I have perfect earlobes the same way some women have perfect breasts. They don’t dangle, but they also don’t make a run for the rest of my body before they’ve had a chance to stand out on their own. No sir, no flat cartilaginous earlobes for me. My earlobes have a dignified graceful bump, a succulent and confident plumpness. They are irresistible. Or at least my brother Bryan used to think so.
Fingers or toes, it doesn’t matter. He has to touch them. It is his bliss, and my great annoyance. My sister loves to watch me bleed. My brother wants to examine my earlobes. I’m sick and goddamn tired of people touching my face. “BC, just be quiet. It makes him happy.”
“Mom, I don’t like it. It’s weird.”
We’re watching television. I’m on the floor. Bryan, at age three, is sitting on the bed directly above me, pinching my earlobe between his first and second toe. His right eye is just beginning to go lazy enough that it can be seen veering off to the side, and his hair is uncombed. If it weren’t for his age he would look like a crazy person. At a low mumble he repeats the same word over again, pausing after every second iteration to draw breath. “Moosha moosha” he whispers, his toes rhythmically pinching my earlobe. “Moosha moosha.” The words fade into the background.
“Moosha moosha” Is one of those magical childhood words. It has no meaning, except that it is the appropriate word for one to say when one is groping the earlobes of one’s brother. In years to come my little brother and sister will invent the word “Ugalug.” Which means something like the darkness at the end of the hall where we are compelled to throw our toys, but from which we are too afraid to retrieve them. Moosha moosha is like that. Magical nonsense.
“Mom. He has been rubbing my earlobe for an hour. I’m sick of it.” I was sick. Sick and tired. My face damn it. My face. Teach her right if he decided he loved her goddamn earlobes more than mine. I’m ignored, as always.
In a few years time, Bryan and I will share a bed for a short period, before moving into separate rooms. He will keep me awake to all hours of the night. Leaning over me, breathing the words “Moosha moosha” to himself as he examines my earlobes. My parents tell me I must let him do this or he will not be able to sleep. I protest, but eventually subside.
He does it when we are at the mall, or the grocery store, or at the movie theater. Or anywhere he can. I’m his personal rabbit’s leg. Lucky. Lucky for him anyway. I sigh and learn to bear it. Moosha moosha.
He does it until my parents divorce. When they leave each other “Moosha” can no longer find its brother “Moosha.” The magic of childhood is broken by our new distance. I have my own room, and Bryan cannot reach into it and grab hold of my earlobes.
Bryan begins to become withdrawn. He doesn’t speak much. He starts to play on-line games to the exclusion of all else. For two years he will barely leave his room. Then he gets sent to the remedial high school because he can’t stand the pressure of being around too many people at once. My dad makes him see a therapist because Bryan can’t stop listening to sad music. He has no earlobes to reassure him. Their magic has been left behind.
Moosha moosha. It has no meaning than it is the appropriate word to say when one is groping the earlobes of one’s brother. Moosha moosha.
I think it has another meaning. Now that I look back. For I am not that boy, but only someone who can see that boy and his brother sharing a bizarre tradition. Moosha moosha. It means, I love you and I am not afraid because I know you are here within arms reach.
Moosha moosha.
