.

“Even Stevens.”