Hubba-Hubba

My brother works his Bazooka, watchesa woman load groceries in her wagon.She's dipped her knees to ease down

the tailgate. Now with a bag she's leaning in."Hubba-hubba," he murmurs, resting his armson the handlebars. Astraddle our Schwinns,

we're taking a break from the papers,splitting a Pepsi in a parking lot.He says "Hubba-hubba" & I say zip because

I'm stunned. My brother has eight yearsto my twelve, keeps a hamster named Doug, wearst-shirts inside out & seems innocent

of everything except baseball & howto make a sandwich, although he's by nomeans dumb. Looking at her the way he does

as she stretches herself to shove inthe soup cans, potpies & fish sticks, I thinkhe's been listening to someone, Mr.

Heckendorf in gym class maybe or thejanitor, Ike Smith, because it's not third-graders who say it, "Hubba-hubba," but

grown men who served in The Big One orKorea, something a man spotting alooker at a stoplight might utter to

get a rise out of the missus & feelher small fist find his shoulder—"Oh you!"—although our dad isn't the "Hubba-hubba"

type. Instead he'll whistle just loud enoughfor Mom riding shotgun to hear. For mein the backseat when he does this, it's

a signal from a world that beckons as Islip most mornings from bed to the john towrestle myself down & hit or miss the pot,

but right now I'm thinking about my brother,how fast he's shooting up. He winks at meas his gum wad swells, a bright pink bubble.

Shaking my head, I flick the back of his& pedal off, almost through the route &home for supper.