In the fall my brother rode us to the circus. The tent could be seen from every corner of the town, almost like his thousand-watt smile. He wore his best pressed clothes, the ones with a fewer amount of holes in them. A plaid, pearl accent button down that made me call him Clark Kent, which not only got him worked up like a half-drowned possum, but only proved that his star-glinted blue eyes and dark hair made him look exactly like my favorite super hero. His khakis crinkled unusually as we got near, bunching up and flattening in other places: He had ironed them as flat and perfect as he could and starched them stiff. It’s amazing he could move his legs, let alone pick his knees up. On his feet decorated the shoes we took from the dead hobo last week. Spit shined to gleaming perfection, he would drop his gaze to leer at his own Kent-like smile. The fact that he stole them also proved that he was definitely NOT Superman, and that he really could care less about other people.
As he took a seat inside the candy-cane tent, I heard the suppressed sigh of relief slither out of his jagged yellow teeth. His stringy arms, banned by wiry-ivy-like veins, fold around his relaxed body; his long crooked fingers twitch like the poor rats we had for supper two days ago, yearning for something that only he knows. . . As the ring leader began, my brother froze like a coon caught red handed in a trash can. His gaze grew still and bright, just like Kent's Fortress of Solitude, all the while his khakis crinkled in delight.