the friend with that brother

I hung out with my sister and her friends before I learned how to drive a car. It was my ticket out of the house. And I enjoyed hanging out with them. She had a friend with an interesting older brother. He had a real job that paid him real money, however, he still lived at home. When he was working we would go into his room and his sister would tell us how strange he was and show us his stuff.
He liked Christmas music, a lot. So he would listen to it all year long. It played on his alarm clock radio when he woke up. His entire music selection in his car was strictly Christmas music. He often left it playing in his room even when he wasn't home. I thought it was unique and peaceful.

I guess he had a tendancy to really go overboard if he liked something. I don't know if it was a clinical disorder we tend to classify interesting people as, but I found it refreshing. I loved how he surrounded himself with what he had passion for. He also adored his hardtop Jeep. He bought every gadget and add-on possible one could get for a Jeep. With the lighting accessories and all the other bells and whistles, it looked like he was driving a UFO down the street.
He really really loved Sandra Bullock. Naturally, he had every movie she had ever been in and knew every possible fact about her. If she had a movie in the theaters, he would attend as often as his scehdule would allow. I never thought much about her as an actress, but once I learned of his deep interest in her I appreciated her a little more.

His sister told us about his boss at work, I guess he was a real asshole to everyone. She told us stories about things he would do or say and how mad her brother would be. It didn't seem fair, who would be mean to a guy that found happiness in Christmas music and driving his UFO mobile? Several times when while he was at work we would go into room, find his boss's number programmed on his phone and call. We crank called his boss as often as we could. I was the culprit, repeating his last name over and over in a deep, scratchy voice like an angry old woman dying. I can't remember the last name now, and I believe I might have even been saying it wrong all along, but it seems to me it might have been something like Tiller.

{said in a whisper. pause for effect]

{said louder, as if getting more irate}

{click. I can't believe he stayed on the phone that long almost every time. He must have been so confused}
Then there was this mean girl they went to school with that had legs like tree trunks. So I would call her and just say 'Arbor Day' and remain silent. Any time they would say something back I would repeat it like it was a normal greeting in the most nerdy whiney voice possible.
Excuse me? Who is this? Who are you calling for?
Arbor Day.
This call also lasted a lot longer than I imagined it would. And this was a weekly ritual.
Then caller ID was invented and that about ended my period of the length I would go in the juvenile delinquency category. That's really about as dangerous as I got.