The True Meaning of Sharing

My little brother Jeff is awesome. He is the source of good advice on auto, plumbing and various mechanical issues. He is smart, loyal, funny and can reach stuff on higher shelves than me. But aside from all that, there is an incident in our past which may really be the glue that bonds us together today.

We were not particularly well-off as kids. Neither of our parents were raking in the big bucks. We never lacked for anything critical, but some items were still luxuries nonetheless. Soda pop was one of those luxuries. We lived in an apartment with a Pepsi Mom in a Pepsi town. She bought it when it was on sale in whatever form was cheapest. Sometimes this was a two-liter plastic bottle. Other times, the eight-pack of 16 oz. glass bottles was more economical.

Two-liter bottles went fast. You had to drink it within a couple of days or it went flat. Most Coke drinkers will tell you that Pepsi already tastes flat. I agree. So imagine Pepsi three days after opening with zero carbonation remaining. Ack! It makes smaller bottles much more attractive.

Enter the eight-pack.

The eight glass bottles would beckon from their place next to the fridge. The conditions were cramped. The wallpaper was loud. But all we could see was the sweet dark liquid gleaming in the incandescent light.

Now, I’m sure anyone with basic math skills can see an issue already. Me, Mom, Jeff. Three people. Eight bottles. But Mom was generous. Jeff and I were allotted three bottles each while she owned only two. For all we knew, she was drinking it every day from the vending machine at work, but that is pure speculation.

Jeff and I made our Pepsi last as best we could. We were not greedy children, but who could resist a bottle the first day? The next hit was usually in three or four days. Mom would drink a bottle too. Then reality would start to set in. We only had one bottle each. At this point a minor miracle would happen. A few days later, my brother and I would actually share a bottle. We’d split it even in those old colored Tupperware cups, 8 oz. each. As time wore on, we’d split our last bottle. We could milk our Pepsi for at least a couple weeks. Who knew when we’d have it again?

Cute story, right? My brother and I had supplemented our knowledge of sharing gleaned from Sesame Street with real life experience. But it’s not over. No, it’s not.

Next, we’d move on to Kool-Aid, biding our time between Pepsi purchases. We’d even drink water or instant iced tea. But all the while we were both working very hard to ignore one fact. There was still one full bottle sitting there in the eight-pack with the empties and it wasn’t ours. Eventually it was torture. Every day we’d come home from school and the first sight straight ahead to the kitchen was that full bottle. No Berry Blue could sate us. No Tropical Punch could sustain us. Sigh.

It may have been only two weeks, but it felt like two months. Then finally one day, Jeff and I would just look at each other. We knew what we had to do. I got the cups. He got the bottle opener. There was never a more even and equitable pour as both us tasted sweet caffeinated heaven.

Unfailingly, that was the day Mom finally decided to drink her Pepsi. She summoned us.

We stood together. No blame. No accusations. We knew what we’d done. Forgotten were the times I didn’t tell Jeff what was on TV when he couldn’t yet read and also the times he borrowed my walkman without asking. The moments we had to be restricted to our own side of the couch or the rear seat of the car were unimportant. We were on each other’s side now and forever.

We endured in silent solidarity pondering her past threats of punishment. Would she turn our noses upside-down so we would drown next time it rained? Would she make us ride in the trunk finally after all these years?

Mom said “I was thinking about that Pepsi all day.” That was it. I remember no other punishment, simply the crushing oppressive guilt fostered by that simple statement. Yet Jeff and I shared this just as readily as we’d shared the sweet nectar of life an hour or two earlier. Perhaps that was why Mom was a little easier on us. We’d somehow learned something together.