Wars Today

I see robot wrestling for the first time after I read the invitation and look up some videos on my laptop. Then I call Sam. He doesn’t pick up until my third try.

“Too smart to answer your phone?”

“That’s actually pretty accurate,” he says. “I was at the library.”

“Library on a Saturday morning?”

“Could’ve sworn it was Sunday,” he says in that nerdy whiteboy voice he learned who knows where. “What’s up?”

“You tell me. Got this weird invitation.”

“Yes,” says Sam. “The invitation. You’re coming, right?”

“To what? This thing’s kinda vague.”

“Vague? It’s the Regional Robot Olympics. Indianapolis. Fun stuff. The program that wins goes on to the nationals in Seattle. And if we win in Seattle it’s off to Japan, bro! It’s a big deal.”

Of course it’s a big deal. Everything Sam does is a big deal. And this Robot Olympics thing? I don’t know anything about it, but I know he’ll win. Sam’s a winner. Winning things is what he does. But I don’t get why I have to be there to witness another one of his big deal victories. I’d ask him, but I already know his answer: Cause you’re my bro. I want you to be there for me. To support me. Bullshit. He’s never needed any support. He probably wants me there just to show off. He’s still that little kid who beat Kerry Rafferty in the spelling bee as the whole school watched. So I bluff. Tell him I’ll only go if he invites Dad. Sam and him were never really friends, but ever since Mom died they despise each other. They can’t see or talk to each other without screaming some real nasty shit, so they just pretend the other one doesn’t exist.

“No way, bro,” says Sam. “You know I can’t do that.” Then he hangs up the phone.

I feel a little guilty, but at least I’m off the hook. Won’t have to go to the middle of nowhere to watch some nerds and their robots go at it. But a few minutes later my phone rings. It’s Sam. “Okay, little bro,” he says. “If that’s what it takes, bring ol’ Fidel Castro with you.” Shit. Called my bluff. So now I guess I have to convince my dad to do something I didn’t wanna do in the first place. I feel like my mom all of a sudden, a victim, trying to get Sam and my dad to get along.

Rodrigo texts me:

Coronas. My place. 2nite!

I go on watching some more of those weird robot videos and my dad walks in from the kitchen. He’s eating a strawberry Yoplait with a small spoon, trying, unsuccessfully, not to get any on his beard. “Who were you talking to?” he says.

I ignore him and switch from the robot videos to my email.

He paces around the room like he’s looking for something. “Wanna go to Prandelli’s for lunch?” he says. My dad’s a communist, but we have this ritual—have had it ever since Sam left—of driving to LA every Saturday and eating at a nice restaurant—or at least nicer that anything we can get in Richardson.

“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe soup.”

“Soup? It’s eighty degrees outside, mijo.”

“Maybe a cold soup, then.”

I’m not too crazy about this Saturday ritual. When Sam left for his fancy scholarship at Cal Poly six years ago I was only a teenager, happy—if a little embarrassed—to spend some time with my dad. But now I’m twenty-four. I didn’t go to college, I have a just-above-minimum-wage job at the Nike outlet store, and I can’t get a little pussy to save my life. All I got going for me is an almost super-human ability for fantasy football. I know it ain’t right. It ain’t normal for someone...