The man who was raining blows on me was my brother, but he didn't look or act like my brother. He was a stranger controlling my brother's body. The wild, unfocused eyes that would not look at me were not my brother's eyes. Nor was the face, now swollen and mottled red and white with rage.
It was 9:45 P.M., September 15th, 1986. All day a hard, driving rain had flooded streets and kept normally inured Oregonians indoors. I was at my parent's home discussing my brother's increasingly odd behavior over the past year. I was trying to convince them that his strange behavior was the result of using the drug, methamphetamine, known as "crank," but they didn't want to believe it.
My brother's drug use was a reality that was hard for those who knew him to accept because he had been the quintessential All American Boy; clean-cut, handsome, intelligent, personable, and athletic. In high school he had gone to the state championships in wrestling, and he had been voted Most Inspirational Athlete at Sheldon High School. During a tour in the Army he earned literally a stack of meritorious letters of commendation for superior job performance and was recommended for Officer's Candidate School. After the Army, he had a vision and began to build Victorian style screen and storm doors. Soon he developed a national reputation as a skilled and innovative artisan of quality doors and he had his doors on homes in practically every state in the union.
Then one day he was introduced to "crank." He said that crank "juiced him up," it gave him energy so he could work harder, longer. He thought that crank made him more creative, that it gave him focus and power and diligence, but he couldn't see and wouldn't admit that those attributes were just lies, the same old lies that all drugs perpetuate. He didn't know what crank was doing to his mind and body and soul.
He became paranoid and prone to angry and often senseless and unwarranted outbursts. He would rant and rave for literally hours on end about the evils of anyone whom he believed had wronged him. Everyday it was a different person. He couldn't carry a conversation beyond several sentences before he would begin a raging tirade. He spent money he received in advance for door orders to buy his crank and often he had to borrow to buy materials. His beloved El Camino badly needed engine and transmission work, but he spent $500 on chrome wheels. His complexion turned to an unhealthy shade of gray with a sickly yellow hue. He developed acne spots on his face and body that looked like running sores. He constantly ground his teeth until they were worn to nubs, each the same size, in a straight even row like a stone fence.
The evening of that stormy day in September of 1986, as my parents and I sat talking, he was crouched outside the door listening. He burst through the door screaming obscenities and began to pummel me as I sat on the couch. Later I would realize that even though he could have hurt me badly, he didn't. Deep inside he didn't want to. His wild swinging blows were purposely misaimed and lacked force. He was venting. He was expressing his anxiety and frustration and confusion over the insanity that had taken over his mind and body. Somewhere inside him, the gentle, loving, caring man that he had once been was still alive. He couldn't hurt me.
Our seventy-nine year old father jumped out of his easy chair and wrapped his arms around his youngest son and pulled him onto his lap back in the chair. My brother sat on our father's lap panting and shouting, but, strangely, not fighting him. A crazy idea came to me that perhaps if I had my brother arrested for assault, he might find his senses, or at least get some help, in jail.
I told him I was going to call the police and have him arrested. "Never mind," he said, "I'm gone." Those were his last words. He went out the door and moments later we heard the shot that ended his life.
He was just forty years old. My baby brother.

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