like jesus

This is what you get, when you mess with us -- #477

So I’m like Jesus. Except instead of lepers, I heal iPods.

(Wait. I should back up.)

You know that episode of Seinfeld where the gang figures out that Jerry is the karmic equilibrium point between Elaine and George? Dubbed by Kramer as “Even Steven”? That’s me and my brother, only without Jerry Seinfeld. As siblings we frolic through the playground of life on the existential seesaw. Fate has dealt us a fixed amount of good fortune to share, and if one brother happens to withdraw any portion it comes at the detriment to the other. One brother up, other brother down. I find a dollar, he loses one. He gets a hand job, I stub my toe. It’s almost the premise for a 19th-century French novel. Or a Cheech & Chong movie.

Example? Sure. About four years ago I decided to better myself with a law degree. A week later my brother was hospitalized for flesh-eating virus. Flesh. Eating. Virus. Who gets flesh-eating virus? My effin’ brother, that’s who. I was going to law school and he was wearing a paper gown and having strangers ask him about the last time he was in the Congo. Just last summer I made the mistake of telling some friends that I was “kind of happy, I think.” Days later my brother was almost getting arrested for shoving a meter-maid after he ticketed and towed the van that he had been living in. I wish I were making this up. I’m terrified to think what might happen if I won the lottery or something. I’m pretty sure it would kill him.

Don’t feel bad, because it works the other way too. A few months ago I found myself half-naked and curled in a fetal position under a desk, praying to Cthulhu to wash the earth with cleansing waters. I’m not quite sure why. I think my DVR garbled my favorite episode of Scrubs or something. Anyway, eventually I sobered up and called home to my parents — turns out my brother landed a really sweet job painting ceiling tiles. Like Michelangelo. He also painted a board to look like another board. And it totally does look like another board. He’s a really talented artist. Did I mention he had flesh-eating virus once?

Weeks went by and I was still under the desk in my skivvies — it was the Christmas episode, dammit! — and it suddenly occurred to me, “Hey, this is all part of the plan of the blind watchmaker or Willy Wonka or the Cookie Monster or whoever runs the universe these days!” One brother up, other brother down! All I had to do was ride this out for a little while, keep clawing my way back to my stupid mediocre life, and eventually he’d lose his job or catch hepatitis at Taco Bell or get run over by Lindsey Lohan. And then I could be kind of happy, I think, again.

But this didn’t happen.

Things actually seemed to get worse. Here’s the best way that I can describe my life. Imagine a standard blind date — you're not expecting anything from it but still want to take your cuts, like a pinch hitter jacking homers during batting practice. So you say something seemingly innocuous to your date like “Oh, I think Coldplay is OK” and she responds, “The Coldplay tour bus ran over my puppy when I was nine.” Well, you’re done. Game over. Waaahhpp waah waaaahhh . . . and Pac-Man’s little yellow mouth closes up. Even when Robin Williams shows up to give you a hug and tell you it’s not your fault, you still feel like a steaming pile of crap. Because you couldn't even jack one out during batting practice. This was my life: bad blind dates, failures to jack one out, and Robin Williams constantly giving me a hug.

And then it happened.

(Wait. I have to back up some more.)

OK, my iPod died. This was like a year ago. One minute we were hanging out at the gym, sculpting the guns, and the next thing I know my little digital buddy let out a soft electronic cough and, bye bye Miss American Pie, the music just died. And that was it. The screen didn’t even transition to the sad iPod face. It flatlined and never came back. No warranty, no repair options — an entire library of kick-ass music flushed down the drain.

Ignoring all the teachings of those timeless philosophers The Georgia Satellites — without their help, I would never have taken down those battleship chains — I put my love upon a shelf, specifically a bookshelf, where its withering iPod carcass rested near some candles, my worn copy of "The Hottest State," a hockey card from Finnish legend Reijo Ruotsalainen, and some weird animal thing that I think someone brought back from Africa for me that was made out of elephant dung or something worse by some village boy that is probably dead by now. Dead, just like my iPod.

And then it happened.

I was reaching for the Hawke opus when I happened to graze the front of the iPod — dead for a friggin’ year! — and it suddenly flickered its gray little eyes miraculously came beeped to life. Like ET. Fully functional too! Playing Rick James!

Excited by this — I mean, who wouldn’t be — I called up my brother. Something good just happened. I needed to give him a little heads up.

"Dude, I just healed my iPod. Like Jesus. Where are you?"

"I'm in the hospital," he said.

"This is so awesome. Why are you in the hospital?"

"Flesh-eating virus," he said.

He’s fine, by the way. They gave him some ointment and told him to lay off the pygmy meat. But who cares about him. I’m back, baby! I’m a driver, I’m a winner. Things are gonna change. I can feel it.