My brother announced his new money-making venture as soon as he came home from college that May, but I didn't realize how seriously he took it until a week later, when he drove me home from school one day. He pulled off the road, put his big Buick in park, and sort of nodded in my direction: "Hey, could ya…?"

"What?" I asked.

"You know, grab that can for me?"

I looked out the window. "Are you kidding me?"

"What's the big deal? It's on your side. You don't even have to get out of the car."

Bill could have kept this up for hours; the guy never budges when he sets his mind to something. So I opened the door, reached way out, and got it: Caffeine Free Diet Coke, kind of crumpled, sludge-filled, moping in a puddle on that stretch of Shaw Ave without a sidewalk. My first can. And, I vowed to myself, definitely my last.

"Do me a favor," I said, chucking the Diet Coke into his lap. "Next time, fetch your own trash."

"OK, first rule of can-picking…" Bill instructed, shaking the can for effect. "One man's trash is another man's treasure. All a matter of interpretation."

"Just drive."

And so began our summer of can-picking.

I never thought he could last. Even Bill, I figured, would eventually tire of rummaging through garbage and schlepping to the supermarket, all for a few lousy nickels. But over the next few weeks, he threw himself into his enterprise with an obsession that bordered on obscene. First, he gave himself a nickname: "Bottle Bill." Then he invested in blue-and-white gardening gloves, for those stubbornly sticky cans. He even developed his own jargon: "pick," for example—a verb, referring to the act of retrieving a can from a trash barrel, marsh, or some other gooey, unpleasant place. "Rally," also a verb, meant to score many cans at once (occasionally used as a noun, as in "Pretty good rally.") Finally, his all-inclusive term for castaway cans and bottles, "empties," also worked on an ironic level; truly, was there anything "empty" about the promises offered by these nickels in disguise?

And he had fans: all the local sycophants who remembered Bill as that nice, respectful young man, the class valedictorian, Pippen from the Senior Show. And he'd need to muster all his acting skills to pull off this latest venture. After all, he knew he couldn't make his millions from the random cans he spotted from his car; he needed his admirers as well.

I first witnessed him in action in late May, during one of our initial can-returning trips. While walking across the Stop and Shop parking lot, Bill spotted his former (my future) English teacher, Mrs. Cochran, loading groceries into her car. Bill got right into it: "Mrs. Cochran! How are you?" After gushing over Bill's past and present achievements, she asked Bill what he was doing that summer. Of course, he pounced.

"Well, officially, I'm caddying again...but this" he grinned, holding up his trash bag full of cans, "this is my passion." Then came the pitch: thirteen weeks of summer, five cents a can, maybe twenty dollars worth of empties a week… that's $260, at least! After all, how many cans are just lying around? Because, you see, it all adds up, and blah-blah-blah.

As I'm watching all this, I can see he's got her completely engrossed. And then, the masterstroke: he helps put her groceries into her trunk. Classic. One of his trademarked "random acts of kindness" that was actually completely calculated, to maintain his "favorite son" image around town. For some reason, gaining the respect of people he hardly knew meant a great deal to my brother; he lived for the image. But I knew it was an act. See, he couldn't fool me. He could fool pretty much everyone else around here, but he couldn't fool me.

"I have to say," Mrs. Cochran remarked as she closed her trunk, "It's very enterprising of you...very entrepreneurial." Unbelievable, really: homeless people picking through garbage get pity; Bill got "enterprising" and "entrepreneurial." Finally, Mrs. Cochran, the poor soul, walked right into his trap: "You know, I have some cans that I was saving for the Booster's Club, but if you'd like to come over some time, they're yours..."

Another victim of the Bill Mercer's patented Smarm-Charm.

"I don't know what's worse," I remarked on the ride home. "The fact that you're taking her trash or the fact that you're taking the trash she was saving for some good cause."

"Whatever, man. It's money. Second rule of can-picking: every little bit counts. And he who hesitates is lost. That's the third, actually." I wanted to ask where "shame" ranked among his "rules," but I didn't want to get into it, so I put in a CD. As soon as the music started, he gave a simple, "Honestly?" acting as if he was sixty years older instead of six, as he overrode my music and started skimming through his pre-sets.

"OK, here we go," Bill announced as he turned up the volume. "Here's a real song. 'Let It Be,' by the Beatles. Ever hear of them?"

"Yeah, I've heard of the Beatles!"

"Here, listen and tell me what you think it means." A big thing for Bill: the "Listen-and-Tell-Me-What-It-Means" game, which went like this: Player A (Bill) picks a song, and the other players (me) listen and try to come up with an on-the-spot analysis that perfectly matches Player A's own interpretation. I generally hated all of Bill's games, but I especially hated "Listen-And-Tell-Me-What-It-Means." First of all, I don't read into things like he does. But even if I did believe in "deeper meanings," I never actually had a chance to "tell him what it means," since Bill always barged in with his own take. And so, as soon as McCartney started singing, Bill turned down the volume and started lecturing: "See, he's saying we need to let things be, that we may not agree all the time, but that's how we learn from each other..."

I had him! "Well, if that's so true, then why can't I listen to my music?"

"Because I'm trying to help you. Help you expand your interests." Another big thing for Bill: expanding my interests. See, my brother could always recommend something better—better music, better movies to rent, better ways of getting ketchup out of the bottle.

Still, I could tolerate these pompous tirades, because there remained one place in town where I could always trample him: the baseball card shop. Bill hated taking me there, so I always asked him to stop. We'd walk in, and as he slouched near the front door, I knew he felt those thousand frozen baseball players firing their shadowed eyes right through him, recognizing him for what he was: an intruder.

Bill didn't play or follow baseball, or any sports at all, and most of the time, he kept his ignorance quiet. Occasionally, though, he slipped. Once, early that summer, while at the card shop, Bill looked over my shoulder into the display case and asked, "Who's this guy?"

"Roger Maris?" I kind of laughed; he shrugged blankly. "The guy who broke Babe Ruth's home run record... and you don't know him?"

"OK, fine, but is that worth two hundred and fifty dollars? Who would spend that kind of money on a baseball card?"

"If you knew anything about sports," I jeered, "you'd understand." Poor guy: I knew those kinds of cracks only made it worse for him. But when you get a "Who's Roger Maris?" right down the middle like that...how can you not swing for the fences?

I've actually learned a lot about Maris in the years since I gave Bill that lashing. I used to buy into the popular line about him: that the "61 in '61" was a fluke; that he needed 162 games to do what the Babe did in 154; and not only was he a relatively average player, but a truculent, unfriendly guy to boot. But now I realize all the adversity Maris had swarming around him, from the fans, the media, even the commissioner. One sportswriter at the time critiqued there wasn't "anything deeply heroic" about Maris—as if hitting home runs demanded heroism. I guess, back then, people shielded their legends; they didn't want to see their King of Swing dethroned. When Roger came around, they wanted faults, so faults they found. They wanted a villain, so they created one. In the end, I think Roger Maris taught me more about inventing meaning—about seeking and finding—than I ever got from sitting through one of my brother's songs.

The main headquarters of Bottle Bill Enterprises was the top of his dresser; there, he kept his gardening gloves and the big silver mug where he stashed all his plunder. The mug—something my grandmother picked up at a tag sale—sported a white-and-black swirly-circle symbol. My brother tried to explain its symbolism (some long discourse about Zen or something and harmony) but, in truth, I cared more about inside the mug—namely, all that can-money Bill had accumulated so far.

Or, more accurately, we had accumulated. I was more than pulling my weight; in fact, by mid-summer, besides hopping out of cars and lugging bags to the supermarket, I even threw some cans of my own into the pot. I figured I deserved a cut. So one day I finally asked, "What do you plan to do with all your riches, anyway?"

"Not sure," he pondered. "Something important. To tell the truth, I don't even care about the money. I just love the challenge." I didn't buy it, though; for someone who didn't care about the money, he sure spent a lot of time counting it out. Every night, from my bedroom, I would overhear him retire to his room and spill the contents of the silver mug on his bed. This was after he came home from "the beach." Since high school, Bill's social life basically consisted of "going to the beach" in the summer and "going to Mike's" in the winter. I think my parents used to be a little suspicious of this routine, but Bill insisted all they did at "the beach" was drive around and play a lot of video games. Apparently, they bought it; I bet even they knew he was too much of a golden-boy to engage in any real debauchery. But I always suspected—hoped, even—that Bill was talking in code: maybe one night "going to Mike's" meant "we're drinking in the woods;" the next, "off to some kegger."

Unfortunately, I cracked the code that very summer. One night, three of Bill's friends converged in our foyer—off, naturally, "to the beach." While Bill was bumming money off my dad, Mike (of "going to Mike's" fame) looked up the stairs at me and asked, "Hey, how come you never ask Marty to come along?" See, Mike had no younger brothers; he didn't understand these things just weren't done. Bill stared at me; obviously, this thought had never occurred to him. Finally, he gave a confused, "Well... do you?"

Ten minutes later, after finagling with my parents, I found myself in the backseat of Mike's car, "going to the beach." I had no idea where we really going, but I had visions—of dark lots, rock walls, foamy beer. Would my parents find out? Would the cops show up? Would I get sick? Would they laugh at me? I envisioned all of it, except what he really had in store.

We went to the beach. We drove around. And we played video games. We—all of us, three college big shots and I—walked over to the "Dream Machine" arcade, ate bread sticks, and played skee-ball and video games. We fed token after token into Crazy Taxi. Bill and I played air hockey. When I look back now, I still rank that night as one of my favorite memories of that entire summer. I can't explain it.

Of course, Bill was still on the clock: before we left, Bill wanted to scan the parking lot for empties. As I sat on the stonewall that ran along the shore, Bill glanced through the trash and ignored his friends' barbs. "Look at yourself," his pal Steve pleaded. "You don't even pretend you're not looking anymore!"

"What about you, Marty?" Mike turned to me. "Please, tell me you're not into this."

"Oh, he picks! He most definitely picks," Bill responded for me, as I shook my head no. "You should see him in action. He's even better at it than I am!"

"You mean this isn't going to die when you go back to school?" Steve grimaced. "Now you've programmed your brother too?"

"Hey, his birthday's coming up," Bill smiled. "I'm thinking about getting him his own gloves."

I broke in. "My own gloves? Wow. You think I'm ready?" They laughed—except for Bill, of course, who was legitimately pondering my can-picking readiness. Meanwhile, I assessed him, too. I realized I felt sorry for Bottle Bill. Not because he was a twenty-year-old guy sifting through a beach arcade's trash can, but because he was a twenty-year-old guy at a beach arcade at all. There was no cover-up, no misrepresentation. He played video games. So simple and legal. He had so much possibility—a license, his own car. He could do anything. And he played video games. On that beach, under that half-moon, he was just like me.

Bill was shining brighter than a sun-soaked glass of Mountain Dew. We had just overfilled the Buick with seven bags of empties—our biggest rally yet. En route to Stop and Shop, my brother spoke wistfully of his yin-yang mug swelling with this mother lode, but I don't think even he could have anticipated the grand total: $32.80. Surely, this colossal sum would catapult Bottle Bill to the very top of the Can-Picking Hall of Fame, and I told him so.

"Yeah, I guess this makes me—what?—the Roger Maris of can-picking, right?" he smiled, clearly proud of himself he got the name right.

And yet, even this conquest didn't quench his desire. On the way home, he pulled into Arnold Park to scope a few more empties. ("He who hesitates," remember, "is lost.") We circled the lot—painstakingly, taking in every inch—when he suddenly stopped. "Like to try?"

"Try what?"

"Driving. You'll have to learn eventually."

"I don't think so..." But before I could say any more, he jumped out of the car and opened the door on my side. "Let's go. You're turning fifteen next week. You should get a head start..."

"Bill, no thanks, OK?" I objected. I couldn't do it. Not with him.

Of course, he wouldn't accept a polite "no." He planted himself in the open doorway and kept nagging: "Don't be like that. Come on"

"Don't be like what?"

He hung his sunglasses on his T-shirt collar. "Just move over."

"No."

"Why not? What possible—?"

"I'm not moving." I refused to give him this moment; if I gave in, he'd always have the story, of how he took me on my first driving lesson, and how I almost went into a tree or something, and how he had to jump in at the last second. I knew that's why he wanted to do this: for the story, for the yuk-yuks at my expense. He could not, could never fool me; he could fool everyone else but not me.

Finally, he looked away, and I almost thought he was giving up. But no. Not Bill. "Come on. We're doing this," he insisted, going so far as to push me into the drivers' seat. I pushed back, shoving him out the door. That got him. "You know what?" he said. "I will never, ever understand you!"

"Great. Then stop trying to and just mind your own goddamned business."

It was a childish thing to say, really. Clearly, I had said worse and wittier things to him before. It was the swear word, the "goddamn," that did it. We never swore in front of each other, and the word did something weird to that open space between us. Bill's mouth made the shape of a harumph but without any accompanying sound. Then he just left. I slammed the door and stewed, staring the crack in the side mirror, not noticing that he didn't reappear at the driver's door. Many minutes passed, until an arm reached into the open window and grabbed the keys from the steering column. Next I heard the crank of his trunk and the whoosh of a flung-open plastic bag. My eyes followed him into the woods at the parking lot's edge.

I left the car and entered the woods. I saw Bill, still wearing his gardening gloves, crouched by a brook, mining his gold: all around, Bud Light empties—probably the remnants of a busted teen party. He didn't notice me, as he was consumed with plucking cans from the soggy leaves. Without speaking, I went to work—picking a can from the stream, pouring out the mud, and tossing it in the open bag. Bottle Bill looked up at me, and nodded.

He couldn't stay for cake. A big concert, after all-the ultimate summer blowout with his buddies. So we re-arranged the gift-giving part of my birthday to accommodate his schedule. The whole time, I could tell he was anxious to go, so I saved his gift—the big box wrapped in last Sunday's comics—until last.

I should have known. Really, maybe I heaped the disappointment upon myself. After all, I opened the rest of my birthday gifts (books, videos, too many school clothes, a baseball clock in the shape of a pennant), but I tore into his; I ripped through the wrapping and rummaged through the shards of newsprint inside, anxiously anticipating what my brother had in store. For all his faults, he did have a knack for interesting gifts. So maybe I got my hopes up. Maybe, when I saw the gift, I should have laughed, like my mother did; but I couldn't.

Gloves. Blue and white can-picking gloves, sitting at the bottom of an old toaster box. Just as he promised. He even left the price-tag on: $2.99-sixty cans, in his currency.

"Keep the spirit alive, kid!" Bill smiled, patting me on the shoulder. Then he announced he had to go; he couldn't linger, obviously, after the stunt he just pulled. And as he weaseled money off Dad, I sat there on the rug, looking into the box at those gloves, wondering what he could have possibly been thinking. Was it just a goof? Or did he honestly believe we established a real "bond" with this can-picking thing and that maybe, with these gloves, I would carry on the tradition, "keep the spirit alive," just as he said? Maybe I should have forced out that laugh and forgotten about it. But after everything I did for him, I knew I deserved more; three months and hundreds of empties later, I deserved more than a $2.99 pair of gloves.

Later that night, I carried my gifts to my bedroom. I took the gloves out of the box. I held them in my hand, looked at the price tag again, and shook my head. Then I tossed them across the room into the trash can. Not out of anger, just to finish it all. He was going back to college in two days; I figured I could easily avoid him during that time. Then he probably wouldn't be back until Columbus Day. Then not until Thanksgiving, and then Christmas. Then he'd graduate and move out for good, and I'd never see him. This was the one summer we had. And he ended it this way.

As I left my room, I noticed I missed the waste basket; the gloves were on the floor. And when I reached down to pick them up, I saw it. Something nestled into the right glove, barely peeking out.

I knelt down and saw Roger Maris, encased in sheer plastic, staring back at me.

A fading chorus from a passing car's radio filtered in my open window: "Boys of Summer"—one of Bill's "Listen-and-Tell-Me-What-It-Means" songs. As I held Roger Maris in my hand, I walked down the hall to my brother's room—all the while thinking, "Nice try, Bottle Bill." He couldn't fool me. He could fool everyone else around here, but he couldn't fool me.

I walked into his room and saw the silver mug with the yin-yang symbol still on his dresser. Empty.