1. Farting in a pillow and making me smell it.
2. Taking off his knee socks and making me smell them.
3. Forcing me to wash his work uniform.
4. Convincing me to trade him all my dimes for nickles, because they were bigger and therefore worth more (and yes, he convinced me of this more than once)
5. Blackmailing me into making him and his friends brownies, even though I was six years younger than him and not really supposed to use the stove
6. Standing outside my door during "quiet time," which took the place of naptime once I gave up naps and during which I was a prisoner in my room, and harassing me that all of my favorite cartoons were on TV.
7. Telling me he wanted a hug, only to put me in a WWF "sleeper hold" until I choked or bit him.
I could go on, but really-- the treacly sweetness would give us all diabetes.
Still, the one thing he did on a reliable basis that I would pretend to hate but secretly loved was make up stories about Captain Lou Albano.
It was the '80s in rural southern Virginia, and the only thing more revered than going to church on Wednesday nights (and twice on Sundays) was a faceoff between the Dream Team and the Rogueau Brothers. My brother, who was as obsessed with "wrasslin" as any other county kid his age, had the walls of his room plastered with magazine poster inserts of middle-aged men in spandex. He watched the matches every Saturday down at my grandparents' house, playing Chinese Checkers with my grandfather and drinking my grandmother's homemade grape juice.
Seeing as how Leigh and I were so much younger than he was and far too engrossed Mon-Chi-Chi and weird games involving sorcerers and the Rose Petal dolls to join him in his obsession, he would convince us he wanted to tell us a story, get us both quiet and onto the sofa, and begin:
"Once upon a time, when the wind was whistlin' through the trees, Captain Lou Albano landed on a desert island."
"NOOOOOOO!" we'd wail as soon as he started with that crap AGAIN, because it was always some story about Captain Lou and a bunch of other wrestlers, and inevitably he'd end up sitting on us and treating us to the intestinal pyrotechnics referenced above. Still, sometimes the stories were serial, and we secretly kind of looked forward to finding out how Captain Lou and King Kong Bundy saved their pet monkeys from the ravenous alligators, or whatever it was that time.
Today while cooking dinner, I heard on NPR of all places that Captain Lou Albano finally died. Instantly I was seven again, whisked off to the shag rug and shiny pleather couches of our parents' living room, sitting forcibly restrained while another tale unfolded itself.
Captain Lou, you will be missed. I hope you're enjoying your stay on that island in the sky.
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