W. Bruce Cameron

I was a very young boy when I realized that my life's purpose — the reason I'd been put on this earth — was to torment my sister Amy.

Amy basically had only two emotional states: She was either in a frenzy, screaming and sobbing and shouting, or she was really upset. Anything I did to irritate or anger her would set off such a horrifyingly cataclysmic reaction that I couldn't wait to do it again.

When Amy became a teenager and her unstable condition was enhanced by hormones, it was like going from tornado to hurricane. Like many girls her age, she became weepy and moody, torn apart by foolish romantic crushes, betrayed by shifting alliances among friends, distraught over the slightest insult. My parents warned me that she needed to be left alone, which sounded to my young ears like, "You thought antagonizing her was fun before, try it now!"

Amy turned to writing poetry in a top-secret journal that she'd been keeping since she was 10, which was the same year I started reading it. Pink ink flowed across the page in swollen rivers of angst-saturated dreck, each period a meticulously drawn heart, each 'i' dotted with a sunflower.

We owned a tape recorder, and Amy read some of this stuff into the microphone, her voice quavering with emotion. Listening to it, I concluded that she was going through a tough time and had turned to making the tape as a way of amusing me.

At this point, Amy had never had a boy call her at the house, so when my mother announced that there was a "Neal" on the phone for her, Amy reacted as if she'd just been hit with a defibrillator. "Nobody say anything!" she screamed, terrified that Neal might hear us talking in the background and conclude that Amy lived with her family and not in a penthouse apartment with some other Playboy bunnies. Everybody froze, listening to a phone call that on Amy's end went like this:

"Hi, Neal, ha ha ha ha ha, you're funny, ha ha ha ha, you're funny, ha ha ha ha."

I did the only thing I could do, under the circumstances: I snuck down to the basement, where I had recently located a hidden phone jack by the furnace, plugged in a phone, picked up the extension and flipped on the tape recorder.

Amy's dramatic, whispery voice wafted out of the tiny speaker:

You stretch my heart like a rubber band

That snaps back into place when you smile

And though I can see me doing many things

I can see me combing the hair of angels

I can see me riding a purple cow

But I can't see me not loving you

At the words "purple cow," Amy came out of her stunned silence and screamed so loudly my skin crawled with goose bumps of joy. She said nothing to Neal, no, "Can you hold while I go stab my brother?" Instead, she stomped through the house in a homicidal fury, raging from one phone extension to another. My mother and sister fled to the grocery store; my father hid under his bed.

Neal remained on the line, respectfully listening to the things Amy could see herself doing, which included living in a kangaroo's pouch and more purple cow rides but never not loving him. I could hear him breathing while Amy kicked in the door to my bedroom and, from the sound of it, pulverized all my belongings.

The poem didn't so much end as run out of drivel. I put the phone to my ear.

"Hey, Neal, are you there?" I whispered.

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"This is Amy's brother. They keep me in the basement. They won't let me out."

"Huh," Neal replied, accepting it.

After an hour or so I left the basement and Amy charged me like an angry bull. No, wait — like an angry purple cow. I bravely hid behind my mother.

Because of the structural damage done to the house, my father sternly ordered me never to do anything like that again. And I didn't.

At least, not more than a dozen times.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2009 CREATORS SYNDICATE INC.

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