Memories Of A White Trash Boyhood

At 32 Part 2

2008-06-29T16:42:00.000-07:00

2004

I’m sitting inside the church with my head down, sweating on a cold winter day. My face is red, my eyes damp, my suit ill-fitting. My mother’s wail fills the room. Her cries echo off Jesus; he seems sad, too. I don’t think Mom will ever recover from this, and I fear that I’ll recover far too soon. I’m more numb than sad as I sit on the pew with my family, which is now one less. The room smells clean, like a freshly-scrubbed kitchen table, the scents of wood, leather and lemon filling my nose. Sad Jesus watches over us, and he seems to be saying, "Well, folks, you’re safe in my house, but once you walk out that door you’re on your own. Sorry."

It’s early January, and this is the last place I want to be. I haven’t been inside a church in years. I’m a lapsed Catholic. My little brother, William, is at the microphone talking about Dave, telling a funny anecdote. Dave didn’t hate William; he saved all his hatred for me. I have a few funny stories I could tell about Dave, but no one wants to hear my Dave Stories on this day. It sure was funny that time Dave tried to stab me on Halloween because I had to audacity to give candy to a group of black kids. How about that time I came home from work and he was smoking crack cocaine at the kitchen table, mere hours before his girlfriend gave birth? Boy, that was hysterical! And all of those times he stole my car? Fucking hilarious. Who can forget the time Dave lied and told me that William was stuck in Camden just so he could get a ride to the nearest drug corner? It sure was fun having Dave put me in harm’s way over and over again, wonderfully thoughtful of him. Oh, I’ve got stories all right. Stories about a brother that I loved, but didn’t like. Stories of a brother who drank and smoked and snorted to ease the pain in his heart.

Goddam it, Dave, why were you such an asshole? Why couldn’t you just have been nice to me? Why couldn’t we be the kind of brothers who get along? Why did you have to torture me for thirty years? You started it. You hated me first. I wanted to like you, but you made it impossible.

My brother is gone now. Dave died in prison. Hung himself. The guards had been beating him, and they broke his spirit. He started to hear voices. Thought everyone was out to get him (and maybe they were). He lost it. He lost his sanity and his hope. They put him on Suicide Watch, then they stopped watching him and he committed suicide. He wrote to me just last month, and didn’t sound like a guy who was planning to kill himself. Dave had found religion, and seemed to be looking forward to the future. He told me he was sorry for all that he’d done to me. I wrote back to him. I told him that all was forgiven, that we’re brothers and that’s all that matters. Blood. I don’t know if he got the chance to read my letter before he died. We never got the chance to shake hands and start over, and it’s just not fair.

William finishes his speech and everyone claps. It was a good speech, a better speech than I could have given. I feel like I should get up there and say a few words about my dead brother. But what can I say about a brother whom I despised for most of my life? That Dave and I were best pals, that we really liked each other, that he was a swell guy? I try to think of something nice to say about Dave. I scour my brain. I need a funny story to tell the crowd. Something to lighten the mood; something to distract my mother from her crying for at least a few minutes. Then it comes to me. I think of a great story to tell, a funny story that makes Dave look good, makes him sound charming and kind. The perfect story. But the moment has passed. The service has moved on to the next thing. No more stories. I guess it’s for the best. If I’d have gone up there and told a heartwarming story about Dave, everyone would’ve been thinking, "But I thought Ervin and Dave hated each other." We did hate each other. But we were brothers.

Of course, the real reason I hated my brother had nothing to do with anything he’d actually done. It had nothing to do with him stealing my car, stealing my money, chasing me around with knife, smoking crack in the kitchen, calling me names, hurting my feelings, hurting our mother’s heart. What truly made me hate my brother was his ability to make me feel small and weak, feel helpless and afraid. Dave made me realize at an early age that I had more than a bit of coward in me, and for that I hated him.

All I can do now is survive and try to make something of my life. I understand Dave’s drug addiction. I’ve felt the pull myself while snorting lines of cocaine in Pizza Tent’s bathroom, while getting my heart broken and wanting nothing else but a big fat line of white powder. I will make something of my life; I will be the one in our family to succeed. I went through my drug phase and survived, but I must always be vigilant and avoid temptation in the future. I need to be someone my mother can be proud of. Dave’s gone and I’m still here. I used to have three brothers, now I have two. I never used to think about death, now I’m on the clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

At 32 Part 1

2008-06-22T02:39:00.000-07:00

2003

Today I received a letter from Dave. He wrote me from his cell at East Jersey Prison in Rahway, New Jersey. He’s not in jail for robbing a candy store or a liquor store, not in for stealing a car or assaulting somebody, not in for buying or selling drugs. This time, Dave’s behind bars mainly for nonpayment of child support. I’m not even sure Dave knows how many kids he’s fathered. With his spotty criminal record, every mistake he makes is magnified. I’m surprised by the letter, as Dave has never written me previously. He’s sent a postcard or two, and a Christmas card once, but never a letter. His reading and writing skills are at an elementary school level, but he has shown improvement lately. When he was younger, all his time behind bars was spent rolling cigarettes and lifting weights, but on his recent trips to jail he’s been educating himself, reading books, mostly the Bible, and practicing his grammar.

He writes: "To my brother Ervin.

"How are you doing good I hope. Are you still smoking cigarettes bad habit I guess you know that much I never thought you would smoke I guess being subjected to them your entire life it was enevitble that you would smoke.

"I want to let you know that I apologize for any problems I caused you from my drinking and drug problem in the past. Because you know thats not the person that I really am Just was self medicating all the pain in my heart.

"Man I made so many mistakes in the walk of life is full of snares and traps I just seem to step in all of them what line was I in when they were passing out the brains.

"In any event I hope you and the family have a great Christmas sorry I cant be there you should be geting a bible study course in the mail thats from me Look it over once you have the time.

"I met some great people in the church Christian people and they mail me my Bible Study here. And they prey for me and my family and they are willing to except anyone who believes in God and Jesus died on the cross for us and your life will be so full with happyness and thats what God does looks out for all his children. I guess you herd enough of the God stuff but it is a shame we didn’t grow up in the church its good for all family and they seem to have important knowledge and wisdom that helps one have a better life.

"Tell everyone I said hi and have a great Christmas Don’t worry everything will work out.

"p.s. Tell mom I forgot if any one wants to send me a book or magazine they can by source of sale only that means from the book store or they can subscribe me a magazine or book.

"Im not aloud to have any hard back books and nothing with pictures of guns. So if any has an idea to send me something to read they can.

"Thanks for being a good brother talk to you later ervin.

"Later your brother

"Dave"

I’m not quite sure why, but I’m crying a little. Just a salty drop or two rolling down my cheek and onto my lips. I want to hate him. I’ve vowed to hate him forever. But I can’t. He’s my brother and I miss him. Maybe he’s really changed. Maybe he has found God and is a new man. He seems to honestly want to be a better person. I’ll have to go see him in the new year. Give him hug. Tell him I love him. Do I love him? I hope so.

I swallow a Percocet, which I’m taking for mouth pain after some recent extensive dental work. Avoiding the dentist for fifteen years did no favors to my teeth. My mouth doesn’t really hurt anymore, but the pills make me feel nice. I like feeling nice. Nothing wrong with that, right?

I fold the letter and slide it back into the envelope. I hope Dave and I will get a chance at a new beginning. I decide to write him back and let him know that all is forgiven. We’re brothers, after all.

At 17

2008-06-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

1988

I’ve been dating an older woman named Karen for several weeks. She’s twenty-two, five years older than I am. A real live, adult, sexual woman. I’m still a virgin, and she’s far from a virgin. Karen has had sex with a few of the guys at Pizza Tent, which I must try not to think about, lest I go crazy. She dated one of the assistant managers for a short time, a jerk named Bill who told me last week that Karen’s pussy wasn’t that good. "Dude, the pussy is average at best, nothing special," he said, with a cocky shrug. I told Bill that I wouldn’t know the difference between good pussy and bad pussy. I’d be happy with any pussy, as long as my penis found its way inside. Bill laughed and said, "You’ve got a lot to learn, kid." It hurts to know that my boss has fucked my girlfriend, because I haven’t even fucked my girlfriend. I haven’t had sex with anything except my left hand, a bottle of shampoo, a photo of Molly Ringwald, and a grapefruit.

Karen is short and skinny, with small tits and badly-dyed blonde hair. Her face isn’t anything special, kind of horsey, in fact, but she has a nice smile, all of her teeth are intact, and her personal hygiene is commendable. She always smells well-scrubbed. Also, she’s mentioned that she really wants to fuck me, which certainly bumped her up a few notches. She’s a sweet girl who won my heart one Saturday night by bringing me a milkshake while I was pissed off and sweaty, doing dishes by myself at work well after midnight. The store was a disaster of dirty dishes, sticky floors, and overflowing trash cans. She handed me a chocolate milkshake and said, "I thought you could use this." I wiped sweat from my eyes and said, "More than you know." I was filthy and smelled like onions and grease, but she didn’t mind. She came on to me. Flirted. Let me know she was available. Wooed me with great pickup lines such as: "I’m on the pill," and "My parents are really old and their hearing is bad, so it’s like they’re not even home at all, even when they are. I could moan for hours and they wouldn’t hear a thing. I could moan for you, Ervin, if you wanted me to."

Karen is not my dream girl or anything, but she is open to the idea of touching my penis, so I’ve decided to be her boyfriend. It’s more than just the possibility of sex, though. I like the attention. For the first time in my life, a girl has fallen madly in love with me. I don’t love Karen. Not yet. Maybe I will, maybe not. But she loves me. Karen has said that she’d do anything for me. It’s just nice to be wanted by someone. I’ve told her that I love her, and I will continue to do so, because she likes to hear it, because she’d feel stupid if I didn’t return the sentiment, because I want her to sleep with me, because I don’t even know what love is.

Tonight, I’m with Karen in her living room. We’re groping each other beneath a blanket. Her parents are in bed, sound asleep, their television blaring. Karen is wearing short shorts and a pink half-shirt, no bra. My fingers are under her shirt, twisting her somewhat hairy nipples (I never knew that girl nipples could be hairy). She moans, bites my shoulder, pulls my hair. She sucks on my tongue as if it’s her favorite flavor of lollipop.

I’m ready to burst.

I think This is it. I’m finally going to get some action.

"Ervin," she says, "promise me you won’t do drugs anymore. I can’t be with a guy who does cocaine. I just can’t. So promise me."

"I promise," I say, with sincerity. "That part of my life is over." I haven’t done any drugs since my nightmare Junior Prom, and I don’t even miss it. The urge is gone. I don’t want to be that guy. I want to be this guy. The guy who has a girlfriend. The guy who’s about to get laid, thank you very much.

She pulls her shorts down and shoves her tongue deep inside my mouth. "Let’s fuck, Ervin," Karen says. "I want us to sleep together."

"Yeah, let’s do that," I say. "I think sex would be, um, awesome. It would, you know, strengthen our love and stuff."

"Are you ready for it?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah!"

I am suddenly very scared. Scared of the pussy. I tremble. My hands won’t stay still. My stomach offers pain and odd noises. My hard cock shows signs of weakness. The pussy is in front of me, calling out to me, and I am afraid of it.

"Fuck me," she says, pulling me to her. "Feel how wet I am."

I slide several fingers inside her, with ease. "That’s pretty wet," I say.

"Fuck me right now."

And I would totally fuck her if my penis was the least bit hard. But it’s not. It’s gone soft, like a deflated balloon, and I want to cry.

She goes down on me, trying to bring me back to life, without success.

"I’m sorry, Karen."

I feel betrayed by the lower half of my body.

Karen says, "It’s okay. We can just lay here. I know you’re nervous. Let’s just cuddle. I love you no matter what."

She holds me close. Her shorts are still down and her bare sex mocks me. There it is, close enough to touch. Its sweet aroma wafting through the room. Its wetness on my fingers. The pussy is teasing me. I close my damp eyes.

We fall asleep together, both of us wearing shirts and pants pushed down to our ankles. I dream about the sex I couldn’t have, dream that I’m strong and hard and fuck like a champion. I awake a few hours later with a gigantic (average-size but incredibly firm!) boner. I wake Karen, shake her, shout, "Get up! It’s urgent!" I am fully ready and Karen feels it and says, "Put it in. Now! Before it gets soft again," which doesn’t instill me with great confidence. She’s on the pill and that’s good enough for me, diseases be damned, because I’m seventeen and indestructible. I slide inside her and give her a sweet, hot, romantic, passionate, clumsy minute. I am no longer a virgin. I’ve done it. I’m seventeen and I’ve had sex.

What a relief.

She grabs a T-shirt and wipes between her legs. "I usually hate the mess of sex, but I don’t mind your mess. Your mess makes me smile."

"That’s sweet of you to say, gross but sweet."

Karen holds me close, pets me, kisses my forehead. "I’m glad we got your first time out of the way. I’m sure you’ll do better next time. We can practice all you want."

I say, "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought I was awesome." We both laugh. She tells me she loves me, and I lie and tell her I love her, too.

I hear my brother’s voice in my head. Karen is not Dave’s type. She’s much too tiny for a man of distinct taste like Dave. "I’m like ‘em big," he would often say. Dave may be gone for now, but he is never forgotten. I imagine that when he returns from his time in the carnival, he will be even more wise, if that is possible. And he will probably be missing a few more teeth. I envy my brother. Traveling across this great country, not a care in the world, spreading his demon seed to all the carny groupies across this great nation, rolling tight cigarettes and watching the rickety rides spin. I wish I could tell him that I just got laid. He’d appreciate that. Dave would congratulate me and then ask to smell my fingers.

At 12, Part 3

2008-06-02T12:36:00.000-07:00

1983

I lost a friend today. He didn’t die. He just doesn’t exist anymore, not in my little universe, anyway. Yesterday, Todd and I were like brothers; today, we are no longer friends. We will never again see each other. Never do anything together. We won’t ride the elevator with light bulbs shoved down our pants pretending we have massive erections while old ladies turn purple and shout "You two perverts are going to burn in hell!" as we laugh and laugh. Won’t argue over which of us Nicole likes better. Won’t smoke cigarettes Todd swiped from his father. Won’t battle it out playing Tank on his Atari 2600. And I won’t have to beg him not to show off his penis. My best friend has been taken from me. Stolen in the night. He did something stupid and went away. Todd did something that changed everything. Changed our future. Changed our past. Because now we have no future. Because now my memories of him are tainted.

An unfortunate incident occurred, and because of that incident, Todd will no longer be living at Chapel Manor. Because I’m a kid, my mother did not want to tell me what happened. Soon enough, though, she relented. It took her a long time to speak of the incident, and she was embarrassed to do so. She wouldn’t give the exact details, wouldn’t say certain words, but I was able to put the unbelievable pieces of the story together. Now, having just been given the truth, I sit in stunned silence on the living room couch. I want it to be a joke. Want it so badly to all be a silly prank. But Mom is not the joking kind. Her words are true as the summer sun.

Todd forced Franklin to give him a blow job.

Todd, my best friend, made Franklin, a young retarded boy, give him head. Just thinking of it brings the stinging vomit up my throat. Brings the heat to my cheeks. Brings the hot ache to my belly. Makes me gag. It happened in the woods, near the area that Todd set on fire. Franklin told on Todd right away, and the police came and took Todd away. He was taken away before I even woke up this morning. Franklin’s gone too, off to live with relatives somewhere far away. Both of them now gone for good, as if a magician had simply made them disappear and then died suddenly before having the chance to bring them back.

I don’t know why Todd did it, but I will never have the chance to ask him, because I no longer have a best friend. I’m pissed off at Todd for what he did, fucking enraged, but I also miss him like crazy. Already, I mourn his loss. At least now I understand why he was always trying to show me his penis. Why he always wanted us to drop our pants and compare wieners. Why he wanted to teach me his dazzling masturbation techniques. But he never put the moves on me. Was never forceful. I’d say, "No, Todd, I do not want to see how big your penis is," and then we’d move on, play video games or basketball. His penis fetish was never that big of a deal. Until it was. Today.

Mom is visibly uncomfortable when she asks, "Ervin, are you gay?"

"What?" I say, my face growing hot. "Mom!"

I vehemently assure my mother that I am not gay, unless you’re counting my taste in music, which is, in fact, very gay (and includes groups like The Carpenters, The Brady Kids, The Partridge Family, Culture Club, and Wham!). Mom tells me that gay is disgusting. That gay is wrong. Gay doesn’t seem that disgusting to me. I personally have no interest in kissing other boys, but who am I to tell everyone else who they should kiss? The only gayness that I’ve seen in my life has been on television, on late-night cable. Most of the dirty movies I watch when everyone else is asleep feature at least one or two lesbian scenes; for example: the adult Cinderella—when two beautiful sisters decided to lez-out together, the erection I get lets me know that gay is good. In fact, girls kissing other girls seems to do something in my pants akin to a miracle; a small miracle, in my case. Men kissing each other does nothing for me, but who am I to say it's wrong?

"You’re not a gay like Todd?" she asks. Mom definitely has a way with words. "Did he make you that way, too?" She’s acting as if a sudden outbreak of gay has spread throughout the apartment building.

"No, I’m not a gay. But I don’t think Todd is gay, either. And I don’t think you can make someone gay. I kinda think if you’re gay, you just are."

Mom scrunches her face and shakes her head. "Well, I think he’s gay."

"I’m pretty sure he just did it as some sort of punishment for Franklin, like, to hurt him or something, instead of just hitting him like usual. I don’t think he meant for it to be...um, so gay," I say. "I think Todd was alone with Franklin, and Franklin was dripping snot and laughing and pulling his pants down, so Todd just got really mad and decided to punish him. But then things got out of hand. That’s what I think."

"Well, I know he was your friend and everything, but Todd is sick. What if he had done this to someone else? What if it was your little brother instead of Franklin?"

"It wouldn’t have been. Todd would never hurt anyone in our family. He just really had it in for Franklin."

Mom shrugs and says, "Whatever, Ervin. You think what you want. I have to go to work now. Keep an eye on your little brother, and don’t ever be gay."

My mother and I never have conversations that last more than a few minutes. She’s always moving around very quickly while speaking, and I know when the conversation is supposed to be over because suddenly I’ll be by myself. Mom always has numerous jobs, is always working, always heading out somewhere to earn money so her children can eat.

"Sure, Mom," I say, staring at the floor. I feel hollow. Feel the loss in my bones, the emptiness, like someone has just sucked out all of my marrow.

"You look so sad, Ervin."

"I just miss Todd. He was my best friend. It’s not fair. This totally sucks. I wish I could’ve at least said goodby to him, and told him what a jerk he is for doing what he did, for messing everything up." I begin to cry. I don’t want to cry. Todd doesn’t deserve my tears. Still, they flow.

She smiles. "Well, you’ll find a new friend, don’t you think?"

I would have answered her question, but she’s already out the door before I get the chance. Mom’s like Batman. You blink and she’s gone.

I have a few friends in the building, but none will be able to replace Todd. I have to accept that I’ve lost my best friend because of a blow job. I should feel sorry for Franklin, I really should. He’s young and retarded and doesn’t know anything. I should feel sorry for Franklin, but I don’t. I hate him, and I blame him for Todd’s sudden departure. Of course it’s not Franklin’s fault, but fuck him and his snotty fucking face for even existing in the first place. And I hate myself for not being there, for not stopping Todd from doing what he did. Todd needed me to keep the Devil inside him, like I’ve always done. But the Devil came while I slept. Came and took my friend away.

At 16, Part 5

2008-05-20T21:33:00.000-07:00

1988

I met her on a Friday night just a few weeks ago, and fell for her instantly. Fell hard. A traveling carnival was in town for the week, and had set up the sad-looking rides and rigged games in the parking lot of a large hospital that’s named after a dead president. It was one of those no-frills sort of carnivals, with cheap stuffed animal prizes and rides held together with rusty bolts and spit. I wandered around aimlessly with Vito, checking out the girls. We were a little drunk. A lot drunk. All smiles and stumbling cheerfulness. We rode a few of the smaller rides, the ones intended for little children, and then I threw up behind the freakshow tent. After vomiting, I felt better and more lucid, but still had a nice buzz going.

My older brother was there that night. Dave had just returned home from another stint of incarceration, and was in good spirits. He was not drunk, not high, had inhaled no illegal substances. Dave was just happy to be alive and free, and had vowed to change his ways. For once, he actually gave me money. He handed me a twenty and said, "Here, Erv, have fun." It was nice seeing him this way. Happy, funny, relaxed. That night, I had fun with my brother. I wasn’t at all ashamed to be related to him, which was a nice change of pace. "If you need anything, just let me know," he said, just before I wandered away with Vito.

"Your brother is acting weird, almost like a normal human being," Vito said.

"I know. It’s freaky, right? It’d be nice if he was that way all the time. I’m really liking Dave right now. When he's not being an asshole, he's actually kind of awesome."

The carnival started to shut down at eleven o'clock. Most of the employees were missing teeth and had huge, ugly tattoos of naked women and flaming skulls covering their arms. As they packed up for the last time, as they prepared to move on to a new city, I noticed that Dave was helping take apart the rides. They’d recruited him. My brother fit right it. Dave looked like he’d been a carny all his life. With his missing tooth and his black cross prison tattoo, he was one of the guys. I waved to him and he waved back, and I’d never seen him as happy. Dave suddenly had a purpose. Had real work to do. Had a place where he belonged. Dave was Carny Folk now.

After I lost my last dollar trying to knock over a stack of plastic bottles with a rubber ball, Vito and I walked away from the carnival. The flashing lights had stopped flashing. The cotton candy had been put away. The smell of dirty, underfed animals began to fade. The show was over. Another year, another carnival. Vito was in the middle of telling me how many girls he could have banged if he wasn’t such a good friend ("Dude, there were, like, ten girls all over my shit tonight, but I wanted to hang with you, ‘cause you’re my boy. If I was by myself, I’d have gotten at least four blow jobs."), when suddenly a big-eyed, tall girl stepped in front of me and smiled. She wore tight, carefully-torn jeans and a Metallica T-shirt, and had long brown hair, parted in the middle. messily feathered. I was immediately taken by her impossibly large green eyes. So big they almost ruined her face. Almost. There’s a fine line between lovely and hideous, and her eyes were just the right kind of big. I couldn’t look away from the sparkling green.

"Hey," she said, her grinning face close to mine. She stood directly in front of me, blocking my way. She reeked of cheap mall perfume and pot, but I didn’t mind. "You’re really cute, you know that?"

I turned and looked at Vito, then back at her, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake. She must be talking about Vito I thought. But she was looking right at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, bright green streaked with uneven lines of red, and she was definitely stoned, but there was no doubt she was talking to me. Talking to the skinny, pale guy in the Wolverine T-Shirt.

"You’re cute, too," I said. "I like your eyes. They’re really green and big, like big green balls of, um, I don’t know, green." Real smooth, Erv. I was quickly damp and hot, hands trembling, heart racing.

Vito stood nearby, quiet, possibly in shock, watching the scene unfold.

"I’m Lacy," she said. Then she stepped forward and put her arms around me, pulled me closer, and, as if in a dream, shoved her tongue in my mouth. Within seconds, we were full-on making out. We were all tongues and sweat and heat. Her mouth tasted like schnapps and cigarettes. I grabbed her ass. I was bold as hell and wondering what had gotten into me. I was groping a girl I’d never met before, in public, with a small crowd looking on.

"Damn!" Vito said, jealously watching. "I’m next!"

"I’m Ervin," I said to Lacy, at the first opportunity to speak, as I gasped for air.

She smiled, a dopey, stoned, lovely smile. "I've been watching you for, like, an hour, and I've been wanting to kiss you, so I did."

"I’m glad you did," I said. "I’ve been wanting to get kissed, so it all worked out."

We kissed again. I grew dizzy. Couldn’t believe this was happening. I didn’t know this girl. Our tongues were connected. Most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. Didn’t know where she came from. Didn’t care. The world was out of focus around us. There was just us. Everything else a blur.

"Do you like Bon Jovi?" she asked, between soft kisses.

"No, I like the Beastie Boys. They’re my favorite. I saw them with Public Enemy at the Spectrum. It was awesome."

"That’s a shame," she said. "How about Poison or Winger?"

"Nah."

My heavy metal girl then said, "You need better taste in music, dude."

Our first disagreement. How cute. I wondered how long it would be before she ended up backstage at a Bon Jovi concert, flashing her tits to the drummer.

Vito slipped away while I was jamming my tongue down Lacy’s throat. Guess he’d seen enough.

Soon, too soon, it was over. Lacy and I exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye, kissed again quickly. Lacy waved goodbye and walked off with her friends. They were all giggles as they disappeared from sight. I looked at the small piece of paper in my hand. Next to her phone number she had written, "I want your body!"

I began to walk home alone, my lips tingling, a wet spot in my underwear, the pre-cum a result of some more than mild excitement on my part. I must not have been paying attention, because I bumped into a drunk, dirty, large angry teenager whom I recognized from school. He was a few years older and his name was Eddie. He took a quick disliking to me.

"Watch where you’re fucking going, faggot!" he said.

"Sorry, man, I was, just, um."

"You want me to kick your fucking ass?" He stepped close, bumped my chest with his. The monster on his Iron Maiden T-shirt looked right at me with its cartoon devil eyes.

"No, I, um, really don’t. I was just trying to cross the street. I live right over there." I pointed, showing Eddie where I lived.

"What do I care where you live? What, do you want me send you a fucking Valentine’s Day card or something, queer?" Eddie asked, then shoved me to the ground. He kicked my leg, then bent down and grabbed my shirt. "I will kill you!" He spit a little with each word spoken, and I was getting soaked.

I knew that Eddie had been in at least three or four fights at school; he rode the short yellow bus, affectionately referred to by the student body as the "Tart Cart," and a couple of boys had teased him about it, so he kicked their asses. He balled his fist. Cocked his arm. I closed my eyes. Eddie was going to punch me in the face. I had never been punched in the face before. At least part of my face was numb from all the kissing. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt too badly when he clocked me. I put my hands in front of my face and prepared for the worst.

Then I heard my brother’s voice.

"Let him go, asshole," Dave said.

I opened my eyes and saw Dave and Eddie standing face-to-face. Dave had a small grin on his face. Eddie looked scared. Even though Dave was over eighteen and Eddie was under eighteen, I knew Dave would still kick Eddie’s ass if he felt like it. Age was only a number to Dave. In fact, earlier that night I’d spotted him making out with a sixteen-year-old girl from my Geometry class.

Dave helped me up and said to Eddie. "This is my brother. Nobody messes with him. You got that? You tell everyone that Ervin is not to be fucked with, or I’ll come after them. You spread the word, okay?"

"Sure, Dave." Eddie slowly backed up. "I didn’t know that he was your brother. My mistake. I’ll see ya." Eddie walked off in a hurry.

"Thanks, Dave," I said.

"No big thing. That’s what brothers are for. That kid’s a punk anyway." He laid a hand on my head and messed up my hair. "Who’s your favorite brother?"

"You are, Dave."

He shook my hand, said goodbye, then left town with carnival. He said he’d be back in about a year, when the carnival returned to New Jersey. Dave finally seemed like he had his life together. I thought I’m really gonna miss that guy.

Lacy and I talked on the phone for the next few nights, and our conversations were short but nice. She told me that she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend, and if he found out she was messing around with someone else, he’d surely kick my ass. "He knows how to fight," she said. "His last name is Fish, so, you know, that should give you all the warning you need."

"Of course, but I think I can handle myself," I said, acting as if Dave was a witch who’d cast a protection spell over me. Even though he had left town, I still felt safe. My brother had laid down the law: no one messes with Ervin. Who would dare defy his word?

"I don’t usually just go up to random guys and start sucking their face, but you're just so fucking adorable," she said. "And you’re so, like, straight-laced. You’re the perfect boy-next-door. And those dimples. Sexy."

I took a deep, calming breath and said, "Listen, I have this Junior Prom coming up, and I need a date. Will you go with me?" I felt sick. Asking a girl out always made me nauseated.

"Sure, sweetie. Hey, and if you play your cards right, you might just get lucky. You ever get lucky before?"

"Sure," I said. I made a mental note to myself: Junior Prom, lose virginity.

Everything was going perfectly until this morning. Until Lacy called me and somberly said, "Look, Erv, I have to tell you, I got back together with my boyfriend last night. We had a long talk and decided to try one more time."

"The Fish guy?" I asked.

"Yeah, him."

"So, what are you saying? That you don’t want to go to Prom with me?"

"No, no, I’ll still go if you really want me to. I said I would."

"Don’t sound so excited."

I knew that Prom was ruined. I was taking someone else’s girlfriend. I no longer had a date, I had a friend.

She sighed. "It’s just a tough spot for me, you know. I’m in a bind here. But I won’t go back on my word. I’m no cunt. But don’t worry, my boyfriend said I could still go with you. He won’t beat you up or anything, as long as you don’t try anything."

"Well, thanks," I said.

Right now, I am in a limousine with Lacy, and Manny and his date. It is very apparent that Lacy does not want to be going to Prom with me. I know this because five minutes ago she looked at me and said, "I should never have agreed to this. I should be with my boyfriend."

After several minutes of complete silence, Manny leans over to me and whispers, "Don’t worry, man, I’ve got a surprise that’s gonna make it all okay. Just try and enjoy yourself. Screw her if she doesn’t want to be here. Fuck that bitch."

Manny hands me a bottle of cheap peach schnapps and I quickly guzzle half the bottle.

I want to get drunk, high, wasted.

Lacy looks wonderful in her lime green dress. Goes with her eyes. And I would tell her that if I didn’t want to strangle her instead.

Manny asks me to move in close, and he opens his jacket and shows me what he’s packing. His special surprise.

Turns out, Manny has an eightball of cocaine. A very large bag of coke. Enough for many, many lines. I vowed never to do coke again, but now I just don't care. I am not going to lose my virginity, so instead I will snort copious amounts of cocaine. Makes sense to me. This will definitely be the last time. I believe that a broken heart and a fucked up experience at Prom gives me special dispensation to be an asshole.

"What time’s this thing gonna be over?" Lacy asks me.

"Soon, I hope," I say.

We arrive at Prom and immediate have our picture taken. Lacy gives a fairly believable smile, then asks me to dance, and I begin to think that maybe this evening won’t be so bad after all. We dance for three minutes, a slow dance, to Berlin’s "Take My Breath Away," and Lacy seems distracted through the entire song. Manny and his girlfriend are dancing and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. Must be nice.

After my dance, Manny and I sneak off to the bathroom, lock ourselves in a stall, then snort a few lines of white powder. In my fancy clothes, I don’t just feel like a drug user, I feel like a well-dressed drug user, like a Mafia kingpin. I exit the bathroom, wiping my nose, body afire with pleasure, and discover that my date is no longer in the building. Apparently, her boyfriend, Fish Dude, arrived at the ballroom and took my date away. They made out in front of everyone, then took off. People feel sorry for me. I hate when people feel fucking sorry for me. But I like to feel sorry for myself. "Dude, that’s fucked up," Manny says. "I can’t believe that bitch." The news spreads quickly, and I am suddenly Prom’s big loser. I’m the guy whose date took off with another guy. Everyone stares at me, pointing, whispering, giggling.

I am now at Prom without a date, unless you count Manny, who is pretty like a girl but in a very manly way. Manny and his date have rented a room so they can fuck all night long, and they invite me along because they feel sorry for me, but I say that I’d rather just go home and fall on a knife. Manny gives me what’s left of the coke and I go home, to my small matchbox of a house, and I cry only a little, just enough to let myself know that I’m not a robot. I snort more coke and watch Animal House on HBO. My mind is in a million places at once, and my body feels like a hundred women have their mouths on my flesh. I think I am going to die because of the tremendous amount of coke that I’ve ingested this evening, but I don’t die. I don’t sleep, either. I look in the mirror and decide that I don’t like myself very much. I have lost my identity. I used to be good. Now I’m not. I am some kind of defective person. Just another white kid in suburbia numbing his pain.

The sun is up and I haven’t been to sleep. My skin is tingling and hot, and I need more drugs, but I’m out of coke. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, eating pizza for breakfast. All I ever seem to eat is pizza. I’m still wearing my wrinkled Prom suit. My mother enters the kitchen, wearing her waitress outfit. She’s just come home from the overnight shift at the grease-pit diner.

"Did you just get home?" she asks.

"Nah, I’ve been home for awhile."

"How’d it go?"

"It was okay. Nothing special."

I am such an asshole.

Mom sits down next to me. I try not to look her directly in the eyes, for fear that she will instantly know that I am on drugs. Moms know these sort of things. Moms can just tell. I try not to sniffle. There’s cocaine inside me. In my bloodstream. In my hair, my skin, my saliva. I want it out.

"Have you been drinking?" Mom asks. She’s smiling a little, as if she’s almost proud of me. There was a time when everyone in my family thought I was gay, so for Mom to know I was out with a girl makes her very happy, and to know that I’ve been drinking, well, maybe she’s proud of me for not being a complete and total nerd.

"Oh, yeah, I had a couple of drinks."

"That’s okay, Ervin. I’m not mad. You’re a good kid. You’ve never caused me any trouble. Good things are going to happen to you, because God sees how good you are."

I want my mother to stop talking. She’s making me feel like complete and utter garbage. I’ve stolen, lied, cheated, indulged. I am a fraud. I’m embarrassed and ashamed. My mother sees none of my flaws, because I’m her angel. I could fuck a goat in the living room, shout, "Hey, Mom, I’m fucking this goat in the living room," then kill the goat and eat it, and my mother wouldn’t even notice, or she’d blame it on Dave. I could say, "Mom, it was me. I fucked and killed that goat," and Mom would reply, "No, you wouldn’t do something like that. You’re the good one."

But that’s all I want.

To be good.

At 12, Part 2

2008-05-09T22:53:00.000-07:00

1983

I’m in Nicole’s sixth-floor apartment, adults absent, about to begin a heated game of Spin-the-Bottle with a group of kids from the building. Just a small motley assemblage of horny eleven, twelve, and thirteen-year-olds, looking to get some hot tongue action. Or more. We’ve just added a new wrinkle to our game play: Seven Minutes In Heaven. A boy and a girl alone in a dark closet for seven blissful, possibly tit-touching minutes. The suddenly more adult nature of our game was Todd’s idea. No surprise since he’s the oldest, tallest, and most likely to be arrested for a sex crime in the future. When Todd floated the idea of "special closet time," no one protested. No one wanted to come off as scared. I’m sure that we’re all terrified of the idea, save Todd, of course, but none of us wants to show fear. I certainly don’t want to admit that the idea of time alone with a member of the opposite sex terrifies me. So we proceed. I see fear in people’s eyes. Hands shaking. Beads of sweat on almost every forehead. My heart races. My stomach burns. I can’t wait to begin—if I don’t run and hide in a moment of panic, that is.

There’s seven of us. Four boys and three girls. Aside from myself, there’s pervy Todd; Nicole, the pretty, blonde, shy object of mine and Todd’s lust; Gerry, he of the buck teeth, flabby body, and club foot; Juan, equal parts white, black, Spanish and Native American, and clearly the stud of our little group; Talia, Juan’s skinny, tall, obnoxious, beautiful sister; and then there’s Lisa, who’s just moved into the building and is still a bit of a mystery, with her dark hair and eyes, her flat-chested, boyish figure, her vampire fangs, her short punk rock hairdo. We know almost nothing about Lisa, but the boys are clearly intrigued. This is her first appearance at our now-weekly, surprisingly innocent (thus far) make-out sessions. Talia and Nicole are clearly jealous, as they’re used to getting all the boys’ attention. But a new girl changes the equation. It’s going to be an interesting night.

Truth is, we’re just kids playing grownup. Doing what we think adults are supposed to do, even though we’re still children. I still collect comic books and action figures. I’d rather read the latest issue of Detective Comics than go to the mall and look at girls (I mean, girls are great and all, but no girl, no matter how big her boobs are, is cooler than Batman), and I recently taped firecrackers to all my Star Wars action figures and blew the hell out of the Empire. Then I burned down my Death Star Playset. Lit the large plastic toy on fire and watched it melt and ooze black smoke. I still prefer Saturday morning cartoons to adult movies on cable, though the gap is definitely closing (I recently had some uncomfortable, just plain wrong thoughts about the animated ladies from "Scooby Doo."). I do not want to grow up. I like being a kid. But the kissing is a nice way to feign adulthood without having any of the responsibilities. Tonight may get serious in a sexy kind of way, and it’s possible that I’ll lose more of my innocence than I’d like to.

It’s not just me. It’s all of us. Todd spends his weekends playing Frogger and Moon Patrol, and solves a Rubix Cube faster than anyone I know. He’s also strangely fascinated by "The Smurfs," but I think that could just be his perverted interest in Smurfette, whom he believes has to service all the male Smurfs on a nightly basis. Nicole, my Jewish Princess, has an extensive Barbie collection. Gerry is addicted to Lucky Charms and Bazooka Joe gum. Juan is a break-dancer, and carries a large piece of cardboard around with him; he keeps telling me I need to buy a nice silver pair of parachute pants to match his, so we can walk around town and challenge people to dance-offs. I haven’t quite mastered the art of break-dancing. Or dancing in general. Or moving my body in any sort of coordinated manner. Lisa says she still fiddles with her Easy Bake Oven. Talia collects stuffed animals. We may just be a bunch of poor apartment kids about to stick our tongues in each other’s mouths and swap A.B.C. (already been chewed) gum, but I get the feeling we’d all just rather pull out a Monopoly board and fight over who gets to be the shoe. Except for Todd. He’s still a kid at heart, just with a bigger boner than the rest of us.

I know I have to grow up. I know kissing girls is nice, and I do sort of like it. I know I can’t stay a kid forever. But is it wrong to want to? Is it so bad to want another innocent year hoping that Santa Claus brings me a new batch of Star Wars toys to replace the ones I blew up or set on fire? Is it so terrible to not want to go all the way with a girl just yet?

We begin with a spin of an empty Coke bottle and a simple, quick kiss. I kiss Nicole on her cherry lip gloss lips. We’re both mildly embarrassed as the others stare at us and Todd hoots and hollers, but the candle-lit room’s mood lighting hides our surely red cheeks. The game continues. Todd kisses Talia, and she quickly pulls away when he tries to slip her the tongue. "You nasty, boy!" she says, wiping her mouth on her long puffy sleeve, and everyone giggles. Talia dresses like Prince’s little sister, as if waiting for that call to join The Revolution and His Purpleness on tour at a moment’s notice. Gerry spins and his momentary visible excitement fades into stone-faced rejection as Talia extends her hand for a shake instead of a kiss. The girls never kiss Gerry. Not Nicole, not Talia, not one of the three or four other girls in the building who sometimes play in our kissing games, and I’d imagine that the new girl isn’t too keen on lip-locking with poor Gerry, who compliments his crooked buck teeth with sour breath similar to long-outdated milk. I feel bad for him. No one will ever call him cute. As much as it embarrasses me, I do like it when girls tell me how cute I am. If one of the girls here tonight shook my hand instead of kissing me, I’d probably cry and never play these kissing games again. But Gerry always comes back for more. I guess he thinks someday his kiss will come.

I spin and the bottle points to Lisa, the new girl. She smiles. I lick my lips. She says, "Why don’t we take this game up a notch? How about me and you go into the closet, Ervin? I’d like to try the Seven Minutes In Heaven thing? How about it, cutie pie?" I nod vigorously. Todd leans close to me and whispers, "She wants to suck your dick, dude." Lisa stands and takes my moist hand. She’s an inch taller. A year older. A grade above. The girl knows what she’s doing. She leads me into the small, musty closet. Todd shouts, "Grab some tit for me, if you can find ‘em!" I am beyond embarrassed, my cheeks burning. Lisa shoots Todd the middle finger and calls him a neanderthal. He says, "Thanks." Lisa whispers in my ear, tells me she hates Todd, and it excites me to know that Lisa likes me and not him.

We sit together on the floor of the closet, cross-legged, facing each other, our knees touching, a still-wet umbrella pressing against my back. It’s dark, with only a tiny beam of yellow light creeping in. The closet is mostly filled with shoes, and the scent of dirty feet invades my nostrils. I start to sweat immediately inside the stuffy little sex room.

"I wanted to come in here with you because you’re the cutest and nicest boy," Lisa says, and I follow her lips as they move. She’s wearing green-tinted lipstick that kind of glows in the dark.

"I thought you might want to come in here with Juan," I say. "He seems to be the guy all the girls want to be with."

I am by no means an ugly kid. I’ve overheard most say that I’m "cute," and believe me, I’ll take it. But "cute" translates into "non-threatening." I have blond hair, fair skin, freckles, dimples, no muscles to speak of. I’m the boy next door. The sweet kid that mothers love. Juan, on the other hand, is the tall, dark, handsome stud that fathers want to keep their daughters away from.

"Who? That Menudo reject?" She laughs as she rubs my bare knee. "He’s good-looking and all, but not my type. I like ‘em like you. Sweet and shy."

"What do you think of Todd?" I ask, already knowing the answer. I just want to hear her say bad things about the other guys so I’ll feel better about myself. Petty, I know, but ego-boosting nonetheless.

"Todd is crass, but mildly entertaining. He smells like the stuff that gets caught between my toes and he has big ears."

She takes my hand in hers. Her hands are as sweaty as mine. Makes me feel better. Makes me think she’s nervous too.

"Should we kiss now?" I say, smooth as high school bathroom toilet paper.

"Ervin, you’re adorable. Come here, baby."

She wraps her arms around my neck, leans in, opens her mouth wide, and then jams her long tongue into my mouth. If she wasn’t a girl whom I was playing group sex games with, I might think she was an assassin trying to suffocate me. I pull away after a few seconds, gasping for air.

"Wow," I say, more shaken up than turned on.

"I know, right? Am I not the best kisser ever?"

Her mouth tastes like hot dogs and peanut butter.

"Yeah, best ever." I pause, searching for the right words. I add, "But can we do it without tongues for awhile."

"You wuss!" she snaps. "Without tongues is stupid. French kissing is the only way to do it."

Lisa grabs my left hand and places it on her right boob. Or at least the smallish bump on her chest that I’m hoping is a boob. It could just be a protruding rib. I pinch to make sure, and feel her nipple harden beneath my fingertips. She moans. Her nipples are huge, and I’m aroused instantly. Not just aroused. Ready to burst. The slightest movement, I fear, will cause me to come in my shorts. I pull my hand away from her little tit because I don't want to mess myself.

"So you’re my boyfriend now."

"Um, okay."

"I like you a lot."

"Same here."

"You ever had a girlfriend before?"

"A real one?"

"What, you’ve had fake girlfriends?"

I quickly think of a clever retort. "Sure, I’ve dated a couple of Barbie Dolls. I’ve also dated a lot of girls who didn’t know we were dating, because I was imagining it."

Instead of laughing, Lisa squints and stares at me as if I have a glass eye that’s just fallen out. "You’re weird, Ervin."

She kisses me again. Licks my teeth with her tongue.

We exit the closet a minute later, holding hands, smiling, presenting ourselves to the world. Lisa leads. I follow. Everyone is waiting for us to rejoin the circle, but we remain standing.

"Game’s over," Lisa says. "Ervin’s my boyfriend now, and I don’t want him kissing other girls, and I’m sure he doesn’t want me kissing other boys, right?" She squeezes my hand. Digs into it with her nails. Breaks the skin. Hurts me.

"Right," I say, on cue.

"Ah hell, you pussy," Todd blurts out. "Thanks for ruining the game." He stands up, shakes his head, then walks straight out the front the door.

Juan shrugs indifferently, then goes back to fixing his curly hair in the mirror.

Nicole stands up and, without a hint of jealousy, says, "Well, I guess that’s it."

Lisa looks at me and says, "Now what?"

I don’t know. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’m not sure what a guy is supposed to do with a girl once she’s his. This is all rather sudden. Guess I’ll just have to make it up as I go. And in the future, I’ll have to figure out how to get away with touching a girl’s boob without having to make a long-term commitment.

So, now I have girlfriend. A girlfriend whom I barely even know. What the hell was I thinking? My relationship with Lisa is only minutes old, and I'm already trying to come up with a way out. Maybe I can convince my mother that we need to move, like, right now, before my new girlfriend tries to have sex with me.

At 16, Part 4

2008-05-05T16:25:00.000-07:00

1988

We’re heading to Camden to buy drugs of the snortable kind. Myself, Vito, Manny, and Derrick, another Pizza Tent cook craving a few lines of blow. Each of us is finishing up our junior year at Cherry Hill High School West. All that’s really left of this school year is Junior Prom and final exams. Tonight, though, school is the furthest thing from our minds. We’re not concerned about the future. We simply want to snort a few lines of coke and then maybe score a hooker. I’m not sure where the prostitute idea came from. Just a thought floating in the air as we drove to Camden. I’m sure we were all thinking We’re going to Camden and there are hookers in Camden. Then Vito, Manny and Derrick began to discuss all the different ways they were going to fuck said hooker. But what kind of hooker to get? White? Black? Thin? Thick? Young and fresh? Older and experienced? Maybe more than one hooker? We are four, after all.

It’s decided that we’ll only need one hooker, since I’ve stated vehemently that I won’t be "doing no naked sex stuff with no hooker," since I am, apparently, a grammatically-challenged big fucking pussy. It’s then decided it’ll only be blow jobs for the gang and not full-on penetration, because Derrick has a girlfriend and he doesn’t want to cheat on her. We’re all certain that a blow job isn’t really cheating. It’s then decided that the hooker should be as young as possible. The less time she’s had on the streets, the less hardened she’ll be, and the greater the chance that she won’t yet have acquired too potent an STD. An agreement cannot be reached on whether or not our hooker should be black or white, so the decision is made to split the difference and purchase a Spanish girl’s time. None of the boys are too concerned about the hooker’s weight, but she must have nice breasts and a pretty smile. Since I’m not participating, my input was not required. But they still need my twenty bucks. "Least you could do," says Vito. "You wanna be a chicken, you gotta pay up."

My reasons for not enjoying a nice bit of head from the hooker aren't especially noble. I don’t feel bad for any of the streetwalkers, and I certainly don’t begrudge them making a living. I am not on some moral high horse. I don’t think I’m better than anyone else. I’m just scared. Plain and simple. I’m almost as afraid of hookers as I am Demonic Possession, heights, spiders, and Global Thermal Nuclear War.

I blame The Last American Virgin. No, not me. The movie. Virgin is a teen sex comedy that haunts me. Most of your typical teen sex comedies, Porky’s and the like, are fun, irreverent, nudie romps about high school kids trying to get laid. Virgin is a little different. Sure, there’s the prerequisite nudity, drugs, sex, and comical STD scenes, but the movie has one of the saddest endings ever put on film. There’s a scene where our Hollywood-typical group of teens (you’ve got the fat one, the horny one, and the sensitive one) visit a prostitute. A mean, jaded, awful hooker who berates the main character, the sensitive one. Who calls him names and says awful things about his manhood. Who turns his first sexual experience into a nightmare. Since seeing that movie, I’ve had nightmares about random hookers laughing at the size and ferocity of my penis. So, at all costs, I’ve made it a mission of mine to never allow a prostitute to see my manhood. Also, I’ve decided to never again dance in public, but that’s not an issue tonight. Just the hooker thing.

Our hooker happens to be named Precious. We picked her up and worked out a reasonable deal for her services. She’s on my lap. Grinding on my not-completely limp dick. About to, I’m sure, make fun of me. But, in a shocking turn of events, I’m suddenly fully hard. Respectably hard. Bulging beneath my jeans, my cock looks almost...impressive. Vito is driving, with Manny sitting next to him. I’m with Derrick and Precious in the back. Precious on my lap, grinding. She’s a tall, thick young girl, with a nice face and long dark hair. Her left hand is resting on Derrick’s crotch. Messaging his pecker over his jeans. Precious smells like she’s had a long night already. She has the lingering odor of recent tricks.

Vito looks into the rearview mirror and sees the sexy scene going on in the back and says, "Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Give it to her!"

I’m a little drunk. Had a couple of beers. Don’t know what’s going on. Don’t know how to stop it. Don’t know if I want to stop it. Vito parks the car in a dark alley, and I am taken with a great and all-consuming panic.

Vito takes the key from the ignition and says, "All right, Erv goes first. Everybody else get out."

Manny turns his head and offers a large smile. "Good luck," he says. "Don’t catch anything I wouldn’t catch."

"Why can’t I go first?" Derrick wonders, climbing out of the car.

I stare ahead, focusing on the large fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. Wondering What’s going on here? Also, silently panicking. I, of the clean penis and strong anti-sex-with-hookers mantra, am about to engage in unseemly acts with a professional-type lady of the night whose fingers smell like the cock and balls of fifty questionable men.

Vito, Manny, and Derrick fire up a joint and smoke up while leaning back against the car. They allow me my privacy. My friends seem to have forgotten that I didn’t want any part of this madness. I was the one who protested. Yet here I am. Alone with Precious. Precious is still a teenager. She’s possibly the same age as me, possibly younger. Too young to be in this line of work. Old enough to know how to grind.

"My nuh-nuh-name is Ervin," I say, with no small amount of difficulty.

"That’s great," she says. "But not really important, Erwin, unless you wanna be my boyfriend or something."

"That’s okay," I say.

She’s straddling me. Facing me. Her pleated skirt pulled up. Her sheer panties on the floor. I’m still fully dressed. She lifts off her tight shirt and presses her tits against my face. Precious wears too much makeup, I'm guessing to cover her obvious acne problem. Her breasts are large and soft. I should know because I’m practically eating them. I’m also about to pass out from lack of oxygen. Mercifully, she pulls her tits away from my face. She pushes me down on the backseat and unzips my pants. I like that she’s not as ostentatious as the other streetwalkers I saw tonight. Her outfit is somewhat demure in that it covers all of her dirty parts. At least it did until about a minute ago. She’s now mostly naked, just wearing the short skirt and black high heels, and trying to pry me from my clothes.

"I’m not sure about this," I say. "I mean, I don’t know anything about you."

"I fuck for money," she says succinctly.

As she slides my pants and underwear down, fear gets the better of me. Outright panic. My erection fades fast. Like a tire losing air. Precious places the deflating member in her mouth, performing sexual CPR. Sucking, stroking, squeezing. Nothing. I am limp and I am going to stay limp. This is not working for me. I don’t want my first time to be with this girl, that much I know. Still, an erection might make this moment less embarrassing. Even a partial erection might lesson the ego-crusher I’m about to experience. I think Please don’t let this hooker laugh at me.

"I’m sorry. This isn’t going to happen," I say, looking down at her and the sad little shiny thing in her hand. I’m ashamed, and relieved.

"Whatever, I’m still charging you," she says, wiping her mouth. "Send in the next faggot."

I pull up my pants, while repeatedly telling her that I’m sorry.

"You know what your problem is, hon?" Precious asks.

"What?" I ask. She has my full attention. Maybe this young prostitute has all the answers. Maybe she will help me. Guide me. Show me the way. Turn me into the great stud I'm destined to become.

"You’re the kind of dude who needs to be in love. You can’t just go out and fuck some girl you don’t got no feelings for. Find yourself a sweet little high school girl and get some high school nookie. Hookers ain’t for you. Sorry, kid, hate to break this to you but you ain’t no stud. Now send in the Italian kid. I’ll bet he’s got the best shot at getting it up."

I smile and tell her thanks. My days dreaming of being a stud are over. I am what I am. I’m a relationship guy, not a fuck-and-run guy. At least she didn’t make fun of me. Well, not directly, anyway. She didn’t call me names. I won’t be scarred for life from this. Just for a day or two.

As I climb about of the car, Vito climbs in. "Hope you got her warmed up for me. I’m gonna fuck this bitch silly."

The door closes and Manny squeezes my shoulder. "How was it?"

"It was okay," I say.

"You didn’t do it, did you?"

"No, not really. I was going to. Honest. You should’ve seen the boner I had. But I’m saving myself for someone special. Or, you know, Prom."

Manny laughs. "You lying shit."

Precious begins to scream. Manny looks at me and mouths Holy shit.

Derrick says, "What’s he killing her or something?"

The three of us take a quick glance. Precious is on all-fours on the backseat. Her face pressed against the side window. Vito fucking her from behind. Pulling her hair. He’s pounding her like he’s holding a grudge.

Precious moans, "Oh shit, baby, that fucking hurts! Fuck yeah!"

Vito says, "You better believe it does!"

We turn away from the car and let Vito have his privacy. None of us wander too far from the car, in case we have to make a speedy getaway. We are in Camden, after all. People are murdered in Camden frequently. And four non-black kids from the suburbs cavorting with a hooker in a dark alley are prime candidates for some of that nasty murdering business. I do not want to be murdered. I don't want to die, not yet, not until after Batman comes out next summer, at the earliest.

Vito and Precious climb out of the car after ten minutes of hard screwing. Vito is grinning. Precious does not look well. She’s wobbly. Her makeup is smeared. Her eyes are damp and bloodshot. Her hair is a mess. Strangely, she doesn’t appear unhappy about what just took place. She’s showing a hint of a smile.

"That’s it," she says. "I’m done fucking. The Italian guy wore out my pussy and I need a rest."

Vito smiles proudly. "You hear that? I wore that pussy out."

Derrick says, "Shit, what about my turn?"

"You still need to learn a thing or two about how to fuck a girl," Precious says to Vito. "You may have a big dick, but ramming it in me like a fucking city worker trying to put a hole in the street ain’t proper form."

"Do you need a ride?" Vito asks Precious.

She applies a layer of blood red lipstick and says, "Nah, I’ll walk. You boys have a good night."

I wave and say, "You too, Precious."

A minute later, we’re back in the car, looking for an honest drug dealer. The drug dealers inhabit nearly every corner, so we can be choosey. We’re looking for a trustworthy rock-slinger. A decent businessman.

"Fuck!" Vito shouts. "That fucking slut took my wallet!"

Derrick says, "Shit! Mine, too!"

I don’t carry a wallet, but the three twenties I had in my pocket are gone.

"My wallet is safe," Manny says. "But I only have six dollars left. That’s not going to be enough to get us any coke."

Vito wipes sweat from his forehead, then says, "I can’t believe that hooker ripped us off."

"Really?" I ask. "You have trouble believing a hooker would steal our money, Vito? I find it quite believable."

"Shut up, Erv," Derrick says. "At least you got laid. I didn’t get any pussy, and now I don’t have no money, either."

"I didn’t do anything with her," I say. "I couldn’t."

Nearly a minute of silence passes before Manny smiles, looks at me, and says, "Maybe we should’ve gotten you a male prostitute, you limp-dicked faggot."

Vito and Derrick laugh, and quickly all three of my friends are laughing boisterously at my expense. I smile, take it like a man.

We drive home. We didn’t get the drugs we had planned on getting, but still, we’re laughing and having fun in the car. Manny suggests we go back to his place and play video games. We all agree that that’s a great idea. I want to play video games and forget that I’m growing up. I want to forget about hookers and drugs. I want to play Pitfall and Spy Hunter and pretend that I’m ten again. Recently, I've felt like I've been living someone else's life.

What happened to my life?

Where have I gone?

At 12

2008-04-30T01:47:00.000-07:00

1983

Todd is puffing on a bent cigarette and going on about Nicole, the sweet Jewish girl who has captured both of our hearts; well, I don’t think Todd has a heart, but she’s certainly captured his penis. I want to hold her hand and give her soft, sweet kisses. Todd wants to "pound that snatch." Nicole is my age, twelve years old, both of us heading into the seventh grade in the fall. Todd is a year older, set to begin eight grade. I’ll be joining Todd at the junior high school, so we’ll finally be going to the same school. It’ll be nice to walk the halls and eat lunch with him.

He looks much older than he really is, and could easily pass for seventeen. "It’s because I drink a lot of milk," Todd has said, explaining abnormal his size. "And they put all those hormones and chemicals in dairy nowadays. Steroids and shit. I’m telling you, man, milk makes your dick huge. Wanna see?" It’s a never-ending battle to keep Todd from showing me his dick. One false move, one slip of the tongue, one too-long pause, and he’ll have his penis waving in front of my face like a hot dog with a smiley face drawn on the tip. Sometimes I feel like Lucille Ball in "I Love Lucy," battling that conveyer belt loaded with chocolate. Except in this case it’s not chocolate, it’s nasty, uncircumcised penis. "If you’re not circumcised and you don’t shower a lot, you get this weird cheesy-type buildup down there. Wanna see?" Todd recently said, adding to my nightmare. "It
is so fucking gross, and it stinks. Here, Erv, look. Look! Sniff my cock, dude."

I’m alone with Todd on a hot summer afternoon, in the woods behind our apartment building, resting comfortable on a stained tan couch that someone dumped here a few weeks ago. It’s not a bad couch, all things considered. No tears, burns, or loose springs. Just the faint the smell of cat piss, which weakens with every rainstorm. The mildew smell grows stronger after the rain, but any scent is preferable to cat piss.

"Hey fellas!"

The voice is loud and squeaky, a boy who hasn’t yet hit puberty.

We turn our heads quickly and see Franklin standing behind the couch. He’s eight years old and more than a little retarded. The dried green/yellow boogers below his nose appear to be permanent, as I’ve never seen him without that congealed nastiness on his lip. He’s always smiling, always laughing, always stinking up the immediate area, like Charlie Brown’s putrid pal Pig Pen. Franklin lives with his grandmother. No one is quite sure what happened to his parents. I’m guessing he just wasn’t wanted. Franklin is eight years old and friendless. Kids run from him. I try not to be mean to him, but it’s hard. Todd treats him like garbage. It doesn’t help that Franklin often runs around with his pants down. Penis bouncing. Like right now.

"Look at my peepee," Franklin says, jumping up and down. His pecker is shockingly large and I immediately look away. "Floppity flop flop flap flip! Whoop!"

"Go away, Franklin," I say. "Pull up your pants and go home."

"My pants fall down." he says. "Ha ha! Hoopa doop! So can I play with you guys and your peepees?" I don’t think he understands what he’s saying.

Todd picks up a large, jagged rock and squeezes it beneath his fingers. His lip begins to twitch. A vein in his neck throbs. His face is washed in pink.

I’ve never seen such rage in him. Never seen such rage in anyone other than my brother, Dave. I’ve seen him go from happy to raging in an instant. Seen him grab a baseball bat and swing it at Ron’s head, clearly intending to kill his older brother. My stomach flames on. I nearly fall over from the sudden fiery cramps. I think Bad, this is bad.

"Todd, don’t," I say. "He’s just a kid."

Franklin grabs hold of his penis and waves it in Todd’s direction. In an instant, Todd isn’t Todd anymore. He’s a beast. Twitchy and sweaty. Seething. He cocks his arm back, as if about to fire a fastball into the catcher’s mitt. The catcher who isn’t there. He’s throwing for the kill.

Franklin giggles. Uses his free hand to juggle his tiny, hairless balls. Sticks out his tongue. Hops. Says, "Grandma says I shouldn’t mess with bigger boys. Ha! I can make mine bigger." He closes his eyes and intently fondles himself. I’ve never seen the boy so focused. Eyes closed, tongue between his teeth, grunting. Franklin now has an erection. My blood runs cold, as if I’ve just been thawed out.

Todd chucks the rock, and I know if it hits Franklin in the head it’s likely to kill him. I want to close my eyes, but it happens before I get the chance. The rock hits Franklin on the left shoulder, and he falls over backwards, landing on his bare ass. He jumps up almost instantly, already crying, his cheeks pink, wailing like a kicked dog. "Ahhhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Gaahhhhh!" he’s screaming. He runs away. Fast as he can. Falls over. Pulls up his pants. Runs again. Until he’s gone. His weeping echoes from the trees. It’s about the worst sound I’ve ever heard, like chalk on a blackboard if the piece of chalk had a voice box.

"Holy shit, Todd, you could have killed him." I’m stunned. Nearly speechless.

"Motherfucker!" Todd says. He’s still not himself. He takes a few deep breaths, wipes the sweat from his brow. His face returns to its normal color. He looks at me with eyes that say I can’t believe I just did that.

Todd’s abuse of Franklin has been steadily increasing for weeks. I fear for poor, demented Franklin’s life. The boy brings out the darkness in Todd. The bitter hatred. Todd’s brown eyes go black when he sees Franklin. And I’m not sure why. But it scares me.

"You’ve got to watch yourself around that kid," I say.

"I don’t know what came over me. That faggot just infuriates me."

"I just don’t want to see you get into trouble."

He shrugs, then flashes a boyish grin and says, "Don’t worry about it. What’s the worst thing I could do?" He lights a cigarette, then drops the match onto the couch and it falls between the cushions. "Oops," he says, grinning.

We both hop off the couch and watch as the cushions catch on fire. Within seconds, the entire couch is engulfed in flames. Black smoke fills the air, shadowing the orange flame beneath it. I start to cough and Todd tells me to cover my mouth. We run as fast as we can. Out of the woods. Away from the blaze.

Outside the woods, we stop to catch our breath. Todd looks up at me and says, "Holy shit! I can’t believe I did that!"

"You’re crazy," I say.

"I thought the couch was still damp from last week’s rain. I didn’t think it would go up like that. Fuck me."

We step back and watch as the major fire Todd started rages. A crowd gathers. People from the apartment building stand on their balconies and watch the blaze. Look out their windows. A few watch from the roof. It’s an event. By the time the fire trucks arrive, Todd and I are among a crowd of sixty people watching the black smoke fill the early evening sky.

A sweaty firefighter asks, "Anybody know what happened here?"

Todd shakes his head and says, "No, I didn’t see anything."

"Me neither," I say.

We watch as the firefighters work to put out the fire. At first, it looks like the fire is too big, too unwieldy. A real monster. An untamable beast. But the firemen soon take control. They’re good at their job. They extinguish the blaze before it reaches the apartment building.

Todd grabs my shirt and says, "Come on, Ervin. This is boring."

The powerful odor of burnt wood can probably be noticed for miles. My eyes are watering and burning. My throat is dry and itchy. The taste of burning on my tongue. I walk away, but keep my head turned back to the woods, watching the hard-working firemen finish the job.

I can’t believe Todd burned down the woods.

"You tell anyone and I’ll kill you," he says. "Don’t be a pussy."

"I won’t tell," I say. "I won’t be a pussy. It’s our secret."

He puts his arm over my shoulder and says, "That’s good, because I need a friend who can keep secrets, and who’s not a faggoty pussy."

"That’s me," I say.

"Erv, you wanna put light bulbs down our pants and ride up and down the elevators so everyone thinks we’ve got, like, huge boners?"

"Sure," I say.

Todd might be a dangerous perverted pyromaniac who wants me to look at his penis, but he’s also my best friend. I need him to hang out with me. I need him to be my friend. Because he’s the only one I have. He's the only kid who ever feels compelled to talk to me.

At 16, Part 3

2008-04-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

1988

Mom is panicked. William sits at the kitchen table, smirking as he reads a carefully folded letter. I’m dressed in my Pizza Tent clothes: brown polyester pants, sauce-stained white sneakers, brown and white shirt, mesh hat. A cockroach stares down from the ceiling, listening to our conversation, maybe hoping to learn about humans, maybe wondering why we hate his kind, maybe trying to find a way not to end up on the bottom of my shoe. I’m sitting at the table, scarfing down a bowl of Fruit Loops. I need to eat. Need my energy. A long night ahead of me. A night of scrubbing and socializing. An all-night cleaning session. Pizza Tent is dirty and needs to be sanitized. In so many ways.

"I can’t take this anymore," Mom says, waving her hands in the air. "Ervin, talk some sense into your brother."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, milk dripping from my chin.

"They’re going to arrest your little brother. I already have one son in jail, and now I’m gonna have two. Am I such a bad parent? I work hard. I work sixty hours a week. Isn’t that enough? What do I have to do?" She turns to my brother and says, "Is that what you want, William? To go to jail?"

"They can’t arrest me, Mom. I didn’t do anything wrong. All I did was write a letter to someone who’s in prison. People do it all the time." William is ten years old. My baby brother. Forever a child in my eyes. Since he’s been born, I’ve always felt like William was my responsibility. I’ve been his primary babysitter. The sibling always left in charge of his well-being. The one who looks out for him. William has one bad eye, because he refused to wear an eye-patch like he was supposed to, and serious anger issues. He’s a smart kid, though. Smarter than I’ll ever be. But not an ounce of common sense. Kid can tell you all you want to know about philosophy, but can’t make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He can quote Socrates, but can never seem to remember where he put his glasses.

Mom shouts, "You wrote a letter to Charles Manson! Charles Manson the killer! What, do you wanna join his satanic cult or something? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick, William?"

"Actually, Mom, I don’t think Manson killed anyone himself," I add. "He always had people do his dirty work for him, like, his disciples. Also, he co-wrote a Beach Boys song."

"Ervin, you’re not helping," Mom says.

William holds up his much-cherished letter and says, "I can’t believe he wrote me back. Isn’t that awesome?" William grins proudly. This is his greatest achievement: garnering a response from a famous boogeyman. William is a fan of serial killers. Mom, understandably, is not thrilled with William’s fascination.

I wonder aloud, "What did he write?"

William scans the letter. "He pretty much just told me to keep my head up and not let anyone ever get me down. Charles says I can do anything I put my mind to. He says to block out all the negativity. Charles is really big on positivity. Charles Manson believes in the power of positive thinking."

"That’s sort of lame," I say. "I thought he might ask you to sacrifice a virgin for him. Or kill all the members of The Beach Boys. Or, I don’t know, poison New Jersey’s water supply."

My mother sighs loudly. "You can’t just write letters to people like...like that without someone noticing," she says. "They’re going to put you on some kind of list, a watch list. Now the government knows who you are. That’s just great. They probably already have the house bugged. I wouldn’t be surprised if the police were listening right now."

"Ahh, shut up, Mom." William folds the letter neatly and places it back into his pocket, then storms off.

I finish my cereal and toss the bowl into the sink. The cockroach on the ceiling darts away, disappearing into a crack in the wall. Mom wipes away tears.

"Why do you have to work this time of night?"

I kiss her cheek and say, "The district manager is coming for an inspection on Monday, so Ben decided to get everyone together for an overnight cleaning session. It’s overtime pay. Time and a half. That means I’ll make, like, five dollars an hour. I can’t turn down that kind of money."

"Are you saving for college?" Mom asks.

"I’m not going to college." The words come out without any thought. I hadn’t even considered going to college. My grades are mediocre at best. I have no money to pay for college. All I really want to do is keep working at Pizza Tent while I try to get laid. I like to keep my goals reasonable.

"I don’t like you working all these weird hours. You’re still in high school. Don’t they have child labor laws anymore, or did they get rid of those?"

"Yes, Mother, I believe that laws exist to protect children in the workplace. You’re right about that. But you wrote that note saying I can work late, that I have your permission, remember? You gave my boss the authority to use and abuse me. Anyway, what else am I gonna do until school starts? Sit around here and kill cockroaches? It’s good for me. I like the people. They’re nice to me. They’re the only people in the world who think I’m awesome besides you."

She sighs and halfheartedly says, "Well, I still think they’re taking advantage of you. When I signed that letter, I didn’t think you’d be working all the time."

"Those people make me feel good about myself. They make me feel important. When school starts, I’ll cut back my hours. Promise."

Mom gives me a hug and says, "It’s good to know that you’re a hard worker. Your father couldn’t hold a job to save his life." It’s not easy for my mother to show affection, so I appreciate the gesture. Mom is pleased to know that I am not my father’s son. I am nothing like that person. He who often took cars apart and then forgot how to reassemble them. My father, as far as a I can tell, was one shiftless son of a bitch. No, I’m not that man’s son at all. I don’t even know that man. I am my mother’s son.

Mom has struggled all her life. She grew up feeling unwanted by her mother. After my grandmother remarried (a man she met at a bar, while always dragging my mother along when Mom was surely too young to be at such a place) and started a new family, Mom became an outsider. My Grandma Shirley had five boys with her new husband. As the only reminder of a bad first marriage, Mom didn’t stand a chance. So she found a man to marry and moved out at fifteen. She felt like she had no choice. I suspect that my mother was abused, but if she was, she’ll never admit it. The only beatings she’ll acknowledge ever took place were the ones given by the nuns at her Catholic School. A ruler across the knuckles. A smiling nun. Bloody hands. No wonder my mother quit school and ran off with Big Ron. What went on at home, before she moved out at fifteen, Mom will never speak of. I do know that Mom was not the recipient of even a hint of affection as a child. Beatings at school. Ignored (or maybe abused) at home. Mom had to grow up fast. She wanted out, and she got out. Pregnant and married by the age of sixteen.

One of my mother’s better qualities is her general agreeableness. Ask her to sign something, and she almost always complies. Mom is not a stern taskmaster. Mom is a pushover. She’s only punished me once in my life—when the police brought me home late one weekend night, after I’d snuck out with my best friend Todd to play video games at the local convenience store. I try not to think about Todd, my former best friend and perverted creep. What he did still makes me shudder.

Soon after saying goodbye to Mom, I’m on my knees in the back of Pizza Tent, scraping the floor with a large metal spatula. Must clean out the cracks. The bits of meat and cheese stuck between the maroon tiles. Left by some pimply-faced member of the previous era. The 70's version of me. This place may have never had a thorough cleaning. Until tonight. And I’m just the man for the job. Cleaning clears my head. Relaxes me. The repetition of movement. Jerk of the arm. Twist of the wrist. The mind on automatic pilot.

I look up and see Manny flirting with Kiley. Sexy Kiley with her Pat Benatar haircut and her tight red assistant manager sweater that wraps around her large chest. Manny is my age. Sixteen. Soon to be seventeen. Kiley graduated high school back when it was still cool to wear a KISS T-shirt to school. She has at least fifteen years on Manny. I know they’ve been messing around. Kiley has left a few nasty hickeys on Manny’s neck. Not sure if they’ve slept together yet. Probably. He just smiles when I ask for confirmation. Pizza Tent certainly has its share of women in their thirties looking to initiate high school boys into the wonderful world of sex.

Cliff is behind me, Walkman on full blast, singing along with Stevie Wonder. He’s cleaning the oven. Parts of the oven. Belts and grates and wall panels and oddly shaped pieces of steel. All three compartments of the sink are filled with sections of the oven, which must be scrubbed cleaned and then reassembled. It’s a puzzle I could never solve. But Cliff’s got the mind for it. He’s a sharp kid. A drug dealer and amateur stand-up comedian. Tonight, he brought an eightball of coke into the building. He showed it to me when he arrived. Sold it to Ben. Cliff is the only black person in the building tonight. Manny is El Salvadorian, although he and Cliff share the same light shade of brown skin. The rest of us are Caucasian. Various shades of white. From paste to pink. Cliff will probably be the only person who stays completely sober tonight. Regarding cocaine, he once said to me: "I don’t mess with that shit. I just sling it. But I ain’t no corner boy. I don’t stand around Camden waiting for the clients to come to me. I make connections. Deliver in person. I don’t need no corner when I got a whole building full of pizza-sellin’ motherfuckers buying the product. But I never sample the goods. I leave it to you crazy white folks to do the do. I’m just a businessman. Most I do is blow a joint here and there. Get my smoke on. Hard stuff ain’t for this nigga. My mom didn’t raise no fool. But, please, feel free to do all the drugs you want. I need some new sneakers and a fat gold rope. Snort your fucking asses off. Make daddy rich."

I’m about to get back to scrubbing when Diana suddenly appears in front of me. I’m on all-fours, filthy spatula in hand. She’s staring down, hands on hips, smirking. Her scent like onions dipped in lemonade. Diana is Ben’s age, late-twenties, I’d guess. I think they were high school sweethearts. She’s strikingly thin. Dark hair. Loud and rude. Pretty in a hardened sort of way. She can either be sweet or vindictive, depending on how recently she’s gotten high. She’s the type most people would call a bitch, but I kind of like her. Diana makes me laugh, and I like the way her long nails feel on my skin when she scratches my back.

"Well, since you’re down there, Erv," she says, grinning and posing above me, arms at her side. I look down at her feet. She’s wearing little white sneakers with fluffy pink laces.

"What? I don’t..." I then notice that my face is extremely close to her special lady place. Or "cunt," as Diana likes to call it. My position is quite compromising. If Diana had a whip in her hand, I’d look like her slave, her Boy Toy.

"Come on, gimme a couple of quick licks. I won’t tell Ben. Heh."

"Give what a few...oh, right." My face burns with embarrassment. I’m sure my skin is beyond pink. Probably purple. Like a drunk-on-blood tick. She loves to make me uncomfortable. Loves to make everyone uncomfortable.

"Drop the spatula and come with me, kid," Diana commands. "Me and Ben have a special treat for you. A little bit of motivation. Something to keep you going through the night and make you feel like a stud. Some fuel."

"What is it?" I ask, at my naive best.

She takes my hand and pulls me up. "You’ll see. Don’t be so impatient. Well, it is a bit of motivation, but nothing we learn in the Pizza Tent Manager Training Program. Sometimes Ben and me like to come up with our ways of getting our employees to work hard."

Diana leads me by hand to the front of the store. I allow her to do as she pleases with me. I make no objections. We pass by Tricia, who’s in the dining room with a few other waitresses, refilling the salt and pepper shakers which have just been thoroughly cleaned. Tricia stares at me with her large brown eyes and silently mouths Don’t do it, but I’m not sure what she means. Diana glances at Tricia and mutters "Stupid cow" just loud enough for me to hear. "You know that Tricia wants to fuck Ben, right?" she says, not really asking a questing. Just putting it out there. Saying her peace. "She wants to fuck and Ben is just stupid enough to do it if he’s drunk enough. Well, if I ever find out he put his dick in that, I’ll chop it off. You didn’t fuck her that night at the party, did you?"

"No way," I say. Not for a lack of trying.

"Good. She’s nasty. I know she’s your friend and all, but come on. Look at her, then look at me. I’m way hotter. Don’t you think?"

All I manage to say is, "Umm."

"I’ll bet her cunt smells like Thursday’s leftovers."

Actually, I think, more like a sweet combination of perspiration and citrus. Not at all unpleasant.

Diana pulls me into the men’s room and the first thing I see is Ben, grinning stupidly my way. He puts his arm over my shoulder and says, "Welcome, Erv. Tonight is your lucky night." Diana locks the bathroom door. The three of us cram into the small stall. Not easy considering that Ben is a giant. Six-five, almost three hundred pounds. A mostly-hairless bigfoot. And there, on the toilet seat , are three thick, glistening lines of cocaine. Cut neatly and ready to be snorted. Diana’s eyes widen. She licks her lips. Ben smacks my back. Hurts me just a little. Ben bends down, sticks one end of a rolled dollar bill in his nose, and snorts, inhaling quickly, as if it were a competition. While Ben’s nose is over the toilet, Diana leans in and whispers in my ear: "I love coke. It makes me so horny. Makes me wanna fuck. You’ll see. After you snort, you’re gonna be hard as a rock." As soon as Ben comes up for air, Diana is down, finger pressing one nostril closed, inhaling. The sound like paper tearing. She gets it all. Every last minuscule bit. Licks the toilet seat. Wipes her nose. Smiles. I’m next and I do not hesitate. I do not resist. I do not tell them that I can’t. I make no mention of my drug-addled, jailbird older brother. I fail to cite even one of the million reasons why I should not be snorting this line of cocaine. It seems like too much effort. Just easier to snort. To make the boss happy. Inhale. Do it. Be a man. Just do it. And I do. Diana rubs my back as I take the rolled dollar bill between my fingers. As I insert one end into my right nostril. As I breathe in. As the white line disappears. As the thousands of tiny granules disburse. Make their way up through the tightly-rolled dollar and into my system. The drug trickles down the back of my throat. The line is gone. It’s in me. It’s too late. There’s no going back. I’ve done the deed. It tastes like powered metal. I shudder.

Diana running her long fingernails down my back, whispering words of encouragement. Ben saying, "Why don’t you just fuck him already?" Diana jokingly squeezing my ass. Ben laughing. Ben saying, "How about it, Erv? Wanna make a nice sandwich out of my wife?" Ben losing his smile. Saying, "That’s my wife you’re talking about, asshole. I’ll kick your faggot face in!" Ben and Diana laughing. Ben adding, "Okay, fine, I forgive you. But I get to fuck her in the ass. It’s tighter there. You get the front, Erv. She’s so stretched out she probably won’t even feel your little pecker." Diana smacking Ben upside the head. Saying, "Why do you always have to be such an asshole? He’s just a kid, and I’m not a fucking whore." Ben shrugging. Adding, "Fine, Erv can have the asshole. My mistake." Diana trying not to smile. Diana smiling.

I can’t laugh. I’m too overwhelmed. The euphoria hits me immediately. The buzz. The high. Skin burning. Brain buzzing. Heart pounding. I think Oh yeah, this is nice. My heart has never pounded this hard before. It’s like a motor. A buzz saw. Ben and Diana are so proud. Like doting parents. I’ve done them proud. The only sound I’m aware of is the beating of my heart. The thump thump thump. I feel strange. Out of body. Distanced from myself. Like I’m on the other side of the room looking at myself and not recognizing who I see.

"All right," Ben says, pushing me out of the stall, "now get back to work. I expect you to work your ass off tonight. Don’t let me down, kid."

"I won’t."

Diana winks, "Bye, Erv. See ya soon. I need to be alone for a minute with my husband."

"Oh, yeah," he says with glee, like the Prom King about to get lucky with his Prom Queen. "You know what that means."

Ben opens the bathroom door. Throws me out. I smack hard into the wall as the bathroom door closes and locks.

I would be ashamed of myself if I didn’t feel quite so fabulous. The high of cocaine is like hitting the game-winning home run in the bottom of the ninth, but without actually having to hit a home run. Like saving a baby from a burning a building without having to get burned. I’m calm yet panicked. I’m happy yet disgusted with myself. Heart pounding faster. Mild chest pains. Never do this again. Need more. Dear God please don’t let me have a heart attack. I’ll never do it again if I live. I won’t do it hardly ever. Maybe just once in awhile. I untuck my shirt to cover my erection. My brain is producing images and sounds and thoughts at such a rapid pace that none of it is making sense. It’s all blurring together.

Tricia won’t even look at me as I pass her by. She knows. Tricia used to respect me. Cliff comes up behind me and lays an arm over my shoulders. He says, "Wow, I’m surprised you did it, Erv. I thought you were different. I really thought you was gonna turn ‘em down. Aw, well. If you ever need some coke, let your good buddy Cliff know and I’ll hook you up good." I nod and keep walking. I sidle up next to Manny. He looks at me and laughs. "You got some white stuff under your nose." I frantically wipe my face and then say, "Is it gone?" He replies, "It wasn’t there in the first place, fool. I was just seeing if you’d done it. You’re a bad boy, Erv. Congratulations. You’re one of us now."

I clean everything. The floor, the walls, the windows, the shelves, the ceiling. The only time I’m not cleaning is during my ten-minute break, which I spend in the men’s room. So I can masturbate. The erection keeps getting in the way, so I have to take care of it. I masturbate on my knees, over the toilet. My fantasy is this: I’m on my back. Tricia sits on my face. Diana sits on my cock. They hate each other but are united in their love of me. They take turns fucking me. Switch places. It’s nice that they can put their differences aside long enough to give me their sweet, sweet love. Then they team-up on a blow job. The best imaginary threesome I’ve ever had. Better than my legendary Molly Ringwald/Pam Grier wet dream team-up from 1986. I shoot directly into the toilet, flush, clean myself up, then return to work. Still feeling good. Still electric. But now talking to myself. Talking to anyone. Nonstop talking. I talk until I come down. Talk until the drugs wear off. We finish cleaning when the sun comes up. My heart has finally stopped racing. I come down hard. Go from frantic to comatose. Struggling to keep my eyes open.

I’m soon in Tricia’s car, parked in front of my house. She was kind of enough to give me a ride. I know I look and smell awful. All I can think about is that next line. When and where I’m going to get it.

She runs her fingers lightly over my face. "Erv, don’t lose yourself in the drugs. I’ve done my share. I’m no angel. But I know when enough’s enough. If it’s just a casual kind of weekend thing, that’s fine, but you’ve got be very careful. These things can get out of control fast."

I smile. "I’ll be fine. I just wanted to try it one time. I’m not the kind of person who gets addicted to drugs. I’m smarter than that. I’m not like my brother."

"I hope so."

So do I.

At 16, Part 2

2008-04-07T23:04:00.000-07:00

1988

I’m so drunk that I’ll probably wet my bed (small price to pay for all the fun I’m having). So drunk I know I’m going to vomit at least once tonight. Never been this drunk. Drunk enough to be holding Tricia’s hand and not be the least bit nervous. She’s been all over me since I arrived at the party a few hours ago. Hugging me, kissing me, squeezing my ass. Flirting. Touching. Rubbing. Tricia is thirty-five years old. I’m sixteen. Ten minutes ago, she nibbled on my ear and whispered, "Tonight might be your lucky night." I have a feeling that this woman wants to deflower me. She asked me if I was a virgin because I was saving myself for someone special. I said, "Yeah, that special woman who’ll actually let me put my penis in her vagina." Tricia found my words hysterical, laughing as she kissed my cheek and told me I was adorable. If not for the booze and pot, I wouldn’t be half as hysterical as I apparently am. Turns out, the combination of three wine coolers, four Coronas, two rum and cokes, and a few hits off a big fat spliff turn a regular guy like myself into the next Lenny Bruce. I’m making everyone laugh. Maybe it’s because I keep falling over. Nah. I’m sure it’s because I’m just really, really funny. It’s my quick wit I think, as I stumble forward. Tricia, holding me tight, keeps me from landing face-first on the carpet. Then I think No, it’s definitely my lack of balance.

It’s my first Pizza Tent party. Not sponsored by Pizza Tent, of course. They didn’t sponsor my loss of innocence. Didn’t condone my drinking. The corruption of my soul and my eventual de-virginization was not brought up in any official capacity at our most recent employee meeting. It just so happens that almost everyone at the party works for Pizza Tent. Vito’s here, and he doesn’t work for Pizza Tent, and a few girls are scattered about that I don’t recognize, but mostly it’s just us pizza slingers. Just a friendly gathering of Pizza Tent workers at Ben’s apartment. Ben is my boss, but he has a surprising lack of maturity. His small apartment is packed with a nice mix of underage high school students (the part-timers) and older Pizza Tent lifers (the full-timers). None of the adults seem overly concerned about the large quantity of alcohol I’ve consumed. Or that plump, aromatic joint I puffed. No one seems to care that a woman twice my age wants to fuck me silly. Ben seems to think it’s about time that someone made a man out of me. I know this because he just whispered in my ear: "Erv, it’s about time you got that little willy of yours wet. Try not to blow your load before you get it all the way in." I tell him that I’ll do my best.

Vito is playing quarters with a balding forty-five-year-old assistant manager named Eric, a Spanish-speaking, always-smiling dishwasher named Juan, a part-time cook and full-time drug dealer named Cliff, and a pretty fifteen-year-old black girl from Camden named Sharla. Ben and his wife, Diana, stand together by the front door, screaming and poking a finger in each other’s face. I hear Diana say, "Then why don’t you just fuck her already?" Ben, exasperated, throws his hands in the air and says, "Because Erv’s going to fuck her." N.W.A’s "Straight Outta Compton" blasts from the stereo. Pretty girls dance and sweat. Drooling boys watch. Vito sings along to N.W.A, shouting, "Crazy mutha fucka named Ice Cube, from a band called Niggas Wit’ Attitude!" He looks at me and winks. Not knowing the proper response, I smile at my best friend and give the thumbs up. He’s the only person here who knows the real me. The rest of these people are, for the most part, strangers. They don’t know me as that shy kid walking the halls in high school. They don’t see me as Vito’s sidekick. I’m new to them. With these people, in this environment, I am suddenly, shockingly cool. I’m one of them. I’m accepted. I’m a drunk kid at a party having a good time. Getting a back rub from a sexy older woman who might take my virginity tonight.

"You know I’m engaged, right?" Tricia says, as her fingers squeeze my shoulders. "You know I have a fiancé, right?"

"No. Didn’t know that," I say.

"We’ve been engaged so long it’s kind of a joke at this point."

"Ha," I say. I was about to laugh, but then I forgot how. Because I’m drunk and my brain is hiding things from me.

Tricia’s revelation causes me to lose half of my erection, the other, more optimistic half of my boner sticks around to see where all of this is going. I’m sitting between her legs on the small, stained couch. The party rages around us. Ben walks by and winks at me. Why are all the men at this party winking at me? Diana follows closely behind Ben and smacks the back of his head whenever he stares too long at one of the many young, half-naked girls roaming merrily about his apartment. It’s hot inside the apartment, and the girls are losing their clothes as the night rolls on; at least one girl has lost her shirt entirely and is proudly showing off her pink bra.

Tricia gently kisses the back of my neck and says, "Well, we’re engaged but it’s a very tumultuous relationship. We’re on and off. Right now, we’re off, but we’ll make up eventually. I wanna have fun before the wedding, though. It’s his own fault. If he would just marry me already, I would stop having sex with other men. You know what I mean? Am I wrong?" She bites my ear and giggles. "Why am I asking you? You’ll say anything to get in my pants."

I turn and face her, ask, "If your fiancé walked in right now and saw your hands all over me, would he kick my ass?"

"Oh, yes, totally." She laughs. "But he’s out of town. Actually, he’d probably just be glad I’m not trying to jump Ben’s bones. I’ve been after Ben for years. That’s why Diana hates me so much. Too bad I’m twice her size. She should stop doing all that coke and gain some weight. I’d break her like a twig."

Tricia is a large girl, but she has a lovely face. A simple, pretty smile. And my fucking God does she smell nice. Not a perfume-soaked kind of nice. A natural kind of nice. The kind of pure freshness that makes a guy want to tear off a girl’s panties and bury his face between her legs because he knows only flowery sweetness exists down there. Vito told me that a girl who wears copious amounts of perfume is usually hiding something funky. In her underpants. She’s covering up a deep, dark stink. That’s what Vito says, anyway. Not that I would know. I can only guess. And fantasize. Imagine the many wonders that await beneath Tricia’s big pink panties. I know that they’re pink because she’s already shown them to me twice, once in a hall closet and once on the couch. ("Wanna see my panties, Erv? Here, I’ll give you a glimpse. Another glimpse. Heh.") Tricia smells like peaches and flowers on the outside. I want to know if she smells the same on the inside.

I excuse myself and walk to the bathroom. Stumble to the bathroom. I’m starting to feel bad. The things I’m doing. The substances. The beverages. I’ve always been the Good Son. The Innocent One. But here I am, drunk and stoned. Just like I remember Dave always being. In this state. Not himself. I do not want to become my brother. I do not want to be a junkie. An alcoholic. A stoner. An asshole. But I won’t. It’s just one party. One night of debauchery. Tomorrow, I will be good again. Tomorrow.

Vito joins me in the bathroom. I pee first because I always pee first. My bladder must be the size of an actual pea. I can’t go half an hour without taking a piss. I zip up and sit on the side of the bathtub as Vito relieves himself.

"I don’t want to become my brother," I say. "I want to be good."

"Dude, you’re one of the best people I know." His stream weakens, ceases. He shakes, zips. Turns to me. "It’s not the booze and the drugs that made Dave bad. It’s who he is on the inside. The drugs just brought out the nastiness in him. You’re drunk, right? Stoned? But look at you. You’re just happy-go-lucky. That’s you. There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make you a bad person. Maybe you’re not perfect, but compared to most people, you’re doing okay, dude. You’re a fucking saint compared to me. Just fucking relax and have fun, Erv. You’re a good dude. You’re my best friend. And if you ever start acting like your brother, I’ll set you straight real quick."

"Thanks," I say. It’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. But I know it’s not true. I’m just as capable of being awful as anyone. I’m not nearly as nice a person as everyone thinks I am. I strive to be the person my mother, my family, and my friends think I am. But there are urges. I sometimes am called to the Dark Side by soft-spoken voices in my head. I’ve been able to resist. Tonight, I’ve let myself go. I’m drunk and high. Fucking wasted. Doesn’t make me bad. No, not yet. But there’s potential. I’ve always prided myself in being different from the rest of my family. From defying history, heredity. No one in my family has ever achieved greatness. Almost every marriage has failed. More members of my family than I can count have been to prison. Wife-beating. Stealing. Drugs. Incest. Rape. Breaking and Entering. Car-jacking. We’re not exactly a family of Harvard graduates. Hell, we’re not even a family of high school graduates. I’ve always told myself that I will rise above the sordid white trash history of my clan. I’m beginning to doubt myself. It feels good to drink. To smoke pot. The body likes it. Euphoria. I drunk and high and I can’t wipe this smile off my face. I’m drunk and high, and I’ve never had as much fun as this. Coincidence?

Vito affectionately punches my shoulder and flashes a smile as he exits the bathroom. He’s a good friend. I close my eyes and bury my head in my hands as I hear the door click shut. I sigh. Someone else sighs. I hear heavy breathing. I’m almost afraid to open my eyes and see who’s sharing the bathroom with me.

"Are you okay, honey?" Tricia asks.

I look up and smile, say, "I’m good."

She pounces. She climbs atop me and jams her tongue deep down into my throat. Just as I’m about to pull away and gasp for air, she pulls away and licks her lips. Tricia stares into my eyes as she grinds on me. Feels my erection quickly take solid shape.

"Are you really a virgin?"

"Swear to God," I say.

"I wanna fuck you so badly right now. Would you wanna fuck me, Ervin? Do you like me? I know I’m not the prettiest girl here. I’m not young and thin and beautiful. I just want you to like me."

"I do like you."

"Enough to wanna be with me that way?"

"More than enough."

"And you don’t care that I’m so old?" she asks, her face nervously scrunched.

"Not if you don’t care than I’m so young."

"Care? Are you kidding? You being sixteen is a huge turn on. I guess that makes me a dirty old woman. I don’t care. It’s hot."

She bites her lip. Grabs my hand forces it between her legs. Even through the thick material of her jeans I feel the heat. The wetness. I squeeze. She moans. My other hand travels underneath her T-shirt and up her stomach. I feel breasts. Over the bra. Tricia pulls away and stands up. Looks down at my crotch. Sees the outline of my erection through my jeans. She drops to her knees in front of me. Runs her fingers lightly over my jeans. Over my erection. Over my eager cock. It’s begging to be released from its prison. Tricia lowers her head and places her lips atop my jeans. Her saliva slowly seeps through. I think This is it...she’s going to put it in her mouth.

She doesn’t. Tricia smiles and rises. A large lip-shaped circle of wetness spots my jeans. She winks and says, "Let’s get out of here. Let’s just drive somewhere. We need some privacy. We can’t do it here. Too many people."

We end up in front of my house, making out in Tricia’s tiny car. We’re messy and aggressive. My hands are all over her large tits, her pillowy ass. She sucks hard on my neck and I’m almost certain that this girl is a vampire; I know she’s leaving marks. Tricia’s car leaves us little room to maneuver (but since my car is not a car at all but a bicycle, her car is the only option we have). Still, I’m not deterred. I unbutton her tight jeans. They’re so tight I’m not sure how she got into them in the first place. I slide them down to her ankles. Her panties fall next. All her defenses gone. My right hand goes in for the kill. Two fingers ease inside. She’s dripping wet and my hand almost feels like it’s being sucked inside her. The inner Tricia is warm, hot, sticky. I’ve never done this before. Never had my fingers inside a girl’s sex. I’m too eager, too rough, too inexperienced. Tricia tells me to slow down. Take it easy. Work those fingers with precision not violence. My fingernails are jagged because I bite them, and I’m sure I’m making her bleed a little. I’m busy fingering her and hardly notice that she has unbuttoned my jeans and slid them down. She lowers my underwear. Finally, my erection has room to breathe. Not for long. Soon, it’s smothered by her hot mouth. Enveloped.

I look down and watch her head bob up and down. I think A girl is blowing me at this very minute. I’m getting blown. Hmm. Nice.

"Let’s go inside," she says, panting, finally coming up for air. Her forehead is beaded with sweat. "Let’s go to your room. Let’s do it on your bed." Saliva drips off of her chin. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Oh, we can’t," I say. "My mom’s home and my little brother shares a bed with me and he’s home right now too, so that’s not really an option. Can’t we stay in the car and do it? Or go back to your place?"

"I’m so stupid," she says, pulling a pubic hair from her teeth. "This is wrong." She sighs loudly, pulls up her pants.

"Wait, no!" I say, watching as my lonely penis shrinks. "Please!"

"We can’t do this for, like, so many reasons. We work together, for one. You’re a minor, for another. And what if Ben finds out?"

"What would Ben care?" I shout. My shiny penis is now hopelessly limp.

"Look, I can’t explain it, but Ben and me have a...thing. I don’t want him to think I don’t like him anymore."

"Fuck Ben," I say. "He’s fucking married!"

She shakes her head. "I have a complicated relationship with Ben. I love him."

"You can still love him while we’re having sex. I don’t mind."

She smiles. Kisses my mouth softly. "You’re cute, Erv. You really are. Maybe some other time. When you mentioned that your mom was home, it just reminded me how young you really are. I started to think, ‘Tricia, what the hell are you doing?’ I’m more than twice your age. You’re sixteen. I would be corrupting a minor."

I release a frustrated grunt. Pull my messy hair with both hands until the pain distracts me from my sexual frustration. My shell-shocked libido. My near-sex. "I’ll be seventeen soon. Come on, just let me put it inside you for a minute. I just want to know what sex feels like. We don’t have to finish. I’ll put it in and take it right out, I swear."

Tricia shakes her head. Smiles. Says, "Sorry. Can’t do it. You’re drunk. I’m a little tipsy, too. If we ever have sex, I want us to both be sober and somewhat conscious of what we’re doing. No sex for you tonight."

"How many chances are you going to get to have sex with a virgin? I’m pure and untainted. Disease free. I need to be tainted! Give me some taint!" I realize even as I’m speaking the words just how utterly pathetic I truly am. Still, Vito says that begging works at least one out of every five times.

"Goodbye, Ervin."

"You’ve already had it in your mouth. Can’t you just put it back in and finish the job. A blow job isn’t real sex."

"Look, I would have sex with you if I felt it was right. I just don’t feel like it’s right tonight. Please, just go home."

I pull myself together, give Tricia a hug and a kiss goodbye, climb out of the car, and walk slowly up the gravel path to my front door. She honks, then drives away. I sit on my front step and stare up at the full moon. I know I’ll have the chance to be with her again. I can taste the bitterness of missed opportunity on my lips. Smell the sweetness of sex on two of my fingers. I smile. I know it’s coming. Someday, somehow, somewhere. Not with Tricia, more than likely. But there’s a girl out there who is going to let me in, and soon. I know this. It’s coming. I’m nearly a man. So close. It’s frustrating to go home smelling like sex without actually having had sex. Wet and sticky. Going home. A woman’s scent on my fingers. No sex. Damn.

At 16

2008-03-25T23:09:00.000-07:00

1987

I’ve never had a real job before, but I’m sixteen years old now and I think it’s time I earned some cash. Time that I was able to afford school clothes and not rely on hand-me-downs and whatever’s on sale at K-Mart. I’m getting a little too old for Garanimals. It’s time I tossed my green pants with the stitched-on frog. My brown pants with the bear. Adults don’t usually have cutesy animals on their clothing. I was a paperboy for years, and I spent a few summers working for the Summer Youth Program, but now I’m ready for the next step. The type of job that makes me feel like a grown-up. A job where adults work side-by-side with pimply-faced teens. Where girls wear tight pants and suggestively unbuttoned tops. Fast food. Pizza Tent, to be exact. A friend of mine said I should come by and fill out an application. He told me they’ll hire anybody, and I could be that anybody. I’m ready for responsibility. I’m ready for a real job. Ready for anything.

I’m at the local Pizza Tent in South Jersey, sitting in a booth across from Vito, my best friend, slowly filling out my first job application. I’ve never done this before, so I’m not sure what I’m supposed to write. References, experience, education. It’s only fucking pizza. Vito tells me to write down his father’s name as a reference. He’s stuffing garlic bread into his mouth and staring at our waitress’ shapely ass.

"You should fill one of these out too, Vito," I say. "Wouldn’t it be cool for us to work together?"

"Nah, I don’t work. Working would just take away from all the fun I plan on having until I graduate from high school. I’ll work when I’m, like, twenty-five or something. But not until I’ve had my fun."

"Well, I need some money, so’s I gotta work."

"Money’s overrated," he says, as our pleasantly plump, thirty-something waitress comes by and drops off a large pepperoni pizza. Her shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show off the beginnings of her ample cleavage. Her breasts are large and unable to stay still. Her boobs are all over the place. Vito looks pleased.

"Anything else I can get you guys?" she says sweetly. Her name-tag say "Tricia" and she’s more than twice my age. She has short dark hair (cut in the slightly out of fashion Dorothy Hamill bob), peppered with a few strands of gray, a gorgeous, dimpled smile, her scent like a drop of honey on the tip of my nose. She’s a big girl, but not big enough to deter any reasonable teenager from wanting to have sex with her. I’m charmed by the way she smiles at me, the way she looks into my eyes.

"I’ll take your phone number," Vito says, with a slickness I could never muster. Vito is a smooth operator. An Italian stud of the first order. Girls like him. We’ve been best friends for three years now, and I’ve assumed the role of Sidekick. In any friendship, the guy who’s getting the least pussy automatically becomes the sidekick. I don’t mind. It’s a learning experience. Vito is teaching me all he knows about woman. Sometimes, he lets me sit in the front seat of his Trans Am while he has sex in the back with whatever girl he happens to be bludgeoning with his massive tool that week. I have to admit, though, it’s mostly just depressing to be that guy in the front seat listening to his best friend make some random girl, laugh, moan, scream, beg, and cry, in that order. Vito gets laid constantly. I get laid never. But he’s very encouraging. Vito is convinced that I’ll get laid before I turn seventeen. I’m not so sure. He recently said, "Erv, even retards get laid. So I’m sure you can, too." I’m sure he meant it in a positive way, but it just made me feel sad. Like a real loser.

Tricia laughs, blushes mildly. "My phone number? How old are you guys?"

Simultaneously, I say "Sixteen" and Vito says "Twenty-one."

She shakes her head, smiling her big pretty smile, and says, "Nice try." Tricia turns to me and says, "Give me a call when you’re eighteen."

"I may be young, but I’m all man, baby," Vito says.

"I’m old enough to be your very young mother."

"I’ve had sex with people’s mothers before," Vito says proudly. "I can barely fight the moms off of me."

She turns to me and rolls her eyes, as if we’re in on a joke together, and I shrug. Without words, she says What’s up with your friend? and I say Damned if I know. She then notices that I’m filling out an application. Tricia says, "I wouldn’t worry too much about that application. It’s a sure thing. Consider yourself hired. We’ve got a major cook shortage, and unless you’re completely stupid, I guarantee you that Ben will hire you. Are you stupid...um, what’s your name?"

"Ervin. My name’s Ervin, and I’m not stupid. Not that I know of, anyway. I’m, you know, just...average. Not too smart, not too dumb, I guess." I’ve always seen myself as a normal kid. Decent-looking but not gorgeous. Smart but far from a genius. Funny but not humorous enough to take my act on the road. Caring but a little selfish. I am Every Kid. Mostly shy, mostly nice, mostly cute.

Tricia runs her fingers through my spiky blond hair, flattening a few of my well-sprayed spikes, and I blush. She says, "I can’t wait to work with you. You’re a cutie pie. Your blue eyes are beautiful. And those dimples. Yum. If you were eighteen, I would so make you my new boyfriend." She winks at me and walks away.

"Wow, she so wants you, dude," Vito says, clearly shocked, as he shoves a gooey slice into his mouth. I can tell by the slight hint of bitterness in his voice that he’s jealous. This is the first time a girl has shown more interest in me than him. This never happens. Vito is always the good-looking one. Tanned and muscled. Maybe my time is coming. He adds, "She’s not my type anyway. I like ‘em skinny, but with big, giant tits. She’s good for you, though. I mean, you need to get laid, and maybe it’d be best to start with a big girl. I hear big girls are freaks. And who are you to be picky, right?"

"Right. Who am I?"

I have little experience with women, so I tend to believe everything Vito tells me. But deep inside I feel a spark. A bit of pride. A feeling that maybe I am someone special. Someone a girl would like. Maybe even love. I know my awkward early teenage years are ending and I’m growing into my looks. My body is finally big enough to match my super large head, which has always been super large, even when I was young and small. I’m sixteen, and all of my pieces are finally starting to fit together properly.

We’re halfway through our pizza when a tall, big, smiling Pizza Tent assistant manager walks over to our table. His name is Ben, and he looks like he should be playing linebacker in the NFL. Ben has sandy blond hair and a matching retro 70's porn star mustache. He picks up my application and takes a quick glance, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket.

"You’re hired, kid."

"Wow, I am?"

"Yeah, that’s what I just said. I thought Tricia said you weren’t a dumb-ass."

"I’m not. I’m just surprised is all. I thought it would be harder to get a job. This is the first time I’ve even tried."

"Yeah, some places it’s hard. Not here." He shakes his head. "These idiots hired me, so how hard could it be? Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a complete fuck-up."

Ben smacks the back of the my head and laughs robustly. "Anyway, come on back and we’ll get you started."

"You mean, like, right now?" I ask.

"What the fuck? Yeah right now, you big dummy." Ben looks at Vito as if Vito’s my father and I’ve just tried to shove a breadstick up my nose. "What’s with this guy?" he says to Vito.

Vito says, "He’s fallen on his head a few times."

I wave goodbye to Vito and follow Ben into the back of the store.

Tricia walks past us and smiles sweetly.

"That girl is madly in love with me. She’s always trying to get in my polyesters. Too bad my wife works here, too. If you work hard, I’ll let you have some of my leftovers. How would you like that?"

"Um, that would be fine."

"You like girls, right?"

I nod.

"It’s okay if you like boys, just don’t be looking at my crotch. I don’t play that. All right, you can look, but don’t make it obvious." He laughs, smacks me again.

He leads me into the dishroom, and I see what looks like a small disaster area. Pots, pans, cups, plates and silverware are piled high. The wet floor is covered with bits of old food. The trash is overflowing. The ceiling is stained yellow. Ben smacks my back hard enough for it to sting, and says, "Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!"

"Is there a uniform I need to wear or something?"

"God dammit, kid! I’ll get you a uniform later. Just fucking get working, all right? These dishes aren’t going to do themselves."

"Sure. Um, one other thing. What’s my starting pay?"

"It’s all about money with you kids. Minimum wage. $3.35 an hour. Be happy you’re getting that. But there are perks. Lots of hot girls around all the time, wearing their tight, shit-brown polyester pants, and all the leftover pizza you can eat."

"Sounds good to me."

He smiles deviously. That seems to be his only way of smiling. "I’ll see if I can get one of the girls to blow you after your shift. All the new cooks get blow jobs. Do you want one of the younger girls, or one of the older ones. Fat or skinny? Let me guess. You like Tricia, right? Girl with a little meat on her bones. Then it’s settled. I’ll have Tricia suck your little dick right after we close. It’s a sort of, you know, welcome aboard kind of thing."

"What?" I feel my face grow hot.

"Just kidding. I don’t have that kind of power. Not yet, anyway. If you want a blow job, you’re going to have to pay for it like everyone else." He laughs, then squeezes my cheeks. "I’m messing with you. Relax. You’re turning purple for fuck’s sake. Take a breath, chill out, and then get the fuck to work. Lighten up, kid. We’re all friends here."

I roll up my sleeves and start piling dishes into the dishwasher. Almost immediately I begin to sweat. Tricia drops off a tray of dirty dishes. I bend over and she takes a long look at my ass.

"Welcome to Pizza Tent, Ervin," she says.

"Nice to be here, Tricia," I say.

I think I’m going to like it here.

At 28

2008-03-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

2000

I wake to the sound of weeping, sniffling little girls, and even after I’m awake I still think I’m dreaming. My eyes are open. A waking nightmare of a monster that eats children. Then Prometheus licks my face and meows for food. I shake my head and soon realize that, no, it’s not a horror film. It’s just my life, my reality, and currently I’m trapped in a house with sad children whose parents are fighting. Trapped in the house with my older brother, who sometimes resembles a monster.

Dave has moved his family into Mom’s house. Dave’s girlfriend and five daughters. He’s averaged nearly a girl a year for the past six years. A perfect storm of mighty-powerful sperm, drunken abandon, a lax condom policy, and a failure of the public schools’ sex education curriculum. Dave’s stance on birth control has always been: "That’s her problem." Now it’s my problem. Now I live in a modest house with five little girls whose names I can’t keep straight. My mother felt like she had no choice but to take the kids in. We’re all stressed. I show my displeasure by sulking and making the occasional snide comment. "It’s either them or me," I’m fond of saying, and Mom is fond of saying, "What do you want me to do, Ervin, put them out on the street?" If Dave doesn’t move his family out of here soon, I’m going to have to finally get my own place. It might be time, anyway. I am in my late-twenties, after all. I don’t want to end up as some middle-aged man rubbing his mother’s bunions and endlessly wondering about what could have been. But something has to give. I’m miserable every day.

I’m a community college drop-out. I was taking photography classes for a couple of years, but it turns out that I’m not very good at taking pictures. I’m really bad at it, to be honest, so choosing another career seemed necessary. I work at a liquor store, but that’s not really a career. I dabble in writing. Mostly, I just write long, unfocused paragraphs that might eventually become a story; also, I make lists of women I want to have sex with. Molly Ringwald is always at the top of the list. I enjoy writing. Not sure if I’m good enough. Not sure if I have the patience to stick with it. But I’ve got to do something. I can’t go on like this. Mom cries herself to sleep every night. My stomach hurts every day. Dave and his family eat all the food. Dave can’t hold down a job. The only thing Dave can hold is a can of beer. Dave’s old lady screams at him every morning, which he surely deserves. Our home is a place without happiness, without smiles.

I bury my head beneath a pillow, wrap myself in a blanket. The shouting grows louder. As always, my stomach ignites. The burning, the stinging, the spasms. This is my life. Mom crying. Dave screaming. Me hiding in my room. Not wanting to come out. I feel like I’m ten years old again. Most days, I’d rather stay at work and hang out with the alcoholics than come home and have to deal with Dave and his family.

Dave used to laugh a lot. Used to be nice once in a while. But then his best friend, Phil, died of a drug overdose. Dave’s been a mess ever since. Dave was with Phil when he died. They were doing the same drugs. Shooting up. Dave was never into needles, he was always more of a smoker and snorter, but for some reason that day he stuck the needle in his arm. So did Phil. They were shooting up and Phil was quickly unconscious. Dave thought that his friend was just sleeping, so he went out for burgers. When he came back, the house was surrounded by police cars, so Dave ran home. I’ve never seen Dave so scared as he was on the day Phil died. Shaking his head, sitting on the couch, disbelief in his wide, wet eyes, Dave said, "I fucking knew there was something wrong as soon as I put the needle in my arm. But I wouldn’t let the drugs get me. I’m strong. I fought off the poison. But Phil couldn’t. Aw, man, I thought he was asleep." I thought Phil’s death might have scared Dave straight. But it only made him worse. With his friend gone, Dave just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. About himself. About anyone. Once Phil died, nothing mattered to Dave.

I climb out of bed and walk into the living room. I see five pretty little girls staring at their angry parents. Five girls sharing the same horrified face. They look like orphans. Dressed in hand-me-downs. Damp doe eyes wide with confusion and fear. Dolls and stuffed animals held close to their chests. Their mouths hanging open. Bits of their breakfast clinging to their faces and clothing. They watch mommy and daddy shout and push and blame and hate. "Get a job, Dave! I need money, Dave! The kids need clothes, Dave!" I shake my head. These girls don’t have a chance. Their father is Dave, my brother, the worst person I know.

"Shut the fuck up," Dave says. "I just woke up. Can’t I have a cup of coffee before you tell me what a loser I am?"

"What are ya gonna do today, Dave? Drugs? Ya gonna smoke some crack? Drink some beers? How about buying your daughters some clothes for school? Huh? How ‘bout that? No, you don’t care! You just wanna get high."

He quietly says, "I’m serious. Shut your fucking mouth. You’re giving me a headache."

The little girls watch their parents as if watching a play. They are captivated and horrified. Looking at Dave’s pretty girls, I realized that I should’ve been nicer. I should’ve been a better uncle. But I couldn’t look into their eyes without seeing Dave’s face. I couldn’t separate him from his daughters. I thought, "Well, he made them so they must be bad, too." But I was wrong. They are innocent. They are not their father. I know this now because they’re staring at their father as if he’s a stranger. As if they don’t know that man at all.

We have a nice house in a decent neighborhood, not a terrific house, but far better than any other place we’ve ever called home. No cockroaches, a major victory for us. I was sure the cockroaches would eat me someday, but now maybe they won’t have a chance. We’ve finally outrun them, straight into suburbia. Mom bought this house with lawsuit money awarded to her as compensation for an auto accident that damaged her shoulder. The accident was technically the other driver’s fault, but I do remember arguing with Mom just before the other car plowed into us. I was pissed off because I’d had a bad day at school, Mom was pissed off because she had to pick me up from school after working all night. Mom was distracted as she drove. In the end, Mom had shoulder surgery and was awarded a bit of money. Not enough to retire off of, but enough to put a large down payment on a house. And here we are. Movin’ on up. Still, we’re not fooling anyone. The old couple next door see right through us. They see the oft-summoned police cars, hear the nightly shouting; they see Dave stumble across the lawn, high and drunk, stomping over the poorly-maintained lawn. I’m sure they sense our inherent white-trashiness. They’re friendly to us, offering big smiles, but they know we don’t belong. They know. My family’s not fooling anyone. We are what we are.

"You need to give me money, Dave!"

She won’t let up. Every time she says his name my blood runs cold. She says "Dave" with a spitting fury, with her lazy New Jersey accent. Says it repeatedly. A mantra. Every sentence she speaks ends with his name. "Where ya goin’, Dave? Take the kids to school, Dave! Look at me, Dave! Why’s Ervin not being nice to the girls, Dave?"

Dave turns and walks away from her. She grabs his shoulder. Calls him a fucking asshole. He turns and calmly, quickly pops her in the mouth. Closed fist. She falls to the ground. The children scream, shout, "Mommy!" Blood pours from her rapidly-swelling nose. For a second, we’re all frozen, even Dave. Time stops.

"Look what you made me do," he says, rubbing his bloody hand. "You should’ve just kept your mouth shut."

I’m stunned. My mother is stunned. The children weep. The oldest girl says, "Don’t hurt my mommy anymore!" Dave sits down on the couch and lights a cigarette as his battered girlfriend calls the police and bleeds all over the phone.

He turns to me and says, "Looks like I’ll be going away for awhile. You finally got what you wanted, huh?"

"I just wanted to be left alone," I say.

Mom is crying, devastated, and can barely speak. "Why did you do that, Dave?" she asks, panicked. "You shouldn’t have done that. Oh, God!"

"She pissed me off."

The girlfriend hangs up the phone and turns to Dave. "I’m taking the kids away. I got family in Delaware. You’ll never see them again, Dave!"

"Good!" he says. "Fuck it. Take ‘em. Get the fuck outta my face."

I see the children holding their mother tight. Five girls and a mom clinging to each other, not wanting to let go. I see my mother with her head buried in her hands. I see Dave puffing on a cigarette, blowing smoke rings, looking not exactly pleased, but strangely at peace while everyone else falls apart. Like a man who knows he’s crossed a line. A man who can’t go back. Who probably doesn’t want to go back. Who saw no other way to change a bad situation. Now the law will do it for him. They will take him away. Keep him far away from his children. Lock him up.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him.

A loud knock on the front door. A few police cars in front of the house. Nosy neighbors on their steps, craning their necks, peeking in. In a few minutes, Dave will be led away in handcuffs. He’ll go peacefully. He’s all out of fight. I see it in his eyes. He’s done raging. He just wants to lay down somewhere and take a long nap. Sleep without interruption. Without the girlfriend or the kids waking him up.

He puts out his cigarette and says, "Remember that girl I dated a few years back? Marissa? She was really pretty, and fucking cool as hell. That was the only girl I ever loved. I fucked it up. I thought I’d always be able to score hot chicks. Figured I could do whatever I wanted. Look what I ended up with. It’s fucked up, man. I’m a stupid motherfucker, Erv. I made some bad mistakes. I wonder what Marissa’s doing right now? She was a good girl. I should’ve done right by her. Shouldn’t have cheated on her. If I was still with Marissa, I wouldn’t be this screwed up. She kept me in line. Kept me from being a total asshole. She was good for me. She could’ve made me good."

A few police officers are inside the house. The bloody girlfriend points at Dave.

Dave, faintly smiling, says, "Erv, what do you think Marissa’s doing right now?"

"Probably not bleeding from the face," I say.

He nods, laughs, takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"David," a bulldog cop says.

Dave stands and raises his hands. "You got me, coppers."

Four police officers surround him.

It’s over quickly.

Just like that, he’s gone.

I know I won’t see Dave for awhile. Maybe a few months, maybe a few years. But someday he’ll come back. Someday he’ll be banging on my door begging for twenty dollars. You can always count on Dave coming back. I will cherish the peace while it lasts.

Sometimes I don’t like myself. Sometimes I don’t know myself. I’ll look at myself in the mirror and wonder who that person is staring back. It’s a scary feeling to not even recognize yourself. On my knees in the living room, cleaning up spots of red from the hardwood floor, I’m overtaken with happiness and that is truly frightening. I watched my brother punch a woman in the face, and I can’t say that I’m unhappy with the end result. I’ll have my peace and quiet. Dave will be gone. This makes me a bad person. I know it does. Still, it worked out nicely for me. I just have to remember not to look into any mirrors for the rest of day.

At 13

2008-02-24T15:15:00.000-08:00

1984

It’s summertime and I’ve taken a minimum-wage job at Cherry Hill High School West, as a maintenance man, or in my case, maintenance boy. I’m still too young to have any kind of real job, but because my family is poor, I qualified for the Summer Youth Program. If you’re at least twelve years old and come from a low-income household, you can sign up and be placed in a job for the summer. I did enjoy my years as a paper boy, but the ten or fifteen dollars a week that I earned didn’t get me much other than some comic books and a few hours at the local arcade. I now make about three dollars an hour, and I’m happy to earn that much. Soon, I’ll be rolling in cash.

The school employs five kids from the program, and the regular maintenance men are thrilled, because we do all of their work for them. Most of the maintenance men are older black men, and during the school year they work their asses off, so when summer rolls around and the kids show up, life is good for them. We paint and sweep and mop and carry and mow; we are worked hard, while the old maintenance men laugh and sip tea while "supervising" us kids. It’s hard work, but I like the job. I like working. I feel grown up. The old guys are nice to me. They say I’m a decent worker and not half bad for a white boy. They call me Skinny White Boy. As in, "Hey, Skinny White Boy, we gonna need you to paint the bathrooms today, and if you see any shit that missed the toilet, well, we figure you should go about cleaning that up, too."

The maintenance men can’t believe that I was born in Camden, that I actually lived there for the first five years of my life. "You must’ve been the last white boy left in all of Camden," they say. "Nah," I say, "my older brothers are white, too, and I think there was one other white kid, or maybe he was Asian. I forget." The maintenance men laugh at my stories, and most of the time I can’t figure out why they’re laughing. I think they see me as their mascot. Doesn’t matter to me. As long as I’m getting paid, all is well.

It’s near the end of summer, and I’ve painted almost the entire school. The job is coming to an end, and that makes me sad. But soon I’ll be old enough to have a real job, not just the seasonal kind they give to poor people because the government feels sorry for them. Some of the kids who work with me have to give most of their money to their moms or dads, because they’re so poor they can barely afford food. Mom lets me keep all of my money, which is nice. I guess we’re only mildly poor.

We’re living in a rented house; well, a rented part of a house. It’s sort of like a garage that’s been turned into a miniature home for very small people or full-size people with very small bank accounts. Our new sliver of a house is infested with cockroaches, of course. We’ve had bugs for so long now that I almost feel like they’re a part of family. Our pets. Our really, really fucking disgusting, diseased pets.

I’m riding my bike home from work, sweating under the hot August sun. I turn the corner and notice that my mother is sitting on the porch with a man. A stranger. They’re both smiling and laughing, but in an uncomfortable sort of way, as if laughing is the only thing they could think to do to break the tension. Mom has that unstable kind of smile that people get when they’re trying not to cry. I hop off of my bicycle and walk it slowly up to the house. My stomach begins to hurt, as if someone stuck a long needle into my bellybutton when I wasn’t looking. The man looks like me. An older, less cute version of me. Blue eyes. Thinning, wavy blonde hair. Pale skin. Even though I haven’t seen him in years, since I was a small child, I know who this man is. He’s my father. Big Erv. The man I was named after. The man who owes my mother thousands of dollars in back child support. I haven’t thought about him in years. No reason to. Nothing about him is worth the time or energy it would take to think.

Mom points to him and says, "Look, Ervin, it’s your father," as if he were a major prize that I had just won.

They’re sipping iced tea and smoking cigarettes, seated around a small white plastic table. Mom smells like hamburgers. Dad smells like grease.

I decide quickly that I’d rather not speak to him, so I carry my bike up the steps and walk into the house without saying anything to my dear old dad. I decide to hide in my room until he’s gone. I turn the stereo’s volume up loud, pop in a cassette tape, push ‘play,’ then spread out on my bed as the sounds of Prince’s Purple Rain fill the room.

A half-hour later, Mom knocks on the door and shouts, "Ervin, that was very rude. Why didn’t you say anything to your father? He wanted to see you. Ah, well, He said he’ll come back soon. If he does come back, please talk to him. He is your father, whether you want him to be or not. He’s not a bad person. He’s just...I don’t know."

I know that he will never come back. I know I’ll never see my father again, and all I can think is Good.

I suppose I could say more about Dad, but why bother?

At 27

2008-02-10T13:14:00.000-08:00

1998

I’m spread out on my bed, sweating, wetting the sheets. A layer of moisture covers me as if I’ve just climbed out of a swimming pool. The only air conditioner in the house is downstairs. Up here, I melt. A small fan does nothing to cool me off. Hot air blows against my face. My second-floor window is open, and humid air oozes in like invisible demons. It’s after midnight on a scorching summer night, and I’m lying on my damp bed, wearing tight white underwear and a gray T-shirt. My bedroom door is closed and locked. The cable remote is in my hand, and I’m flicking quickly through the channels, trying to find something scary, or something filthy, or something that’s a little bit of both. I find a channel playing The Return of the Living Dead and leave it on. Because I love zombies. Because I love Linnea Quigley. Because I love when the living dead say, "Brains!" I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’ve decided to stay in and watch movies, maybe masturbate once or twice, depending on how inspired I feel.

The phone rings, and I take my hand out of my underwear and answer it.

"Hello," I say.

"Guess who this is?" a giggling female voice says.

"Elisa! Wow! Hey, what’s up?"

"Am I interrupting anything? You got a girl there? Can you talk?"

"I can talk. Absolutely. I’ve missed you."

"Me too," she says, a drunken slur in her words. "When was the last time we saw each other? Wasn’t it, like, four years ago or something?"

"Yeah, about that," I say. "What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"I’m still waiting tables, making some good money. Mainly, I’m just partying it up, y’know? Having fun. I go out every night. Get drunk. I’m having the time of my life. I don’t want no responsibility. I wanna party while I’m young."

"You’re not really that young anymore, Elisa."

"Fuck you, jerk. What are you doing that’s so great?"

"Nothing, really. I’m working at a liquor store. I’m also doing some writing. I don’t know if I’m any good at it, but I’m giving it a shot. I went to Camden County for awhile, took a lot of photography classes, but then realized I wasn’t all that into taking pictures. I mean, I like it and all, but more as a hobby. I want to be a writer, I think. But I’m still a long way away. I need to get a lot better. But, you know, I’m trying."

She giggles. "You gonna write any stories about me?"

"Yeah," I say, "probably all of them."

"That’s cool. I always wanted to be famous."

"You dating anyone?" I ask.

"Me? No. Not anyone important, anyway. I’m playing the field. I’ve got a few options right now. It’s not like I’m celibate or anything. You?"

"Nah. I’m not with anyone right now. Unless you count my left hand."

She growls sexily. "Really? Are you jerking off right now?"

"Um, no," I say, staring down at the sudden bulge in my underwear.

"I’ll bet I can make you jerk off," she says.

"Try me."

"I know what turns you on, Ervin. You know I’m sitting on my bed in a towel. It could fall off so easily. Oops!"

"You’re a cruel woman," I say, taking off my T-shirt.

I hear her light a cigarette, take a loud swig of something. "So, like a month ago, I was at this club in Cherry Hill, and this older Spanish girl comes up and starts dancing with me. It’s this really fast song and all of a sudden she’s, like, grinding on my leg. Humping me in front of everyone at the club. People are whistling at us. It’s this huge scene. I’m all drunk and she’s really hot, so I go along with it. Then we’re making out and stuff, kissing right there on the dance floor. And I’m all like, ‘Oh my God, this girl has her tongue in my mouth.’ So she’s kissing me and grinding on me, and I’m getting so fucking wet. I never thought I could enjoy hooking up with a girl."

I sit up on the bed and smile. "Ha! I knew it, Elisa! I knew you were a closet lesbian."

"You did not."

I excitedly say, "No, I totally did! Remember that time we went to The Feathernest Inn for a romantic getaway? The place with the hot tub and the big heart-shaped bed? Remember they had all those porn channels? Whenever a girl/girl scene would come on, your breathing would get real heavy and I knew it turned you on. You kept denying it, but I knew. I knew you were into chicks. I remember that I tried to convince you that you should hook up with another girl and let me watch, and you told me that I was gross. Now look at you. Making out with girls at the club. In front of everyone except me. It’s totally not fair. You owe it to me, Elisa. You owe me the chance to watch you tongue kiss another girl."

"Sheesh, let me finish the story, pervert," she says. "So, like I said, she’s older, maybe in her late-thirties, but still sexy as hell. She has big boobs and a big butt, and these long, elaborate, painted fingernails. So it turns out that she’s married and has a kid, but I don’t know this ‘til later when I go home with her. We’re on her couch, still drinking even though we’re both already sloshed, and she’s got her hand up my dress, under my panties, and she’s, like, fingering me and stuff, totally getting me off. Then all of a sudden this guy walks out, and I freak. But she’s all like, ‘Oh, don’t worry, this is just my husband. He likes to watch.’ And I’m all like, ‘Well, watching is all he better be doing!’ So, we go to the bedroom, and me and her get naked and climb on the bed, while her creepy husband sits in a chair and jerks off as me and his wife finger-fuck each other. So she—her name’s Rita—is all begging me to go down on her, saying, ‘Elisa, lick my pussy. Lick my pussy!’ But I don’t wanna lick her pussy, ‘cause I still think it’s kind of gross to do that to another girl. So I let her lick my pussy, while her husband watched. After I came, I got right out of there, let me tell you."

Nearly a minute of silence passes before Elisa finally says, "Ervin, you there?"

"Yeah, I’m here."

I hold the phone against my cheek with my shoulder as I use my T-shirt to wipe up the mess I’ve just made on myself.

She continues, "Well, I’ve gone back a couple of times, but I still won’t let her husband fuck me. I still let her eat my pussy. I mean, head’s head, right? Maybe I’ll eat hers someday. I don’t know. She better be clean, though. I don’t wanna be lickin’ some nasty snatch." She laughs. "You okay, Ervin? You’re quiet."

"Just listening," I say. "That was a good story. Lesbian."

"Shut up! I’m just curious is all. Every girl experiments a little." She laughs, then sighs. "Ervin, what happened to us?"

"We broke up," I say.

"No, I mean, why did we break up?"

I take a moment to think. "Maybe I was too young to handle you. I was always jealous, and I think my jealously led you to want to cheat on me, because I was pissing you off. I loved you too much. I couldn’t be away from you. I drove you away. You cheated on me. I broke up with you so I could be with MJ. I spent a month dating MJ, but then I realized that I missed you. So I broke up with MJ and got back with you, but it was too late. The damage had been done. It was irreparable. We got back together but we were just going through the motions. We couldn’t recapture the magic. So then you got the chance to break up with me. I guess we’re even in that regard. We both got to dump the other person. Not many couples get to do that. We should start dating again so I can dump you and go up two to one."

"After me, you didn’t wait very long to start dating that nice Jewish girl," she adds. "You were so cocky. That girl walked in one day and you were all like, ‘Hey, Elisa, I’m gonna ask out that girl over there.’ I thought you were kidding. And then you did it! And she said yes! I couldn’t believe it."

"Nicole was her name," I add. "Yeah, I started dating her, quit working at Pizza Tent, went to college, and forgot all about you."

"Didn’t forget about me completely," she says, with a chuckle.

"Okay, so I had one moment of weakness."

"One moment, Ervin? More like about six hours of weakness. If I remember correctly, we were sitting my car, and you were talking about Nicole, and how you weren’t sure if it was going to last between you two because she was going away to college, and then the next thing I know we’re kissing."

"It’s not like we had sex that night," I say.

"No, not sex, but we were making out until the sun came up, and we were grinding all over each other. We did everything but have sex. I know you came in your pants, and your fingers and lips smelled like me for days, I’ll bet. Heh. Face it, Erv, you’ll never get over me. No matter who you’re with, you’ll always compare them to me. You know why?"

I wipe my wet eyes. "Why?"

"Because I’m your first love. Sure, you were engaged to that one girl a few years before you met me, but you always said I was your first true love."

"It’s true," I say. "I had no idea what love was until I met you."

"And I was the first girl you ever got nasty with. We had dirty, dirty sex, Ervin. We did stuff to each other I still haven’t tried with other guys. Before you, I hadn’t ever touched myself in front of a guy. We were so open with each. We’d try anything. It was nice. Nice and dirty. So then we break up, and you go from me to these sweet young girls who don’t know nothing about sex. You date the innocent girls, hold hands and play nice, but you fantasize about me. I’ll always rule your fantasies. You think about me when you’re having sex with other girls, don’t you? Still to this day, right?"

"Well, I mean, not really."

All the time. Constantly.

"So you miss me, huh?"

"I do."

"Say it."

"I miss you, Elisa," I say flatly.

She lights a cigarette, inhales loudly, coughs. "You’re my bitch, Ervin." She giggles like a slutty schoolgirl.

"Trust me, Elisa, I am very much over you."

"I doubt it. In fact, I’ll bet I made your cock really hard when I was telling my story. You probably fucking jerked off, you pig!"

"I am over you, but we should hang out and get caught up with each other. What are you doing right now? You should come over."

I suddenly want nothing more than Elisa in my bed. Next to me. Holding me tight. Just one more night with her. To get her out of my system. So my sheets and pillows and skin will gather and hold her strong scent for days.

"Sorry, Ervin, I’m meeting someone in a few minutes. Maybe some other time. I’ll call you one of these days."

"Well, okay."

"See ya, Ervin."

She hangs up.

I don’t think she’ll call me again anytime soon. But I do know that I haven’t heard the last of Elisa. She’ll pop up again, someday, to remind me how much I miss her. To remind me of the way she used to make me feel. The way I haven’t felt since.

At 25, Part 7

2008-01-23T22:40:00.000-08:00

1996

It’s Halloween. A Sunday. Bright and mild. Gorgeous. I’m watching the Philadelphia Eagles play the New York Giants while eating a long, messy cheese steak hoagie, trying not to get grease on my official Reggie White Eagles Jersey. It would be a perfect fall day if not for the presence of Dave, who’s already had a few cocktails. And by "cocktails" I mean Old Milwaukee tall boys. Dave bought a couple of two-fers. Two 16oz cans for ninety-nine cents. A nice bargain for the money-strapped, taste-impaired alcoholic. He’s talking incessantly, and I’m trying to ignore him, but it’s impossible. Dave speaks loudly and repeats himself until you acknowledge that you’ve heard him. A public speaker without an audience. He’s not happy that I’ve been attempting to ignore him. Dave does not like to be ignored. People who ignore Dave often come to regret it. His smile is quickly fading. He now has the tight, twitchy, sweaty face of a man who really wants to punch me in the stomach. I’ve told him repeatedly in recent months that I can’t stand the sight of him, but I guess that still doesn’t excuse me from the obligation of speaking to him while he’s drunk. Somebody has to do it. And I’m the only one here.

"Yo, Erv. Erv. Ervin. Erv. Hey! Ervin. Brother. Brother. Erv. Nerd. Ervin. Hey, you! Erv. They’re having a yard sale across the street. You wanna go check out what they got? Erv. Erv. Erv. Erv. Ervin."

I shake my head, while keeping my eyes on the television. "I just wanna watch the end of the game," I say. "It’s the start of the fourth quarter. I’ll go with you after the game."

"What about right now? Now’s good for me."

"How about, like, an hour?"

He finishes off a beer. Crushes the can. Burps. He’s tapping his toes. He can’t sit still. "You know the Eagles suck. They’re just gonna lose anyway."

"Yeah, thanks. I’m sure your psychic abilities are top-notch, but I want to see the end of the game. We’re winning. It’s looking good for the Birds."

"The Birds blow donkey balls. I’m gonna go check out what they got at the yard sale. So, fuck you very much. When I come back with some cool shit, you’re gonna wish you came along."

Dave is a man always on the hunt for an easy fortune. He owns a metal detector and often goes off in search of valuable rare coins. Maybe he thinks a group of lost, confused pirates buried their treasure in South Jersey. He’s forever searching. Digging. Looking for that one special item that will make him an instant millionaire. Dave’s always bringing crap home—old baseball cards, comic books, coins, paintings, weird maps, bottle caps, nudie books—and asking me if I think his newest discovery is valuable. My answer is usually, "It’s probably worth about a nickel, Dave." But he never gives up. He’s relentless in his search for easy money. His foolish tenacity is somewhat admirable. Almost charming. A man and his metal detector. Friends forever. I know he’d choose his metal detector over me any day.

Dave cracks open another beer and takes a peek through the window. "Trick-or-Treaters are already out. Fucking disgusting. Looks like mostly fucking niggers. Half of ‘em don’t even have costumes. Fuckers aren’t even trying. They think they’re coming here for candy, they got another thing coming. I’m not giving my candy to some goddam black punk in a football jersey. At least if they wear a mask I don’t have to see their faces."

I can no longer ignore him. A hot rage is crawling up my throat. Forcing itself out. Like acid reflux, but with words. I say, "What the fuck? They’re kids. They’re just children. Don’t be an asshole. And it’s not your candy. Mom bought that candy. And Mom wants that candy given to any kids that come to the door. So don’t pull your shit today, please. Can’t I just watch the game in peace? Can’t I have a relaxing Sunday? It’s Halloween. It should be a nice, fun day. We give out candy to all the children who come by. That’s the way it works."

"No, not if I can help it. I’m Scrooge," he says, mixing up his holidays. Dave tosses an empty can of beer in my general direction and says, "Incoming!" I duck and it harmlessly hits the wall behind me. He stands up and marches out the door.

Finally, some peace. I watched as the Eagles fall apart. They blow a decent lead late in the game, leading to overtime. Then, just as Dave predicted, the Eagles lose. This bodes poorly for the remainder of the day. The Eagles have lost, and Dave will eventually return. It’s not even dark outside, and Dave is already drunk. I decide to leave. To clear my head. Go to a friend’s house. Or maybe just drive around for awhile. Turn the radio up and cruise.

I look out the window and see Dave talking to the old man who’s having a yard sale. Dave has a beer in one hand and a large painting in the other. The old man is laughing. Dave is laughing. I’ve always admired Dave’s gregarious nature. If he were a little smarter, and a little less of an alcoholic, he would make a great politician.

Before I can make my getaway, Dave returns holding a painting of a clown. He proudly hands it to me. It’s an old, beat-up painting in a tacky gold frame. A sad clown. Chubby and old. Sitting alone at his kitchen table. Like the circus has left town without him. A cigarette dangling from his red clown mouth. I look at the painting and the sad clown looks back, and I hear his nasally clown voice say, "Whattaya want from me, kid?"

"Awesome, ain’t it?" Dave says.

I laugh. "Yeah, it’s a real winner."

"I only paid ten dollars for it. I think I got a steal. The old fucker across the street said he didn’t want to part with it. He said he’s had it since he was a little boy. It might have been painted by someone famous, like Picasso or van Gogh or, like, Norman Rockwell."

"Or John Wayne Gacy," I say.

"Is he a famous artist?"

"Kind of. He is known for his clowns."

"Awesome. If you can find someone to buy it, we’ll split the money. Maybe we could get five hundred bucks for it. Then we’ll get some hookers. We’ll get paid and laid! Nah, I’m just joking. I know you don’t like girls."

"I like girls plenty."

"Sure you do."

"Dave, I’ve had two relationships that lasted more than a year each, Karen and Elisa. I was engaged to be married once. I bought Karen a diamond ring. Elisa used to stay over in my room with me all the time."

"I don’t remember you almost getting married."

"Because you were in jail during those years."

If I didn’t like girls, it would be completely Dave’s fault. When I was little, Dave came home early one morning after a night with some random tramp and made me smell his finger. I nearly passed out from the stench. He just smiled and said that that’s what sex smells like. That’s the stink of pussy, Erv. I’m surprised I got over it. If Elisa’s sex hadn’t been so very pleasant, I might have gone gay.

"Dave, I like the painting. It’s cool. But you might have paid about ten dollars too much for it," I say, with a laugh. I wait for him to laugh with me. He’s Dave the Happy Drunk, right? He should be laughing. Instead, he puts his fist through the sad clown’s face. Dave is no longer the happy drunk. He’s the kind of drunk who punches a defenseless clown painting, then smashes it to bits with his boots.

"You happy now? Huh? Is that what you wanted?" Dave shouts.

I say, "Um, no, not really."

The doorbell rings. A group of children have come for their candy. I hear them giggling. The expectation of sugar-spun delights. I grab the bowl of candy and head for the door.

"White kids only," Dave says, his face red and beaded with sweat. He’s not joking. "No candy to no dumb niggers."

After a moment of stunned silence, I say, "You’re ridiculous."

I open the door and smile. Seven kids. A Batman, a Superman, a Bart Simpson, a kid wearing a bloody hockey mask and holding a plastic machete, a fairy princess, a kid in a football jersey, a tiny kid wearing his large father’s business suit. The children are black, except for tiny business suit boy and Supermen. They’re all very polite. A mother stands behind them, smiling proudly. I give out the candy, make some quick small-talk, ask Superman if he’s captured Lex Luthor yet, then close the door just as my mother pulls her car into the driveway.

I turn around and see Dave right in front of me. He’s so close I can smell his alcohol-tainted breath. He’s holding a small, dull kitchen knife. His lips are dry and cracked, the rest of him is moist.

"You gave them my candy, didn’t you?" he asks, monotone, in a semi-trance.

I feel as if I’ve already been stabbed in the gut. Like my stomach has been perforated. Like acid and waste are leaking through. Like I’m dying slowly on the inside. My hands begin to shake.

"Please stop. This isn’t funny."

"You gave them the fucking candy!"

Dave’s waving the knife like a madman. He’s steps toward me. I think Holy fucking shit, my very own brother is going to stab me and kill me dead! Well, half-brother. I no longer think of Dave as a whole brother. We have different fathers. That makes all the difference. It didn’t used to. Now it does. Because he’s going to murder me. The demon inside him has taken over, and it wants blood.

Dave is coming at me with a knife, so I run. Run for my life.

I give him a gentle shove, allowing myself room to make a clean getaway. Dave chases. He’s slow and drunk and out of shape. He has muscles but isn’t much for cardio. Mom walks through the door just in time to see Dave coming after me with a dull—but still potentially deadly—knife. She screams. I’m able to make it into the bedroom just ahead of my would-be killer, quickly locking the door behind me. Dave slams his fists against the wood. Slams and kicks and punches.

"I’ll fucking kill you! I hate you! I fucking hate you!" It’s not even his voice anymore. I don’t know who this person is standing outside my door with the knife. With the fists of fury. My brother left the building a long time ago. He was replaced Body Snatcher-style by this racist asshole. I wonder whatever became of the real Dave. What happened to the cool older brother who bought me and my best friend Vito tickets for A Nightmare On Elm Street when were too young to buy them ourselves? The brother who let it be known that if anyone in my high school ever messed with me, they’d have to deal with him? The funny, cool brother? Whatever happened to the brother of my youth? The brother who didn’t want me dead? All I know is, Dave is long gone, and this asshole pretender has been making my life miserable for years. Now, he wants to gut me like a pig because I gave out "his" Halloween candy to a few innocent black children.

I’m white. Dave’s white. Are we any better than someone whose skin is darker? Did the cockroaches say, "Oh, hey, sorry, wrong house...we thought there were black people here?" Did the government refuse us our yellow cheese because we’re pale? Did the police let Dave go after he robbed that candy store because he was white? Did I have to return my Free Lunch Card because of the color of my skin? Nah. The only difference between myself and the average black person is that I have to use a helluva lot more sunblock.

Part of the reason Dave hates me is because my mother is always saying, "Ervin, you’re such a good kid. I never have to worry about you. You’re the good one. Thank God you, Ervin. I don’t know what I’d do without Ervin. Ervin this. Ervin that." Dave doesn’t want to hear that shit. He also hates me because I’m always reading, and Dave is practically illiterate. He spent so much as a teenager locked up in juvenile detention that nobody ever bothered to teach him how to read. Nobody cared whether or not he could spell. They only cared that he was punished. Dave hates me because I’m the opposite of him. Or so he thinks. He doesn’t know how much I’ve done wrong. He doesn’t know that I’ve stolen, lied, cheated, did my fair share of drugs. He doesn’t know any of that. He doesn’t know about the late nights at Pizza Tent spent snorting cocaine and cleaning until dawn. He doesn’t know about my weekend trips to Camden to score coke and pot. He doesn’t know what I’ve lost. Fuck Dave for not knowing. Fuck him for thinking he’s the only one who’s had it rough. In this family, we’ve all been through our fair share. We’ve all suffered. All had the same chances. He blew his. I don’t want to blow mine. I’ve always known that I’m meant for something greater. That I’m going to leave something behind. The Great American Novel. A song. A poem. A movie. Something. Before I leave this world, I want to leave something behind that will remind people that I existed. That I was here. Dave wants to take that away from me.

"Dave," Mom says, "I called the police. They’re coming. Stop this." She’s crying, shouting, panting. Dave would never hurt Mom. This much I know. He loves her. Me on the other hand? Well, I think at some point in our lives Dave actually "liked" me, but never "loved," and if he did, he sure hid it well.

I hear the sirens. Dave stops slamming his fists against the door. The fire in my belly rages, the heat leaking out through my flesh. The police knock on the door. I guess Dave won’t kill me today after all.

At 21, Part 8

2008-01-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

1993

I sneak a glance at MJ and catch her staring back, flashing me a brilliant smile, white teeth shining through the darkness. She’s happy to have caught my eye. MJ wants me to look at her. Wants me to know she’s looking at me. Our shoulders are touching, our shoeless, white sock-covered feet. I’m sitting in a dark living room, watching a movie with a group of friends from Pizza Tent. My girlfriend, Elisa, is out at a dance club, doing her bad white girl dances and scoring free drinks from adoring jerkoffs who will tell her: "Your boyfriend lets you out alone? Well, that’s his loss. He must be a real loser." We used to be inseparable, but lately we’ve decided it might be best to give each other some space, to have lives of our own, to allow our relationship to breathe, to try something different. So, Elisa puts on her tightest, smallest clothing, frizzes up her black hair, crams her feet inside tall heels, hides her natural olive-skinned beauty beneath a few layers of garish makeup, then does whatever it is that she does at those ridiculous clubs full of men who want to fuck her. I’m not into the club scene, which is why I’m here tonight with a small group of friends from work, at Mindy’s (a sweet big girl whom I dated briefly and unsuccessfully) lovely suburban home, watching Pump Up The Volume, a bad, completely unbelievable Christian Slater movie that I am somehow enjoying. My back against the couch and my side against soft, warm MJ. Fred, whom I’ve known since elementary school, eyes me suspiciously from across the room. He sees how close I’m sitting to MJ, rolls his eyes, mouths What the fuck are you doing? He couldn’t care less whether or not I cheat on Elisa; he just hates that all the girls he likes seem to develop crushes on me. I can’t help it that I’m so damned cute. It’s the dimples. Girls love the dimples. It has to be the dimples. What else could it be? My pale, sun-frightened skin? My overall lack of strength? My super stylish feathered dirty blonde hair? My low-paying job? My scarred left hand? My large comic book collection?

MJ rests her head on my shoulder, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable, because it feels nice. I do have a girlfriend, after all, and what’s happening here is verging on inappropriate behavior. Sure, Elisa has definitely cheated on me, once for certain, probably many more times than that, but I’ve never cheated on her. And I don’t want to start now. Well, I do want to cheat on Elisa, right now, with MJ—I want to suck on MJ’s long tongue in the worst way, want to lick her face, bite her nipples, masturbate while she nakedly waves her pompoms and jumps up and down above me—but I don’t want to be that guy. The guy who cheats on his girlfriend just to get even. The guy who doesn’t take his relationship seriously. The guy who screws the first sweet young high school girl with strong calves who tempts him. I love Elisa, more than I should, probably. But I do love her. Strangely, tonight is the first night she’s been out without me at a club where I haven’t been racked with jealousy. I’m weirdly numb. Maybe it’s because MJ is distracting me. Or maybe I’m simply more mature than I used to be. It’s sure as hell not because I trust Elisa. Heh, no way, not that.

These days, I am Elisa’s bitch. She’s usually out at the club until two or three or in the morning, drinking and dancing and whatever else. And I’m usually in my bed at two or three in the morning, waiting for Elisa to call, hoping that she’ll grace me with her presence, hoping that she’ll drive her drunk ass over to my house, hoping that she’ll be horny and will want to fuck me. That’s what I do now. Lie in bed and wait for my girlfriend to call. I wait to get fucked.

Sad.

It’s almost eleven p.m. when I excuse myself and head outside to have a cigarette. It’s cold and blustery on this early February night, the weekend before Valentine’s Day. I have to leave by one in the morning, have to be in my bed sitting by the phone, in case Elisa calls and wants to come over. Just as I light my smoke, MJ sidles up next to me. We’re standing in front of Mindy’s house, in the driveway, watching the cars pass by. She’s wearing a sweater and a short skirt, and she starts shivering immediately.

"How you doing tonight, sexy?" she asks, pushing her brown hair away from her eyes.

I look around. "You talking to me?"

"Well, duh!"

I smile, appreciating the compliment, however ridiculous it sounds to me.

MJ is a senior in high school, a smart girl who’ll be heading off to college in the fall. She also looks terrific in a cheerleader uniform, just the right amount of bounce and wiggle in that tall frame. She’s not a skinny girl. MJ has curves. She’s soft all over. I’d like to sink into her, disappear.

"It’s freezing," she says, her teeth chattering.

I put my arm around her. "That better?"

She nods. "Much."

"It’s funny, at home I don’t like to sit in the dark because of the cockroaches. They tend to stay away in the light. In the dark, I always feel like something is crawling on me."

She laughs. Maybe she thinks I’m kidding. "If we were alone in the dark, I’d be crawling all over you. Speaking of bugs, where is Elisa tonight?"

"Out. Who knows. Drunk somewhere. Don’t care."

"Are you going to see her tonight?"

I take a deep drag, then toss the cigarette into the street. "Maybe. If she calls me later. She might come over. Sometimes she comes over in the middle of the night."

"For a booty call?"

"Heh, yeah, sure."

She nuzzles in closer, wraps her arms around my waist. Her mouth brushes my neck. I tingle, itch, warm all over.

"It doesn’t bother you that she cheats on you all the time? There’s a lot of stuff I’ve heard about that you don’t know, I’m sure. Just from, like, hearing her talk on the phone I know she’s playing you for a fool. She might love you. Probably she does, but she is not a good girlfriend. She’s terrible. Dump her. Move on."

"And then what? I should date who? You?"

She beams. "Sure. Why not me? I’d be an excellent girlfriend. I’m smart. I’m cool. I don’t cheat. I wouldn’t make fun of you for being a fan of ‘Beverly Hills, 90210.’ Okay, maybe I would make fun of you for that, but, like, affectionately."

I laugh. Stop laughing. Turn serious. "When I first started dating Elisa, I thought, ‘Well, this is the girl for me. She’s the one. I’m going to spend my life with this girl.’ You know, I guess I don’t want to think I was wrong about her."

"You were."

"Thanks."

We exchange smiles.

"Ervin," MJ begins, lifting her head from my shoulder and looking into my eyes. "If you stay with her, you’re going to be miserable. What are you going to do, work at Pizza Tent all your life? Marry Elisa? Struggle to make ends meet? Have a few kids that may or may not be yours. Seriously, Ervin. I mean, really? I know you want more out of life. I know you want to take pictures and write. I know you want to be creative. You can do so much more than you’re doing now. You’re wasting your life."

"What should I do?"

"Go back to school. Dump Elisa. Ask me out. Kiss me. Don’t lower yourself for someone else. Find someone who’ll lift you up. Bring you to another level. But where would you find such a girl?" She pauses dramatically, scratches her chin. "Wait, I know. You’ve already found her, and she’s me!"

"It’s not that easy, MJ."

She grins. "Isn’t it?"

Briefly, I wonder.

Then I kiss her softly on the mouth. She tastes like Juicy Fruit. Sweet, sugary, warm. MJ doesn’t wear lipstick, just a thin layer of cherry lip balm. She smells faintly of lemons and grease, as all of us who worked at Pizza Tent tonight do. Her nails dig into my back. Her breaths are heavy. I pull away.

"Shit," I say, licking my lips. "I shouldn’t have done that."

"Then why did you?" MJ asks, her lips still kissably posed.

"Because I wanted to."

I take MJ’s hand and we walk back inside. Now, all I have to do is be strong. When Elisa calls at three in the morning, I simply have to let the phone ring. When she calls for sex, I won’t answer. Easy enough, right?

I don’t want to be someone’s fuck toy. I want to be someone’s boyfriend.

Back inside the house, MJ lays her head on my chest. Her satiny hair tickles my cheek. I haven’t felt this content in months. This happy. This alive. I suddenly feel as if I have a future. Feel as if I can make something of my life. The future is open. MJ’s lips are open. And I want in.

At 25, Part 6

2008-01-06T10:43:00.000-08:00

1996

I’m behind the counter at the liquor store, ringing up customers, putting that much-needed bottle of vodka into the shaky, cracked, dirty hands of an amiable local alcoholic. Working here often makes me sad, watching the same faces come in day after day, every few hours, filling their pockets with little bottles of booze. The bigger the alcohol problem a person has, the smaller the bottles they buy. The hardcore alcoholics prefer the tiny 50ml airplane bottles. They’re easy to hide, quickly consumed, and can be casually disposed of without anyone noticing. In a way, I consider myself a pharmacist. I’m giving people the medicine they need to feel better. To escape their problems. To run and hide inside themselves. Of course, the medicine I’m giving them will probably kill them eventually, but hey, it’s hard to find any medicine that doesn’t have a few negative side-effects.

The liquor store that currently employs me is located in a small shopping center, connected to a video store, a bank, a Chinese take-out place, and a supermarket. We get a nice mix of people here: alcoholics, future alcoholics, little old ladies playing their numbers, stoners and gangsters buying blunts, hard-working manual labor guys buying a six-pack after work, men and women in suits purchasing a nice bottle of wine for dinner, a few more alcoholics, and a steady stream of teenagers pretending to be adults. The store is located in a decent neighborhood. My co-workers are, without exception, cool. The girls who work at the video store are cute and flirty and let me watch the new releases a day early. The food from No. 1 Chinese Garden is great. Not a bad place to work, all in all. It’s a dead-end job that will get me nowhere but will pay my bills in the short-term. I’m in no hurry to get on with my life. Feel no great rush to pick a real career. I’m fine standing still. Fine smoking cigarettes and playing video games until the sun comes up. Fine bullshitting with friends, unloading beer trucks, and delaying my future for as long as possible. Fine spending as much time away from home as possible. Away from Dave.

Tonight, I’m working with Joe, who’s recently become my best friend. Joe’s a big, hairy, funny, guitar-playing, KISS-loving, chain-smoking teddy bear of a guy. Whenever I work with Joe, we have a great time. We have the same sense of humor. Also, he’s fat and I’m skinny, so clearly we make a great team. If I were the least bit funny and not deathly afraid of public speaking, we could be a comedy team and take our act on the road. Of late, people have been calling us Jay & Silent Bob, after the characters in Kevin Smith’s Jersey-set film Clerks. Joe’s a great guy, but more importantly, he’s big and intimidating, and I like to think of him as my bodyguard. He’s a gentle guy, and probably wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he looks like he’d be able to rip someone’s head right off.

Working here, I feel like I need protection. Liquor stores, in general, are not the safest places to work. Criminals always rip off liquor stores. It’s tradition, I think. And lately, over the past month, there’s been a series of liquor store robberies in the South Jersey area. Three liquor stores within five miles of mine have been robbed recently, by a guy wearing a ski mask and claiming to have a gun inside a paper bag. Guns frighten me. I can’t even hold one without shaking. If I ever owned a gun, I’m sure I’d accidentally blow my face or my pecker off. So, the idea that some asshole might come in here one night and point a gun in my face makes me feel like I’m going to piss my pants. I haven’t pissed my pants in years, but I think a gun in the face could induce an unwanted release of urine. You know, what the hell, for old time’s sake. And if I do piss my pants, Joe will never let me live it down.

It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and the store is empty except for the two of us. Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill CD plays on a nearby radio, because I love music by angry, pretty women. My CD purchases of late have been by the likes of Poe, Tracy Bonham, Liz Phair, Ani DiFranco, and Hole. I am a boy who likes girl music. I tried to deny it at first when Joe called me out on my chick-music-loving ways, but now I flaunt my lady-music CDs.

Joe hasn’t been his usual talkative self today. He looks uncomfortable, like a guy with a secret. He lights a Marlboro off of another Marlboro, then sets it down in the already overstuffed glass ashtray on the counter. Joe never stops smoking. Maybe when he’s sleeping. Maybe.

"What’s up, man?" I say, lighting a cigarette of my own. I’ve only recently become a full-time smoker, which makes me a total hypocrite. I spent my childhood trying to convince my mother to quit filling her lungs with inhaled poison, and now here I am destroying my body just as she’s done for most of her life (even during the nine months that I resided in her belly, by the way, which I sarcastically cite as the reason for any and all medical problems that befall me: as in, "Hey, Mom, the doctor says my colon is spastic. Probably because you smoked when you were pregnant. Thanks, Mom, way to go."). One night, after some especially sweaty sex, I asked to bum a cigarette off of my then-girlfriend, because she always seemed to enjoy a cigarette post-sex. Then I found myself bumming cigarettes from her more and more. Right after we broke up, I went out and bought my own pack of cigarettes. Didn’t even think about it. Just did it. I was now a smoker. My only thought at the time was They got me! Bastards!

Joe’s eyes go glossy. "I’ve got something to tell you."

"No, I will not blow you for a dollar."

"I’m serious." He rubs his eyes, looks away from me, and says, "Remember how I told you about that one and only girl I had sex with?"

I nod. "Sure. Your old roommate."

"Well, I may have exaggerated a little bit, about the sex."

I say, "Well, it’s no big deal, really. Why didn’t you think you could tell me that?"

"I just didn’t want you to think I was some kind of loser who couldn’t get laid."

I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder and offer a soothing smile. "Joe, why would you think you couldn’t tell me the truth? We’re best friends, and I already think you’re a loser, so what difference does it make?"

Joe’s dark brown eyes go wide for a second, a moment of panic maybe, then he laughs and says, "You motherfucker. I hate you."

"You love me. I’m adorable."

He gives me the once-over. "Well, you are kind of cute. Those dimples are hot. I’d fuck you, well, if you wore a pretty wig or something. I don’t know that I could sleep with someone wearing a backwards baseball cap. That might be kind of, um...really fucking gay."

I laugh ‘til I cough, then I turn my head and notice that Dave is standing on the other side of the counter. My brother. Grinning like he just found a dollar on the floor. Doing what he does best. Appearing out of nowhere. I don’t want to see him. Because he always wants something. I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take him to show up here. Dave’s an alcoholic and I work in a liquor store. I guess the lightbulb finally went off in his head after a year.

"What’s up, Erv?" Dave says, his grin widening, showing off that sexy gap up top where his tooth used to be. "You work at a liquor store and you never bring home free beer. What’s up with that? Hook me up!"

Joe says he has to go take a dump, then walks to the back of the store.

"What do you need, Dave?" I ask.

"How about a case of beer on the five-finger discount?" he says. "Phil’s out in the truck. How about we load up the back of the truck with a few cases of beer on the house and call it even? You still owe me for that time I robbed the candy store for you."

"You didn’t rob the candy store for me."

"You ate the chocolate, man. You ate it. You ate the candy, so you were, like, an accessory."

"I was what? Eight years old? I was just a kid."

"Erv, bro, pal, buddy, all I’m sayin’ is, I hooked you up back then, and right now I could use some free beer. I could use the hook-up."

I try to ignore the shooting pains that are suddenly bouncing around in my belly, but the discomfort causes me to bend over and lean on the counter for support. "Dave, I can’t give you any free beer. I’m not about to get fired just so you can get drunk. I can give you my employee discount. Twenty percent. But that’s it."

"That’s fucking weak." He takes a step back and shakes his head, then forces a smile. "Sure, whatever. That’s cool, man. Don’t even sweat it. Hey, it was worth a shot, right? Can’t blame a dude for trying."

I glance up at the surveillance camera that’s pointed at the register. It doesn’t record sound, only captures grainy black and white video. "There’s been a bunch of robberies in the area lately. That liquor store right down the street got ripped off last week. The owner’s really nervous that he’s next. I can’t have any kind of funny business going on here at all. Not now. It’s a bad time."

"You’re not going to get robbed," he says matter-of-factly.

"You don’t know that."

He looks around, makes sure no one but me is around to hear him. "I do know it. Because you’re my brother, man. That’s why. I wouldn’t do that to you."

"I don’t get it." Then, suddenly, I get it.

I wish I had a time machine. I want to go back ten seconds and then cover my ears. Want to not know what I now know. "Fuck you, Dave. You’re lying."

"Am I? Remember all those cuts I had last week? Those scrapes and bruises? That was from hiding in the prickly bushes. I hid for fucking hours until the smoke cleared. Every time I went to get up, some police car would roll by. I was paranoid, let me tell ya."

I quietly say, "Shit, Dave. Don’t tell me these things. Damn it."

"I’m just sayin', man, if you’re worried about being robbed like those other stores, don’t. And if you tell anyone what I just told you, I will fucking destroy you." He stares at me, lets me know he’s not joking. Then he smiles and says, "I’m just joking. Let me get a pack of smokes, a sixer of Bud, and some rolling papers. You can buy ‘em for me and I’ll pay you back next week. That cool?"

"Sure," I say. "That’s cool."

A minute later, Dave’s gone and Joe’s standing beside me, his guitar in his hands. He says, "You okay, Erv? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Nah, I’m cool."

Joe sits down on the stool and starts strumming on his Gibson Les Paul, his prize possession.
"You wanna come over after work and play some football? I’m in the mood to kick your ass."

"What a coincidence. I’m in the mood to have my ass kicked."

He adds, "And I promise not to break the controller again if I lose. I just hate to lose."

"I know you do," I say. "I don’t mind losing so much. I’m used to it. I’m good at losing."

A customer comes in and buys a six-pack of Corona and a lime, and I ring him up as Joe plays a few seconds of "Desperado" on his guitar. Another customer comes in and buys a cheap bottle of wine. A short black man comes in and says he needs something to get his lady "in the mood." A teenager comes in and, after I refuse to sell him beer, says, "Come on, man. Don’t be an asshole. Why are you being such a prick? I won’t tell anybody." Customers come and go. Joe plays his guitar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I feel content.

The night passes quickly. We are not robbed at gunpoint. We close the store. Joe counts the money and we leave. We stop at 7-11 for soda and snacks. Joe kicks my ass at the Sega video football game we play every night. I’m always the Eagles. I almost always lose. Life goes on. I vow to never again think of what Dave told me tonight. I’m going to put the information into a secret compartment in my brain. A locked compartment. Then I’m going to lose the imaginary key. Dave was probably just kidding anyway.

Sure, that’s it.

It’s all a big joke.

At 21, Part 7

2007-12-31T12:54:00.000-08:00

1992

I don’t like myself right now. The tense, angry person I’ve become. I’m a jealous beast as I sit in the dark outside Elisa’s house, on her front step, in the middle of the night, her family soundly asleep inside. Elisa’s whereabouts are currently unknown. It’s a stifling summer night. Humid as hell here in Jersey. I’m sweating, although I’d probably be sweating even if it were a cool night because my insides are like a blazing furnace. I don’t want to be this person. The person who waits for his girlfriend to come home, his girlfriend whom he’s sure is out cheating on him. I’ve had other girlfriends, but none like Elisa. I love her so much I almost hate her. And that doesn’t even make sense, except that I know it’s true. I want to be the cool guy who trusts his girlfriend completely and doesn’t sweat it when she’s out without him. The guy who knows that his girlfriend loves him and would never sacrifice that life by cheating. That guy is awesome and I want to be him. But, sadly, I’m the sweaty guy who’s convinced that his girlfriend is at this very moment probably jerking some guy off in the back of a seedy van on a sticky patch of shag carpet while incense and candles burn nearby. Oddly enough, when I think of cool guys, I keep getting this image of Greg Brady from "The Brady Bunch" in my head, but it’s the hip version of Greg, the Johnny Bravo version, with his sunglasses and tight pants and marginal singing talent. But then reality will take hold, and I know that if Elisa’s cheating on me, it’s probably with some guy who’s the complete opposite of me, a guy with muscles, a tan, thick dark hair, lots of money, a cool car, and a huge dick. That’s my nightmare. The antithesis of me. Because once Elisa meets that guy, my days are numbered.

I feel like a boy in a world of men.

We had a major fight earlier today. I said some things, she said some things. Hateful things I’m sure neither of us truly meant. I’m not even sure why we were fighting. Most likely because I’m an irrational asshole. I live my life in constant fear that Elisa will cheat on me. Because she’s beautiful. Because she’s done it before. With me. My downward spiral began last week when she went to visit her ex-boyfriend in Philadelphia. She took the train to the city, spent the day with him, came home to me, swore that nothing happened. Didn’t even tell me she was going until after she returned. "Relax, Ervin," she said, "I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d make a big deal about it. We just sat around and watched a movie. I swear. Dirk is still my friend. Just because I broke up with him it doesn’t mean I can never talk to him again. Sheesh." I wanted to believe her. I always want to believe her, but she’s a terrible liar. She blushes slightly when she lies, her color rises, a delicate pink creeping up her neck. That’s why she likes to talk outside at night. The creeping pink. I can’t see her lies in the night.

I see headlights. Her car. She’s home, finally. I feel like I’ve been waiting for hours. Because I have. She pulls up in front of the house and stumbles out of her car. She’s moderately drunk and clearly feeling good. She’s all giggles and wobble. By the time she notices me, she’s practically tripping over my feet.

"Shit! You scared me. What the fuck are you doing here?" She asks, standing over me as she bends down and removes her high heels.

"I didn’t want to go to bed tonight with us mad at each other. Where have you been all night?"

"I was at a club with some of the girls from work."

No eye-contact. Bad sign.

"It’s almost three in the morning, and it’s a weeknight. Wouldn’t the club have closed already? Like, long ago."

"What is this, a fucking interrogation? Damn it. Leave me alone."

"Why are we always fighting?" I ask.

"Because you’re a jerk. You’re always up my ass."

She smells of cigarettes, pot, perfume, and cologne. She carries the aroma of sweaty, musky men. Of rich Italian guys who drive fancy cars and buy their girlfriends new breasts. I wonder how the scent of other men has found its way onto my girlfriend’s clothes and skin. It had to be an accident. Those dance clubs can get pretty packed. No room to walk. Have to fight your way through the crowd. Yeah, that sounds like a good explanation.

Elisa steps over me and unlocks the door, as if I were a trash bag. She’s wearing a tight, short black dress and dark stocking. She looks gorgeous. Stunning. I know every guy at the club was looking her way. How many of them asked her to dance? How many asked for her phone number? How many tried to kiss her?

"Can I come in? I’m sorry. Let’s make nice." I smile, the biggest, phoniest smile I can muster. I need to inspect her. Need to get her into the light.

"I don’t know, Erv. It’s late. I’m buzzed, and you’re a killer of buzzes right now. I just want to go to bed."

"Please let me come inside. I’ve missed you. I’ve been waiting here for hours to see you."

She sighs. "God forbid I have a couple of hours without you. Fuck. Okay, Fine."

I follow her inside. Into the light. The telling illumination. I see the red around her mouth. Like she’s been drinking juice. A closer look reveals the truth. Little red bumps. The kind a girl gets when she’s been making out with a guy who hasn’t shaved that day. Oh no. Oh shit no. Her breath is different as well. Sour, but not her kind of sour. Someone else’s kind of sour. A guy’s bad breath. A guy’s saliva. I know all of Elisa’s various odors, and these are not here odors. She’s doused in the scent of another.

"You fucking cheated on me," I say.

"Shh," she says. "Everyone’s sleeping."

We’re in her kitchen. Flies are buzzing over a pizza box on the table. A slice of pepperoni pizza that looks to be about three days old sits in box. The trash can is overflowing onto the floor. The kitchen smells like the Dumpster behind Pizza Tent. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but it’s not the dirty kitchen that’s making me nauseated. It’s what I now know. Elisa has not been faithful.

I grab her shoulders and push her against the refrigerator. Our mouths close. Our noses touching. "I can’t believe it. You hooked up with someone. You’ve just ruined us."

Her actions can never be undone. There’s no fixing this. She cheated. On me.

She starts to cry.

"I...it was nothing. I don’t even like the guy. He was just...random, just there. I mean, I’ll never see him again."

Confirmation hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut. Like I’m leaking acid on the inside and it’s working its way to the outside.

"So it’s fucking true? This is really happening?"

I let go of her. Turn away. Walk into the living room. She follows.

"We just kissed. We made out for awhile in the back of the club. We danced, you know, dirty dancing, like in the movie. Then we kissed for a long time. He had stubble and hurt my face."

I collapse onto the couch and bury my head in my hands. "I hate you," I whisper. She doesn’t hear me.

"Ervin, you were such a jerk today. All that fighting we did. It made me angry. I was fucking pissed."

"So you cheat on me? What kind of bullshit is that? Couples fight all the time. It’s common. But then they don’t go out and cheat on each other. That’s, like, sickening. Like you were just looking for any excuse to mess around with some other guy."

She sits down next to me and says, "We just kissed. I swear. I wouldn’t let him have sex with me. He wanted to, but I wouldn’t. He wasn’t even good-looking. I was drunk and he was sweet, but then later on he wasn’t so sweet." She touches my damp hair. My chin. Lifts my head until we’re eye-to-eye. "It won’t happen again. I realized when I was doing it just how much I love you. That’s why I stopped. It started out as, like, revenge on you for being mean to me, but then it got out of hand. I drank too much. I love you, honey, more than anything."

I stare at her face, at the red, pimply outline around her mouth. Clown lips. Another man did that to her. Stuck his tongue in her mouth. Tasted her saliva. Mixed it with his. Her soft face was damaged by his the roughness of him, the faceless brute who will forever taunt me.

The bad thoughts hit me rapidly. I can’t fight them off. It’s a losing battle. What if she’s lying? What if they went further than she’s willing to admit? What if he touched her in places deep and dark and mine? What if his erection thrilled her? What if he took her somewhere private? His car? Behind the club? The men’s room? What if she lifted her dress for him? What if she eased her panties down below her knees and allowed him entrance?

Oh, man, I’m going to be sick. Have to know for sure. Have to check her out. Give her a physical. Inspect the merchandise. I’m a horrible, jealous, angry person. I am not myself. Still, I need to know the truth. And the truth is right there in front of me. If I can get her panties off, I will know right away if another man has been there. It’s awful, I know. But right now I see no other options. I can’t leave without knowing. Can’t breathe without the truth. I need to know if my girlfriend has been tainted. I can smell him on her mouth, and I’m sure I’d be able to smell him between her legs.

"C’mon," I say, taking her hand and leading her upstairs. I will get her into her bedroom and lock the door. I will undress her. I will inspect her body as if it’s a crime scene. And she will let me. Because all the while I’ll pretend everything is fine. I’ll touch her tenderly. Rub and stroke. Whisper loving words. Until I get the information I need. I don’t want to know. I have to know.

"It’s okay, baby," I say, pushing her back on the bed, spreading her legs apart.

"Stop," she says. "I don’t want to do this right now."

"Because you’ve already had sex tonight?"

"Fuck you."

I’m grinding against her. She moans against her will. Elisa does not want me to make her feel good, but I do it anyway. I kiss her neck. Nibble on her ear. Pinch her nipples. She tries to kiss my lips but I quickly turn away.

"What?" she asks.

"I’m not kissing you after some other guy had his tongue in your mouth. That’s gross. I’ll have sex with you, but I won’t kiss you."

My fingers slip under her panties. She’s soaking wet.

"You’re a jerk," she moans, her nails digging into my back.

"And you’re a cheater."

"If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t be together."

I hate it when she makes sense.

Again she tries to kiss me. Again I’m too quick for her.

"You wanna play games, Ervin? Fine," she says, laughing without a trace of humor.

She wraps her arms around me and we roll over. I’m on my back. She’s on top. Her dress comes off. My pants follow. She pulls my underwear down, sees my excitement, takes hold of it. Doesn’t take her panties off. Pulls them to one side. With her fingers, she shares her wetness. Then takes what she wants. Has her way. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard. This excited. Elisa’s never been as wet. Our excitement will be the end of us. We revel in pain and jealously, transform anger into excitement. We’ll have an amazing ten minutes. But we will be forever tainted. Will we be able to look each other in the eye when we’re done? Will there be any respect? How much love will be lost?

She takes hold of her breasts and licks her own nipples. Her hips rise and fall. Elisa looks down and smiles slyly. She loves seeing me disappear inside of her. Her filthy magic trick. We’re quickly soaked all over. Sweat, tears, sex. Elisa pounds against me with a violent fury and I fear she may break me. She scratches me. Add blood to the wetness. This isn’t love. This is something else. Only one more fluid has yet to be added to the nasty mixture, and she’s working like an animal to get it out of me. Get it inside of her. She’s moving so fast she’s like a strobe light, a shadow, a runaway train. She slows down when I tell her I’m close. Slows to a near-halt. We’re both panting. She rises up just enough so that I slip out of her. Fucking torture. My manhood throbs and bounces about my stomach like a fish pulled from a pond and thrown to the grass.

"Please," I say, with pathetic, voice-cracking desperation. "You’re not playing fair."

"You won’t kiss me after some other guy has, huh? That’s a joke. But you’ll fuck me after someone else has, is that it? You’ll take sloppy seconds? You’re so fucking noble, right? That’s a laugh."

"Stop it!" I say.

"Stop what?"

"Talking," I say.

"Don’t worry, Ervin. I wore a rubber with him. I always wear a rubber with guys I don’t love. That’s how you know I love you."

She’s drunk and angry. Maybe mostly angry with herself. Saying things she’ll regret. Things she needn’t have revealed. I’d have rather not known. Not been given the details. Because tomorrow I am going to hate her. The love will still be there, but it’ll be wrapped in a putrid ball of hate.

I think about what she said. Her cheating. The other guy. I think that there will always be an "other guy." I know it. I start to lose my erection. Elisa notices, and quickly wraps her fingers around me.

"Do you love me right now, or do you hate me?" she asks.

"Right now I don’t see a difference. Ask me again tomorrow."

I close my eyes as she eases me back in. We’re both crying. Elisa is sobbing. I’m quiet but my eyes are no less damp. We don’t speak. We’ve run out of words. Out of words and out of respect. We have sex. Reckless sex. Because that’s all we really know how to do together. We do it until I’m done. Until I can no longer stay inside her. We do it until my limpness severs the connection, then I roll off of her and stare at the ceiling. Elisa sits up and lights a cigarette.

Tears begin to stream down her face, drip from her chin.

"I’m so sorry, Ervin."

"Me, too," I say.

"Do you still love me?" she asks.

"I do."

"Can we just pretend tonight never happened? The bad parts of tonight? I promise I won’t hurt you like this again."

"We can try," I say, nuzzling up against her.

Elisa smells bad. Has the rank odor of a sweaty girl who has spread herself around. Still, I kiss the dark skin of her belly. Pull her close. Squeeze.

We cry together for awhile. Then I dress and leave.

I feel dirty and despicable. I’m not even sure what just happened. All I want to do is go home and shower. Cleanse myself. Redden my skin with scalding water until I’m clean, if that’s even possible anymore. I’m sad because I know that cozy future I had planned out for us is never going to happen. I know our relationship is over. I’m just not ready to admit it yet.

At 11, Part 2

2007-12-25T13:51:00.000-08:00

1983

I think I’ve finally adjusted to life in Cherry Hill. I still miss my old friends in Pennsauken, but I’m starting to make new friends here. I’m more comfortable now, I don’t feel horribly alone, and I’ve even stopped wetting the bed; I haven’t pissed my pants in months, not since that last night at Mt. Misery. I never thought I would like it here, but I do. Mom’s right about Cherry Hill. It is better than Pennsauken. Much better school system; it’s taken me a year to catch up with the smarter Cherry Hill kids, who were way ahead of me when I arrived; I’ve noticed that when you move from a poor town to a rich town, you’re kind of fucked for awhile at school. But I’m learning more now. The things I’m learning in sixth grade in Cherry Hill wouldn’t have been taught to me until seventh or eight grade in Pennsauken. I feel like my brain is much bigger these days, and maybe one day it’ll be large enough to fill my entire unnaturally huge head.

Another benefit of living in Cherry Hill: there’s much less of a chance that I will acquire head lice. I’m sure I’ve got scars from the many times Mom’s had to run that metal comb over my scalp until the very last nit was excised. (I picture head lice like Sea Monkeys. Cartoon Sea Monkeys like in those ads inside comic books. Happy and restful. In their little kingdom, my scalp.) The low-income kids in Pennsauken might have been friendlier and less snooty than the rich Cherry Hill kids, but they were also generally unclean and more likely to be compromised by lice, worms, bacteria, and fungi. So, yeah, I miss my old friends. I just don’t miss the bugs they transferred onto me.

We’re here in Cherry Hill thanks to Rental Assistance. Thanks to food stamps. Thanks to the Free Lunch Program. When you’re poor and have no daddy, the government gives you stuff. When your mother is a waitress and has five kids to support on her own, you learn to like Government Cheese, even if its color reminds you of something that might have leaked out of a nuclear reactor and congealed in a nearby lake. Not all of the fathers are deadbeats like my old man. William’s father gives Mom a few bucks, I’m sure. Ron, Dave, and Sheri’s father, Big Ron, is safely tucked away in Trenton State Prison. If you have a job in prison, they pay you about 10 cents an hour. Not enough for child support. And as for my father, there are probably more sightings of Big Foot than glimpses of good ol’ Big Erv. So the Government has been helping out lately. They’re good like that. With the fake money and the near-fake food. But it would be nice for once in my life to eat some cheese that didn’t glow in the dark. A boy can dream.

We live in an apartment building in Cherry Hill, which is a well-respected town, but you wouldn’t know it from the dump we’re now occupying. It’s not dangerous. Not that kind of slum. Not like Camden, which is one of the most dangerous cities in America. I see no murders taking place in the stairwell, no drug deals, no bloodstains, no yellow police tape, but the building is falling apart and is infested with cockroaches. The bugs are in charge. You just can’t get rid of them. A man comes and sprays once a month, but it’s a little bit like trying to clean the carpet with a defective vacuum cleaner—maybe it initially looks like it’s working, but all it’s really doing is spreading the filth around. I sleep with the lights on, because, except for a few bold little fuckers, the cockroaches only come out in the dark. I fear bugs in the darkness more than I fear ghosts and ghouls and serial killers. Because the bugs are real. A boy can’t have a cockroach climb out of his bowl of Quisp and not be scarred for life.

Cherry Hill is only dangerously emotionally. When you shop at K-mart and wear ugly clothes to school. When the rich kids make fun of your tight, torn jeans and your five-dollar sneakers that were last in style about two decades earlier. When they look at you and know immediately that you do not fit it. When they determine your entire social future with a dismissive eye roll and a wave of the hand. When a kid whose father in the Head of Pediatric Medicine at a large Philadelphia hospital asks you what your father does for a living (Answer: "He’s a runner. He’s constantly running from child-support payments."). When they determine that you’re not worthy of their time on the first day of school. When "you" is me.

Mom works long hours at her white little box of a burger joint, while William, Sheri, and myself try to keep it together at home. Dave is in juvie, doing time for the theft of chocolate bunnies, many of which ended up in my belly. Ron has joined the military. So I’m the one who gets stuck watching William almost every day, because Sheri’s out being a teenager and rebelling against the Man. She’s busy stealing wallets and smoking cigarettes and having long, suspicious, smiling conversations with older men who look like they haven’t changed their Grateful Dead T-shirts or washed their ponytailed, thinning hair since Woodstock. Sheri is a pretty girl, in a Switchblade Sisters, don’t-fuck-with-me kind of way. I don’t know for sure, but I’d be willing to bet that she carries a small knife in her back pocket. She’s sweet to me, a good sister, but I pity any teenage girl or boy who tries to mess with her, because they will get smashed in the face by her powerful fist.

The apartment building, Chapel Manor, is not all bad. For the first time in my life, I’m living somewhere with a swimming pool, and there are several kids my own age. And some of them are even girls. Many sexy pre- and post-pubescent girls. With or without boobs. There’s a pool and the girls walk around nearly naked all summer long, their bodies glistening from suntan lotion, water, and sweat—it’s glorious—and during the course of a typical day I get many, many erections, which I hide under the water in the deep end. I’ve become a great swimmer because of those erections, keeping afloat for long periods of time until those boners go away.

I’ve already found a new best friend. His name’s Todd and he has a hand that’s nearly as fucked up as my slightly-deformed left hand; his right hand accidentally got caught in a defective mall escalator. Ripped the skin right off the top of his hand. They had to graft skin from his ass onto his hand, which is kind of funny and makes for some real comedy gold when we’re busting on each other. Ass skin attached to any part of the body other than the ass is pretty damned hysterical. Todd is a complete smart-ass as well, totally full of shit, and a bit of a troublemaker. Good for me. I need to come out of my shell. Stop being so shy. Maybe kiss a girl or two. Touch a boob. Todd said he could get me laid. I’m hoping he meant with a girl. Hoping Todd was joking when he offered to show me how to masturbate properly. ("Come on, Erv, whip it out and we’ll do it together, so you can compare how I do it with the way you do it. Guys do that kind of stuff all the time. It’s called a sword fight. It’s not gay or anything. It’s just, you know, guy fun.") I’m probably not ready to put my penis anywhere other than my own palm at this point in my life. I don’t think I want to have actual sex. I’m too young. A kiss would be nice, though. A kiss smack on the bee-stung lips of a pretty girl. Maybe some hot tongue action. I wouldn’t mind finding a girlfriend. I’d like to have a girl hold my hand (the good hand, not the scarred one). That would be nice.

Tonight, I am falling in line as Todd’s devious, compliant sidekick. His parents are out of town for the weekend, so we hatched a brilliant scheme. His parents think he’s staying at my second-floor apartment. My mother doesn’t know his parents are away, so she agreed to let me spend the night at Todd’s sixth-floor apartment. It’s easy to get over on your parent (parents) when she (they) trust you. Here we are. Sitting together on his balcony. Chain-smoking Marlboros (the cigarette of choice for the image-conscious elementary school student) and drinking wine coolers. I’ve never smoked or drank before tonight. It’s after midnight and I’m feeling nice. A not entirely unpleasant combination of euphoric, dizzy, and nauseated. Todd says I’m buzzed. Says he can tell by my dopey smile. My skin tingles from scalp to toes. My throat is sore. But that constant burning in my belly has finally stopped. That uneasiness has subsided. As if I’ve never been relaxed in my entire life until this very moment.

In a few minutes, the second phase of our plan will begin. Sneak out in the moonlit night and walk to the local 24-hour convenience store, where we will play Donkey Kong until dawn. Maybe some Ms. Pac-Man as well. Video games, ridiculously-large sugary beverages, juicy hot dogs. Kid heaven. Pocketful of quarters. Another addiction to feed the demon. Keep my buzz going. Some kids rebel by stealing, cheating, breaking, screwing, fighting, etc. I rebel by staying up all night with my hand on a joystick.

I feel something hot and acidic rising up my throat. My stomach spasms. I think Uh oh. "I’m gonna puke," I say. I quickly cover my mouth with both hands. My throat burns. I try to fight it. Can’t. The cigarettes and sugary wine coolers have made me sick to my stomach.

"Just let it go, dude," Todd says. "Puke right off the balcony. Who cares?"

I lean forward, on all-fours, my big head just barely fitting between the balcony’s metal bars. I let go. Happily release a chunky torrent. I vomit in an unreal-looking dark, thick stream. It hurts while it’s happening. My ears pop. Then comes instant relief. Once it’s gone, out of me, I’m better. Left with just the buzz and none of the sickness. I breathe in a heavy dose of cool night air and wipe my mouth with my hand.

Todd watches excitedly. "Fuck yeah!" he says. "You’re a fucking maniac. Man, you really blew some chunks!"

I don’t see the old man sitting on the bench below until my vomit is halfway to the ground. My mess lands right in front of him. Mostly right in front of him. Some of it doesn’t quite reach "in front of." A few drops land on his shoes. Big drops. He pops up like someone who’s just sat down on a thumb tack and looks up. I jump back. Todd laughs like a madman.

"Who’s up there?" the old man screams. "Who did this? I’ll call the police! This is assault!" Then he gives us the classic: "I’ll get you lousy goddam kids!"

Todd pulls me inside the apartment and slams the glass door closed. He’s laughing so hard he’s crying.

"Good one, Erv. You showed that old guy’s shoes who’s boss."

I feel bad about vomiting on the old guy, but I want to look cool in front of Todd, so I force out a laugh. Actually, I don’t feel that bad about it. I’ve recently taken over as our building’s paperboy, and the old guy is one of my customers. He’s a rude, non-tipping bastard who deserves a little puke on his loafers. His wife is timid and shaky, so I’m sure he beats her. He probably has her tied to the bed right this very minute. I would slander him if I knew his first name.

Ten minutes later, I’m cautiously stepping down the stairwell, right behind Todd, who is leading this particular stealth mission. We’re tiptoing. Taking soft steps. Exiting the building and quickly moving out of sight. Traveling through dark streets and back alleys. Staying off the main roads. We’re pretending that the zombies have finally taken over, that we’re the last two boys on earth, that we must sneak around quietly in the dark or else have our intestines eaten by the living dead.

I say, "We have to be careful. I don’t want to get arrested. My older brother just got locked up recently, and I can’t put my mother through that again."

"You can’t get arrested for playing video games," Todd says. "This isn’t Nazi Germany. They can’t lock kids up just for walking down the street in the middle of the night. That’s, like, facist or something. America’s a free country, dude."

We see headlights coming our way. Todd ducks behind a truck. I follow. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder. Breathing heavy. Sweating. It’s the beginning of June, a few days before my birthday.
"If what we’re doing is okay, why are we hiding?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Because there are people out there who always want to ruin our good time. Like, your brothers in jail, but I’ll bet he didn’t do anything that bad, right?"

"Well, he did rob a candy store. A couple of times. And probably there were about a million crimes he committed that he they didn’t catch him for. Dave told me about this one time he beat some guy up outside of an arcade. He said he put the guy’s mouth on curb. Teeth on cement. Then slammed his foot down on the back of the guy’s head. Dave said teeth flew everywhere, and the sidewalk was dripping blood. Dave ran home and thought for sure they were going to arrest him for that, but they never did."

"No way! He couldn’t have done that. He would’ve killed the guy."

"Well, he did it. He wouldn’t lie about something like that. Dave doesn’t lie. He always tells the truth."

"Wow, your brother is a badass!" Todd says, impressed.

I smile, with more than a little pride. "Yeah, Dave’s cool, and he’s my brother."

"Then how’d you turn out to be such a nerd?" Todd says, grinning in his natural smart-ass way.

"Bite me,"

"Whip it out."

We step out from behind the car and continue our journey. We’re a good pair. Two pals on a quest. A journey for pleasure. We walk until we see the shining, wonderful sign. OPEN 24 HRS. I put both hands in my pockets and feel the quarters. Jiggle them around. Squeeze. Shift. Rub. Todd tells me we’re the coolest kids around, because we’re the only ones with the balls to sneak out in the middle of the night to pursue our passion.

"If we keep this up, we’ll be the best Donkey Kong players in the world and probably become famous. We’ll be so famous, we’ll get laid like rock stars."

"Yeah!" I say, not exactly sure how playing video games can make a guy famous, but still loving the fantasy.

We enter the store, fill up our large cups with ice and cola, cover our brown, shriveled hot dogs with mustard, pay the bored-looking bald guy behind the counter, then settle in front of our favorite machine. We drop the quarters. Shared a smile. Start the game. I’m trembling with anticipation. It feels good to be here. Feels good to be bad. The familiar music begins. We play. Reality fades. A whole new world opens up for us. Life is good. We’re jumping barrels and saving the girl. We’re no longer Todd and Ervin. We’re Mario. And no obstacle can stop us.

"This is awesome," I say.

Todd lays an arm over my shoulder and says, "See, I told you this would be a good idea."

When the two police officers enter the store, we haven’t even finished our first game. My hands start to sweat. I lose grip of the joystick. I die. The smaller version of me dies. The video game version. My death music plays. Wah wah waaaaah.

Todd whispers, "Just be cool, Erv. Let me handle this."

A muscular black policeman taps me on the shoulder and says, "Do your parents know where you kids are? It’s two in the morning, and you two shouldn’t be here."

I stutter. Try to speak. Nothing. I feel the vomit creeping up the back of my throat.

Todd boldly states, "Our parents are dead. Plane crash. We jumped out at the last second and survived. We take care of ourselves now. I’m eighteen."

The cops look at each other and shake their heads, clearly doubting Todd’s story.

The muscular cop squeezes my shoulder. His death grip weakens me. He asks me if my mother knows I’m here. I surrender. "No, sir," I say. "We snuck out. Our parents don’t know that we’re here."

"Let’s go, delinquents," he says, leading us out to his patrol car.

His skinny, pale partner giggles and mutters, "Kids these days. Full of stories."

Sitting in the back of the police car next to Todd, I start to cry. I don’t want to go to juvenile detention. My only hope is that they’ll send me to the same place as Dave. He’ll protect me from the anal rape and the shanking and the boy gangs.

Todd, looking like someone who’s spent a little time in the back of a police car, shakes his head and gives me a look of total disgust. "Pussy," he says.

I lower my head and fight back tears. I wish I wasn't a pussy. I want to be strong, like Dave. He'd never cry in the back of a police car. My brother never cries, not even on the day they locked him up. He just smiled and said, "It's not so bad. I'm gonna rule that place." I think When Dave gets out of juvenile detention, I'm going to ask him to teach me how to fight. I'm going to ask him to make me tough, like him. I'm gonna ask Dave to teach me everything he knows about being tough. I smile. When Dave comes home, he'll show me how to be just like him, and I'll never be a pussy again.

At 25, Part 5

2007-12-19T23:12:00.000-08:00

1996

Dave downs the last few drops from the twelve-ounce can as he and his best friend, Phil, continue to work their way through a case of cheap beer. They’re having a party for two in the living room of my mother’s house. Listening to some tunes as they blow smoke rings and chug cans of warm Old Milwaukee. Dave has a story for each new classic rock song that plays on the radio—he fucked so and so while listening to "Sweet Home Alabama," smoked his first joint while listening to Led Zeppelin, stole his first record when Frampton Comes Alive came out. Dave’s drunk and clearly trying to impress Phil with his wild stories of youthful rebellion. Fucked this girl here. Beat that guy up there. Stole this kid’s bike back when. Ate all of Erv’s Halloween candy that one time. Dave tells funny stories, but they’re the same stories he always tells when he’s drunk. And he’s always drunk.

I’m trying to ignore them, trying to walk past and make my way into the kitchen, trying to be the Invisible Man. They’re in good spirits. It’s pre-game for them. Getting drunk is the warm-up for the harder stuff. My only consolation is that I know they’ll soon be gone. Once the beer runs out, once all the little red cans are crushed and littering the floor, Dave and Phil will head out to score the harder stuff. Some crack, some heroin, a rock of some sort, whatever it is that they’ll be snorting or inhaling tonight. The beer is an appetizer for them. Something to wet the palate. Soon they will leave, and I just need to wait them out. I will make a quick snack. I will walk back to my bedroom and lock the door. They will leave. Maybe not return for days. Life will be good. When Dave’s around, life is horrible, so I cherish each moment I have without him. Mom won’t throw him out onto the street, even though that’s what he probably needs. She’ll let him stay and torture all of us.

I make a break for the kitchen. I’m tense, holding my breath, trying not to make a sound, to be a ghost. Almost there, almost there, almost there. Walking, walking, walking. I don’t make eye-contact with them. Maybe they don’t see me.

"What’s up, Erv? What’cha doin’, brother?" Dave shouts. He always talks a little louder when he’s drunk.

"Just grabbing a bite to eat."

Phil lifts up a can of Old Milwaukee. "You want a beer?"

"No, I’m good. Thanks."

"Erv don’t drink, Phil," Dave says, big smile on his face. "Erv’s the good son. He don’t cause Mom no trouble. He don’t do nothing but sit in his room and read comic books. Sometimes he’s in there all day reading books. It’s fucking weird. I mean, who sits around and reads all day when there’s so much good pussy out there?"

Phil rubs his dark goatee and offers a sincere nod. "No, that’s cool. People should read books. I should get some books."

"Yeah, Erv’s a real brain. Super smart. Been to college and everything."

Dave has the false notion that I am some sort of intellectual, but that’s just not the truth. I performed horribly in high school, especially during Senior Year, when I missed more than thirty days because I started dating a twenty-two-year-old woman (not realizing that, if I wanted to graduate, I’d have to make up most of those missed days in Saturday school, which was not nearly as much fun as The Breakfast Club made it appear), started getting laid on a regular basis. And as for my great college education, a few years at Camden County College is not exactly a great accomplishment; I simply had nothing better to do at the time, and it was nice to be able to say that I was "going to college." Dave can barely read, so my having a large collection of books might intimidate him somewhat. Although he doesn’t take into consideration that most of my books have pictures in them, are about Batman, and are only twenty-two pages long.

I shouldn’t say a word to Dave. Shouldn’t even open my mouth. Should just make my snack and wait patiently for he and Phil to leave, but I can’t. "Dave, seriously, you shouldn’t be sitting here getting drunk in Mom’s house. It’s disrespectful."

"Go fuck yourself, bitch!" he says. "You gonna start this shit again tonight. Give me a fucking break. We’re just chillin’, man. Relax."

Phil politely says, "We’ll be out of here soon. Don’t worry. I don’t mean to disrespect your mother’s home. We’re just having a few beers, and then we’ll head out. No harm intended." Even drunk, Phil has manners. He’s not a bad guy from what I know of him. He just likes his booze and his drugs. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone; he just wants to party. I can respect that. Phil is more cerebral than Dave. Phil likes to drink his beer and quietly chill, while Dave just won’t shut up. I guess opposites attract.

Dave laughs. "Fuck off, Erv. This is my house. My fuckin’ house! You get out. You leave. I want you out of my house. I’m the king. King Dave. I wanna drink beer on a Tuesday night, that’s what I’m gonna do. Why you always trying to ruin my party? Loosen up, man. C’mon, buddy. Sit with me and Phil and have a few beers. Get that stick out of your ass. Be one of the guys for once."

I shake my head. "I don’t want any trouble. I just want to eat something and go to bed. I worked all day and wanted to come home to a little peace and quiet."

Dave puts his hand to his ear. "What’d you say, Erv? You wanna eat some dick? I know you’re a faggot. Don’t think I don’t know. Reading all those comic books. What kind of grown man reads comic books? A faggot, that’s who."

"Yeah, you caught me. I’m gay. You’ve outed me. Call the local papers. Once again, you’ve discovered that I’m gay. This is, like, the twentieth time you’ve discovered I’m gay. Amazing." I’m getting warm. Hot. My skin burns. Itches. I feel like I’ve been sprayed with an industrial-strength insecticide. Like I might spontaneously combust. I take a breath. Close my eyes. Calm myself. Try to, anyway.

I inhale and cough. The air is filled with the odor of two overflowing ashtrays’ worth of cigarette smoke. A thick, gray cloud of pollution.

"Is that how you cough when you’re choking on dick, Erv?" Dave asks, with his usual grin.

"You tell me," I say. "You’re the one who’s been to prison."

Dave loses his grin. A vein begins to throb in his neck.

"Why don’t you leave him alone, Dave?" Phil says. "Your brother’s a cool kid. He ain’t bothering nobody."

Dave nods. "Yeah, he knows I’m just fucking with him. He knows I ain’t serious. Me and Erv are best pals. We go way back. I’m his favorite brother."

Third favorite I think. But it wasn’t always that way.

When I was fourteen, Dave caught me masturbating. I was on my knees in the bathroom, facing the toilet, shorts around my ankles. A magazine opened to a particularly raunchy two-page lesbian spread rested on the floor to my left. Swank. Dave’s magazine that I swiped from his dresser. A filthy spank rag opened to a page where two kind of hairy, kind of out of shape, kind of skanky, unenthusiastic ladies "pleasured" each other for my whacking enjoyment. They were not Playboy material. They hadn’t been groomed properly. Hadn’t been airbrushed at all, when clearly they needed a little photographic trickery. It was hard to keep up my erection, though, because every time my fantasy put me in the picture with the two unkept ladies, put me at the photo shoot, I imagined that these two ladies stunk like pot and dirty pillows. Still, even working with only sixty-percent of a hard-on, I was getting close. In my fantasy, the hairy girls promised to shower next time we got it on in my imagination. My fantasy quickly shifted; it was the same two girls, but now they were clean, freshly showered. This thought helped speed the process along. Jerking fast, the act was almost at completion. I was aiming my mess for the toilet. No muss, no fuss. Shoot, wipe, piss, flush. Then I heard the click behind me, the turning of the knob. I had forgotten to lock the door. The door opened, but only a few inches. It was a small bathroom, and my feet blocked the door from opening all the way. "I’m in here! I’m in here!" I said, in a breathless panic. "Oh, sorry," Dave said, quickly closing the door. I’m sure he knew what I was doing. Must have. He’s a guy and there’s no way he didn’t figure it out. But he never said a word. Never used it against me. Never told my mother. Never brought it up when drunk. I’ve always appreciated that, and in those moments when I want to hate Dave, I try and remember that incident. Try to remind myself that Dave can be cool once in a while. These days, I need a lot of reminding.

I walk away from Dave and head into the kitchen, then run cold water over my face. I grab a can of soda and a bag of chips. When I turn to leave the kitchen, Dave is standing in my way.

"I see how you are," Dave says. He’s grinning, but there’s anger beneath those lips. There’s hatred. "You read all those books and think you’re so smart, and then you try to make me look bad in front of my friends. You’re an asshole."

"I don’t think I’m that smart."

"You think you’re better than me."

"I think I’m different from you."

"Come sit and have a beer with us. We have company. Don’t be rude."

"No thanks."

I bump into him as I try to make it out of the kitchen. It’s like hitting a damp wall. He steps aside. His breath is hot and rank.

"You hate me, don’t you?" he asks.

"Sometimes," I say.

"Me, too," he says.

"Have a good night, Dave."

I walk away. He follows.

"So, Erv, buddy, pal. How about that twenty dollars?"

"Let me think about it."

"Think fast."

I go back to my room, quickly put on jeans and a T-shirt, then I sneak out the side door. That’s what it has come to. I sneak out of my own house. My head throbs, skin still burning. I will walk around the block until Dave and Phil are gone. I will walk until it’s safe to go home again. I walk. There’s no going home. I walk in circles around the neighborhood. I walk for two hours. My stomach burns, as usual. Always burns. I walk until I notice that my mother’s car is parked in front of the house. Then I go home.

Mom is on her knees, crying and picking up crushed beer cans and cigarette butts off of the carpet.

"What did I do to deserve a son like that?" she asks.

"What did I do to deserve a brother like that?" I add.

We both shrug, then I help her clean up Dave’s mess.

At 21, Part 6

2007-12-11T01:44:00.000-08:00

1992

We’re the happy couple. Ervin and Elisa. She dumped her fiancé and made it official with me. Finally, after months of struggle, I’ve gotten what I wanted. Elisa all to myself. No more secrets. No more lies. No more Elisa fucking some other guy on the weekends. Now, I get to fuck her seven days a week, should I so desire. And I don’t have to worry about having sloppy-seconds. I have to admit, though, that there was a certain thrill when our love was clandestine. An electricity in our secret sex. It was hot. Stolen moments. The risk of it all. The exhilaration one gets when making another man’s girlfriend come, repeatedly. The pride I felt in knowing that I made Elisa come more often than he did. Like it was some sick sexual contest. Like someone was keeping score. Okay, Dirk fucked Elisa three times over the weekend and made her come twice. Ervin fucked Elisa four times during the week and made her come six times. Ervin wins!

Elisa will never admit it, but I know she enjoyed making love to two different men, taking turns. I know it wasn’t easy for her to dump Dirk, and I’m sure the day she finally ended their relationship was very painful. But Elisa had many months with two men satisfying her sexual needs. I wanted to prove that I was the right man for her, so I performed every sexual feat I’d ever seen in movies or read in books on her. And Elisa was up for it all, usually after a few beers. Her boyfriend was at a great disadvantage during the competition. Because he didn’t know that there even was a competition. But fuck him. I won and he lost.

I won the prize. Even when it looked bleak, when Elisa accepted Dirk’s marriage proposal, I never gave up on the girl I love. I wanted Elisa. Had to have her. So I won her heart, with a perfect combination of affection, romance, humor, and messy, uninhibited sex. Also, I was just promoted to assistant manager at Pizza Tent, so I’m Elisa’s boss now and she kind of has to do whatever I say.

Now, we’re normal. We’re dating. I’m an assistant manager at Pizza Tent, making a decent wage, with a wonderful chance for future growth with the company. Pizza Tent’s regional manager says he sees great potential in me, says I’m a fine young man, a great asset to the company. Elisa is a cashier, but hopes to one day become a waitress. Neither of us know what we want to do with our lives. We’re just living in the moment. Selling pizza. I’ve always wanted to do something creative, maybe writing, maybe taking pictures, maybe something in the movie industry. But I could just stay with Pizza Tent and someday have the chance to run my very own store. Sure, it might not be the most glamorous career I could envision for myself, but a Pizza Tent head manager makes over thirty thousand dollars a year. That would be enough for Elisa and me to support a few babies, buy a small house and a car. A modest, good life. But a life with Elisa. The girl I love. I could live with that. Who needs college? Who needs glamour? Isn’t love enough?

I have Pizza Tent. I have Elisa. All the pizza I can eat. All the Elisa I can eat.

What more could a guy ask for?

But...

Since the moment our relationship became official, I’ve had an uneasiness in my gut. A gentle, persistent spasm. A shred of doubt? I don’t know. Like I have to now be perfect. The best boyfriend ever. One slip-up and I could lose her. I feel like she will cheat on me if I am not wonderful. Even if I am wonderful, she might cheat on me anyway. Damn it. It’s a lot of work to be the boyfriend of a sexy, sexual girl. Men are always looking as she walks past. The problem with Elisa is, sometimes she looks back. She once laughed and told me that she’s cheated on every boyfriend she’s ever had. Those words haunt me. Mock me. What did I expect? Look at how our relationship began. She didn’t even hesitate to fuck me while she was seeing another guy. Fuck me without a condom. Wasn’t really a problem at the time. Now it feels like it might be a bit of a problem.

Maybe Dave was right when he said, "Erv, I’m telling you...ugly chicks are the way to go. They’re loyal. You date a hot, model-type chick and other guys always want to fuck her. You date a nasty-looking, dirty fucking skank, no one else will ever want her, so she’s all yours. No worries. Plus, ugly chicks swallow, and that’s been proven, like, scientifically."

The philosophy of Dave.

Thanks, brother.

When I first met Elisa, I assumed I had no shot. She had a boyfriend. A surly, unseen boyfriend. She’s a beautiful girl. I’m decent-looking, I guess, nothing extraordinary. Just a regular guy. Not hideous, certainly, but no male model, either. No shot, right? Still, I tried. I flirted just for the hell of it. Elisa flirted back. I pushed, she pulled. All very innocent, I thought. We started hugging each other at hello and goodbye. Her hand would fall on my knee while we sat talking, her fingers then beginning a gentle caress. Soon came the kisses on the cheek. Sexual banter. Longer, stronger hugs. Kisses on the cheek that began grazing the lips. Then quick pecks on the mouth. I thought that was as far as it would go. Until one night when her tongue slid deep into my mouth. On New Year’s Eve. As we said goodbye in the parking lot. As she left to go spend the holiday with her boyfriend. She kissed me, passionately, lovingly, smiled deviously as my eyes went wide with surprise, then Elisa went off to spend a romantic night with her boyfriend, ushering in the new year. I remember, just after the kiss happened, on that wonderful December 31st, I walked back to the make-table in a daze and said to Manny, "Elisa just stuck her tongue down my throat." He laughed and smacked my back hard, said, "Well, if you don’t start fucking her immediately, I’m gonna have to do it. That girl is looking to play." Wanting to score one for pale Caucasians everywhere, I went for it; handsome, dark-skinned, mysterious guys like Manny always get laid, but Elisa had chosen me, unspectacular me, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip away.

Months later, she’s finally mine. And her kiss feels just as nice as it did on New Year’s Eve. Her touch still makes me shiver. She’s my first true love. Before Elisa, I’d had sex with exactly two girls. Elisa was the third. (Although there was another girl who touched my penis briefly but didn’t finish the job.)

I’m thinking of all this as I make a startling discovery while sitting on the floor of her bedroom. As I read a page of Elisa’s diary that brings me to tears.

Holy fucking shit.

She’s in the shower, cleaning off the mess we made together. The mess she so graciously allowed me to deposit on her breasts. I’m holding her diary in my hands. It’s a thin book. With few entries. Elisa does not document her life in great detail. She’s not a writer of any merit. Just a few random notes and lists. Skimming through the pages, I came across a list that hit me like a punch to the gut. The list. Elisa’s list of sexual partners. Elisa’s long list of sexual partners.

I can’t even look at it. I have to turn away. The diary is open and on my lap. The list of names calling out to me. But I won’t look. I’m staring up at the ceiling. The dirty, cobwebbed ceiling. I take a deep breath and slowly move my head. My eyes. I look. The list could change everything. It could ruin our relationship. But how bad could it be? Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.

I see my name. Number fifty-three. I’m the fifty-third person she’s had sex with. Elisa is twenty years old. Fifty-three is bad enough. The real problem is that the list goes up to fifty-five. Many of the names I recognize from high school. Kids we went to school with. Her ex-boyfriend’s name. Her first boyfriend back in Arkansas. At least ten of the names have no last name attached. Also, Elisa is a big fan of multiple question marks: Jessie ??? Paul ??? And sometimes in lieu of a last name she has a location: Mike (from the bowling alley). Don (from Radio Shack). Daryl (from the gas station). I see the names of a few black guys I knew from school. An Asian guy. Jocks. Band geeks. Theater guys. A guy who later committed suicide. Names. So many fucking names. I think It’s official: my girlfriend is a slut.

"What are you looking at?" Elisa asks as she walks into the room. She has a small towel wrapped around her tits, the thin brown cotton extending only to the bottom of her bellybutton, leaving her trimmed triangle of pubic hair still visible. "What’s wrong? You look pale."

I try to speak, but nothing come out. I inhale and smell the pure scent of Elisa. The scent of freshly-scrubbed, natural flesh.

She glances down, sees her diary in my lap, opened to the incriminating pages, then pulls it violently from me. "How fucking dare you look at my personal stuff? You’re an asshole! You had no right!"

"Fifty-five, Elisa?" I say, looking up at her, as if begging for something I know she can’t give me. "You’ve fucked fifty-five guys?"

She leans down and smacks me hard across the face. Harder than I’ve ever been smacked. My teeth vibrate. My ears hum. My skin burns.

"Look at me!" She grabs my face with her right hand, squeezes, and forces me to look her in the eyes.

"I’m sorry," I say. "I shouldn’t have looked. I was sitting here being bored and I opened the book without even thinking about it."

"Are you happy now? Now that you’ve seen it? Does it make you feel better? Are you fucking happy now?" She’s shouting, spitting. I’m on the floor and she’s standing over me, her naked sex inches from my mouth.

"No, no I’m not happy. Let me ask you a question. The last two guys on the list. The ones you fucked after we started hooking up. Who the fuck are they? Are you cheating on me already?"

She lights a cigarette. Sits down on the bed and crosses her legs. "Those two guys were months ago. Right around the time you and me started messing around. It was before I knew I loved you. I was unhappy with my boyfriend, and I was just looking for something different Those two guys were random, one-time things. Didn’t mean anything."

I sit down next to her on the bed and squeeze her hand. "Swear that you’ll never cheat on me, Elisa. Swear it."

She smiles. Kisses my lips. Caresses my tingling face. "I swear. Once I committed to being your girlfriend, I gave up all other men. That’s it, Ervin. The list is done. I’m with you and that’s all I need. Sure, I cheated on Dirk a few times, with you and some other guys, but I wasn’t happy then. I’m happy now."

I hold her tight against me. Tell her I’m sorry for having peeked. Tell her it’s all okay. But it’s not. Not nearly. Not even close. The number will always be in my head. Fifty-five. We sit in silence for several minutes.

She sucks hard on her cigarette and it glows hot orange. "I used to sleep with a lot of guys. It was my way of feeling wanted. A lot of girls do that. And, I mean, I also like sex. It feels good to come. To have a guy’s body rubbing against me. So what? I’m not a whore anymore, Ervin."

"But you used to be?"

She gives a noncommital click of the tongue. "And what if I was a whore? What if I was the biggest fucking whore in South Jersey? What if I was a dirty slut? Would you hate me?"

"Of course not."

I don’t hate her. I could never hate her. Never. But I sense a change. The first crack in our perfect little love bubble.

I have a new name. I am now Fifty-three of Fifty-five.

I excuse myself to the bathroom. I cry. I’m not even sure why. I just cry. I let it all out. My mind wanders. How many of those men did she make wear rubbers? Is it true what they say about black men having big dicks? Does she even feel my modest pecker? Can I ever hope to please her? Fifty-five lovers and not one sexually transmitted disease? No way. I close my eyes and see my girlfriend in an orgy, fucking ten guys at once. Loving it. I open my eyes. This is bad.

I sit on the toilet and try to figure out how to shut off my brain. How to take out the information I’ve just learned.

Fifty-five. Damn.

I walk back into the bedroom and immediately ask, "How many of those guys you screwed were bigger than me?"

She throws a shoe at me. A high heel. A pointy high heel that takes a small chunk out of my ear. I touch my ear and transfer blood to my fingers. I rub my fingers together. Lick them.

Elisa says, "You are not going to sit here and ask me these questions. The subject is closed. I’m not going to talk about the cocks of all the men I fucked. Just drop it."

"Fine."

We sit in silence, and I’m left to my horrible thoughts. The thought of fifty-five guys having sex with my slut girlfriend. With their huge cocks. All of the men she’s been with other than me giving it to her in one marathon session. Of course it didn’t happen that way. She didn’t do every guy on the list at once. I’m sure the most men she had in one sitting was four or five. Fuck. I hate myself for thinking this way. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just get over it? Can I ever get over it? If I can’t, I might as well break-up with Elisa right now.

"Did you ever do a couple guys at once?" I blurt out. "Like, did you ever go into the boys’ locker room after a football game and say, ‘Have at it, boys!’ Come on, I need to know these things."

"Go home, Ervin. Get the fuck out of my house. You can come back when you’re not such an asshole."

"I’m sorry."

"Leave!" she says, pointing at her door.

"What’s the most guys you did in one day?"

She takes a deep breath. "If you ask me one more question, I swear to God I’m going to add number fifty-six to my list. Tonight. And I’ll make sure it’s someone you hate. If you continue to be a jerk, I will go out tonight and fuck all the guys you don’t like."

I shut my fat, stupid mouth. I’m quiet. I suffer in silence. Elisa takes off her towel and sits naked while painting her toenails. Paints the nails a lovely, glossy pink. After ten minutes, she looks up at me and says, "Oh, you’re still here. Why is that exactly?"

I leave.

At 8

2007-12-07T02:22:00.000-08:00

1979

I’m alone in the dark, sitting on the couch watching ‘Salem’s Lot, and I’ve never been more scared. On television, a vampire boy floats in the mist outside of another boy’s window, the vampire begging to be invited in. It’s rare to see kids die or turn evil in a movie. Usually, children are safe from the horrors. The young, evil vampire boy in the movie unsettles me. He’s been turned. Been corrupted. Ruined. Maybe children can be hurt after all. Maybe kids aren’t invincible like I had previously thought. I’d always assumed the only harm that would ever come my way would be self-inflicted, because I’m an uncoordinated klutz, but now I see things differently. I never considered the outside forces. The evil out there. Floating in the mist. Evil that sometimes looks human. Fools you. "Don’t let him in," I whisper, as the human boy stares out at the vampire boy. I can’t look. I know the worst will happen. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve thought about death. My possible, inevitable death. The first time I’ve thought Wow, I could die! A person, or a monster, could kill me.

I wish I hadn’t watched this movie alone. Wish my mother hadn’t been asked at the last minute to work a double shift at The White Tower (her tiny square box of a fast food restaurant, maximum capacity: 10), cooking and serving burgers and fries for meager tips. Wish William wasn’t spending the night with Grandma Shirley, because even though he’s only a year and a half old it’d be nice to have some company. Wish William’s father wasn’t at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Wish Ron and Dave weren’t partying in the woods with the town’s other teenage delinquents. Wish Sheri wasn’t spending the night across the street with her best friend Traci. Hell, I even wish my dad wasn’t off doing whatever the fuck it is that he does nowadays; it’s been more than three years since he last bothered to stop by, call, drop off a Christmas present, write a letter, or just let me know he’s still alive; it sucks having a father who doesn’t care about you (and I know he doesn’t care, because if he did he’d at least send the ten dollars a week a judge told him he had to pay for child support, because of how his sperm made me and all), especially at a time like this, when I’m positive that some form of evil is about to get me. I have no one to protect me from all the wickedness in the world. All the evil in New Jersey. I’m just a kid and someone should be here to protect me.

I wish Mom still treated me like a kid. Wish she didn’t think of me so highly. She tells me how mature I am. How she knows I’ll be fine by myself. Knows I won’t get caught up in any shenanigans. And I usually am fine alone or baby-sitting William. Because I’m responsible. I don’t act like a child. I’m a good kid. I never cause my mother any trouble. I’m "the good one." I’m also, at the moment, a kid who’s heart is pounding so hard it seems ready to burst. A kid who’s scared to death. I’ve got the chills, the hair on my arms standing on end, and a feeling that there’s something outside, or maybe inside, that is going to get me. I have a feeling that I am not alone. It feels like someone is watching, and I know it’s impossible to "feel" a person’s gaze, but I do. I feel it all over me. Feel it more strongly than I feel the bitter chill creeping in from outside, because we can’t afford to use the heat very often. Because we are poor. Not starving poor, but really cold in the winter poor.

I take a moment to breathe, slowly inhale and exhale, to try to relax. Maybe I’m just being silly. What are the odds that there are vampires outside? Pretty slim. And I certainly wouldn’t let any bloodsuckers inside. They need permission to come in and suck your blood, and I’m smarter than that. If it’s zombies, I’m sure I could outrun and outsmart them. Could be ghosts, but maybe they’re friendly. Maybe they just want to say hello. Could be Satan, which would be bad because I don’t want to be possessed by the Devil; also, I don’t know any priests, and my family only goes to church on holidays, so the Catholic Church would probably let Satan go right on possessing me; they’d say something like, "Serves you right, sinner." Odds are, if I’m going to be murdered, it’ll be by a random disturbed killer who peeked in the window and noticed that I’m all alone. Shit, now I’m really scared. I’ve convinced myself that there’s a killer outside, probably holding a bloody axe, probably smiling, salivating at the golden opportunity he’s been afforded: eight-year-old boy, home alone. Oh yeah, I’m a goner. Suspicious noises emanate from all directions. I’ve nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I am so dead. Softly, almost inaudibly, I whisper, "Please, God, just let me make it through tonight and I’ll be good for now on."

I’ve bitten off my fingernails. Bitten so far down I’ve drawn blood. My blood is a bit salty today. Must be all the fries I ate at lunch. The weird noises intensify. Sounds like footsteps upstairs. A scratching at the window. A loud creaking in the kitchen. Branches cracking in the backyard. I’m curled into a tight ball. Afraid to move. Wide eyes darting in every direction. I want someone to come home. Anyone. Before the unseen evil has its way with me. Before the axe cracks my skull open and the killer watches my liquified brains leak out. Killers like that sort of gross stuff. That’s why they kill. To see people’s brains leak out all over the floor.

Goddam it, Ervin! Stop thinking these bad thoughts. You’ll be okay. Nothing to worry about. No one is outside. Except that guy with the axe. Shut up!

I must turn on the light. In order to do that, I need to stand up and walk to the switch on the wall. I take a deep, quiet breath. Then I stand.

I hear breathing. Someone else’s breathing. In the room. I am not alone.

Then a voice, male, a raspy whisper:

"Ervin...I see you...Ervin..."

I run towards the front door. In a panic. My feet heavy like bricks. Hard to breathe. I’m about to scream when someone (something) jumps out from behind the couch and tackles me. My knees and elbows smack the hardwood floor, and I know that I am bleeding. Whatever is on top of me is twice my size. And damp. And stinky. I open my mouth to cry out for help, to scream bloody murder, but I’m so scared that I can’t even speak. Like that dream I always have where an intruder has broken into my house but I can’t yell or move because I’m paralyzed with fear. Just like that, but real. Instead of a scream, I release only a whimper. A dirty sock is shoved into my open mouth.

I know that dirty sock. I get a few just like it every Christmas.

Dave. Fucking Dave.

"Ha! I scared the shit out of you! That was so funny. Man, you should’ve seen your face." He climbs off of me, helps me up.

"That wasn’t funny," I say. "I was watching a scary movie and I was all, like, nervous. It wasn’t you that scared me. It was the movie. But you still shouldn’t have done it."

"Ah, right, sure. Don’t be such a pussy. It was a joke. And don’t tell Mom, all right? Don’t be a tattletale or else nobody will like you. Ever."

"I’m bleeding," I say, glancing down at my dirty, bloody knees.

"Shit. Sorry," he says. "I didn’t mean for that to happen."

"It’s okay. Doesn’t really hurt."

"Man, you were so scared. It was priceless."

"I wasn’t that scared."

He smiles. Gives my head a friendly pat. "You forgive me, right? I was only playing. Come on, little brother. You know I wasn’t being mean about it. Right?"

"Sure," I say. "Just don’t tell anyone I was scared."

Dave nods, shakes me hand. "Deal. So we’re cool?"

"We’re cool." My heart is still thumping, but I manage a smile. Dave was just playing a joke on me. No big deal. That’s what brothers do. We’re technically only half-brothers, but that doesn’t really matter. I wish Dave would spend more time with me, but he’s always too busy. Mostly, he seems like a stranger. Someday we’ll be close, I think. Someday, we’ll be best friends. When I’m old enough to party with him in the woods and drink beers and score with chicks. Then we’ll be inseparable.

Dave drops to his knees and says, "Climb on my shoulders and I’ll take you up to the bathroom so we can clean you cuts."

I’m hesitant. Traveling up the stairs on Dave’s shoulders does not sound like fun. It seems dangerous. Dave is a little (a lot?) drunk, a little stoned, and the steps that lead upstairs are steep, cracked, and uneven. Like the rest of the house, the stairs are in desperate need of repairs.

"Just get on," he says. "Don’t be so scared all the time. It’s no way to go through life. We gotta toughen you up. Make a man outta you. Unless you want to be a girl or something."

I take a deep breath, then climb onto his shoulders. He stands up, his fingers wrapped tightly around my ankles. I lock my arms together around his neck. Then we rise. Dave takes a wobbly first step, then another.

"Be careful, Dave. This is dangerous."

"Nah, we’re fine."

We’re halfway up the steps when Dave starts to lose his balance, and I can’t tell if he’s honestly about to fall backward and kill us both or if he’s just messing with my head. Dave is sweating, and it’s hard for me to get a good grip on him. I’m holding onto his neck with all my might, and he coughs because I’m cutting off his oxygen. He lifts one foot off the creaky wood, wobbles, sways backwards.

"Oh shit, Erv! We’re gonna fall!"

"No, Dave, stop! Let me down! Let me down! Please let me down!" Now I’m really crying. Tears dripping off my face. My cheeks burning.

"Shit! Shit! We’re not gonna make it!"

My nails dig into his skin. "Dave! Stop!"

I look over my shoulder, the bottom of the stairs far away, enough of a fall to break my neck. I’m holding onto Dave as if my life depends on it. As if we’re dangling from the top of a tall building. As if we’re adventurers holding on for dear life to the side of an active volcano as orange lava bubbles and pops below us. Me and my brother are about to fall down the steps, and we’re probably going to die.

Another voice. My other brother. "Dave, stop fucking around and let him down. You’re making him cry," my oldest brother, Ron, says. "Stop being an asshole."

Dave grabs the railing and regains his balance. "I was just having a little fun with him." He lowers himself and I climb off of Dave and run to the top of the stairs. "We were just having fun, right, Erv?"

I wipe away my tears and, sobbing, say, "No, I wasn’t having any fun."

"Just leave the kid alone," Ron says.

"Fuck you, Ron," Dave says. "Mind your business."

Oh, no. Not this. Not again.

Ron is taller than Dave, but Dave is a little stronger. Ron fights dirty, so that evens things out. What Ron lacks in sheer power, he makes up for with random objects in the room that he turns into weapons—a lamp, a glass, a chair. Ron’s sporting a mustache lately, Dave a white boy Afro. They’re both drunk and high, and in a few seconds will probably try to kill each other.

"What did you fucking say?" Ron says, standing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting up at Dave.

"I said your momma wears combat boots." Dave laughs like a maniac, knowing his laughter will piss Ron off ever further.

"Just shut up, Dave!"

"I said your girlfriend sucks a mean cock."

"Seriously, man, shut up."

"Fuckin’ make me, Smoky. Or are you the Bandit? I always get confused."

Ron shakes his head. "You’re an asshole."

"Hey, Erv, what do you think about Burt Reynolds' mustache over there?"

I shrug. Keep quiet.

Ron is fuming, seeing red. "Say one more word."

"Breaker-one-niner. This is Smoky the Mustache Man."

Dave doesn’t make a lot of sense, but he is a funny bastard. He certainly thinks so.

Ron reaches, grabs a shoe, then throws it at Dave’s head. Dave loses his smile and jumps on Ron. Then they proceed to beat the hell out of each other. I run to the closet in my bedroom. I close the door and hide in the dark. Cover my ears. Still, I hear the screaming, the cursing, the smashing of glass. I start to cry. It sounds like a madman has broken into my house and begun torturing my family. But it’s not a madman. It’s my brothers. And it doesn’t even matter who wins the fight, because the only real loser is my mother. She’ll come home to broken windows and a few more holes in the walls. To two bruised and bloody children.

I just want it to stop. And it does, after about twenty minutes of fighting, Ron and Dave go silent. All I hear is their heavy breathing. I won’t come out of the closet until my mother comes home. Because there are monsters out there. They just happen to be related to me. I’m a child and I used to think that they wouldn’t hurt me. But now I’m scared. Now I know I can be hurt. I can bleed. My youth will not save me.

"You in there, Erv?" Dave asks, tapping on the closet door.

I don’t answer.

"Come on. Just let me in. Everything’s okay out here now. Please let me in."

A voice in my head says Don't let him in. Don't ever let him in.

I listen.

At 11

2007-12-01T23:27:00.000-08:00

1982

I’m away from home on a week-long field trip with my sixth-grade class, and two girls (popular) have just asked me (unpopular) if I want to get high with them. Smoke the pot. Toke the reefer. Of course I said, "Sure." I like Guinevere and Lara, and I’d probably agree to do anything they asked. "Hey, Erv, you wanna come sacrifice seven chickens and drink the blood in the name of Satan?" Sure thing! "Hey, Erv, you wouldn’t mind if we both peed on you, right?" I don’t mind!

I’m a sucker for a pretty girl. An absolute idiot for a couple of pretty girls.

I don’t really want to smoke the pot, but I want to be around Guinevere and Lara when they smoke the pot. I’ve heard that girls get horny when they’re stoned and maybe, once the marijuana kicks in, they’ll both realize that they really want to make-out with me. That they really want to let me fondle their newly-blossomed boobs. Really want to put their hands down my pants. Want to get naked and roll around with me in the woods.

Honestly, of the two of them only Guinevere is pretty. Lara is chunky and rather unfortunate-looking, but when standing next to Guinevere, Lara is instantly more attractive. Guinevere has an aura of gorgeousness that spreads to anything within ten feet of her. Pretty enough for two girls. Has pretty to spare. She’s tall and thin, with long brown hair, huge blue eyes, and a cute little gap between her front teeth. She always wears tight Jordache jeans and concert T-shirts. Tight jeans that show off her perfect little ass. Today, since we’re all staying in the woods for the week, Guinevere is wearing jean shorts and a Fleetwood Mac half-shirt. I can’t stop staring at her bellybutton, which is so devastatingly small and cute and freckled that I think I’m starting to hyperventilate. She’s also wearing tennis shoes and no socks, and even her bare ankles are tempting me. Tonight, Guinevere smells like honeysuckle and soap.

"Have you ever gotten high before?" Guinevere asks me, smiling in her sweetly crooked way.

"All the time," I say. "I get high with my brother a lot, but he’s in prison right now, locked up in solitary confinement because he kept beating up all the guards." I’ve never gotten high with my brother, and he’s in juvenile detention, not prison. "Dave always has pot and we smoke it constantly." Dave does smoke a lot of pot, but I’ve never shared it with him. The only thing Dave ever shares are his dirty socks, which he often wraps and gives out as Christmas presents, thus ruining Christmas and making Mom cry. (I ruined Christmas last year, when I opened all my gifts early and tried to re-wrap them and pretend that I wasn’t a great big sneak. My re-wrapping skills were weak, and it was apparent that my gifts had been tampered with, thus ruining Christmas and making Mom cry. It’s just not Christmas in our house until someone cries.)

"You’re lying!" Lara says, adjusting her large, square-framed glasses. "He’s such a liar, Guin. Look at him, all nervous and making shit up. I think he’s blushing."

Guinevere puts her arm over my shoulder and whispers, "Are you lying to me, Ervin?"

"Maybe a little," I say, cracking under the pressure of sweet breath and a soft touch.

"I’ll be he’s chicken," Lara says.

"I’m not chicken," I say, shaking all over. "Just ‘cause I haven’t done it before, doesn’t mean I won’t. I’ve been wanting to try drugs for awhile now." I’m amazed at the rapid pace in which the lies flow out of my mouth. Pretty girls make me babble.

"Then meet us behind our cabin at midnight," Guinevere says.

"If you’re not too scared," Lara adds. I’m beginning to realize that she’s kind of a bitch. If The Jersey Devil is hungry, he can have Lara.

Guinevere runs a hand through my hair, ruining what took me ten minutes in front of the mirror to create. "My Ervin isn’t scared, are ya, sweetie?"

"I’ll be there," I say, mildly hypnotized, staring into Guinevere’s eyes. "I’ll totally sneak out of my cabin."

"Oohh, mister tough guy!" Lara chirps.

"We’re gonna bring a big fat joint, and you’re gonna share it with us," Guinevere says. "It’s gonna be so much fun!" She’s always happy. Always has a smile. Can brighten anyone’s day. "And then maybe we’ll sneak you into the girls’ cabin and make a man out of you." She giggles.

"Awesome," I say, suddenly aroused.

"You better show up!" Lara says, jabbing a chubby finger in my face.

"Calm down, Lara. Erv’s cool. You’ll see. We’re gonna have a good time tonight. It’s gonna be such a time."

Guinevere and Lara then kiss my hot cheeks and run off. I watch them disappear into their cabin as the sun begins to set.

My stomach fills with a painful fire. I’m trembling all over. Scared to death. I feel nauseated. Am I actually going to try drugs? Is that the kind of person I am? I guess so. Michelle has always been nice to me and I do not want to disappoint her. And I do want to be cool. I want to be liked. Or at least noticed. My family moved from Pennsauken to Cherry Hill less than a year ago, shortly after Dave robbed the candy store (again), and I don’t have a lot of friends. A few from my apartment building, none at school. I’m not close to anyone who’s on this trip. I don’t have a single friend in the boys’ cabin. I don’t fit in with most of the kids in Cherry Hill because I’m a poor and they’re not. Because they’ve never eaten a mayonnaise sandwich out of necessity. My wardrobe is not stylish. I’m the only kid in my class who receives a free lunch. Even if I did make some friends, I’d be too embarrassed to bring them home to my tiny, dirty, cockroach-infested apartment. Most of the time, I feel as if I don’t belong. But now Guinevere and Lara want to get to know me. Hang out with me. Smoke some weed with me. Maybe I’m starting to become cool. Maybe the kids are warming up to me. Maybe I can win them all over. All I have to do to begin my ascension into Coolsville is smoke a little pot. Can’t be that bad, right? Cheech & Chong do it all the time. So what’s the big deal? It’s only pot. I would never try any of the hard stuff, but what damage could a few hits of reefer do? I’m a big boy. I can handle it.

I’m in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, an hour from home, at a place called Mt. Misery. It’s like summer camp, except instead of having fun we’re supposed learn about nature. Our objectives are "to recognize the value of our natural resources and to learn to use them wisely" and "to learn to live democratically with other children and with adults through experiences in outdoor living." We’re all staying in cabins in the middle of the woods. The Pine Barrens cover over one million acres, 30 miles wide and 80 miles long, and that’s a lot of trees. The Jersey Devil lives in these woods, and he’s probably going to eat a few of us. On our first night here, we were shown a film about the Beast, and it scared the shit out of us. I think the teachers just wanted to scare us all so we wouldn’t wander off into the woods alone. But I believe in monsters. And I believe that The Jersey Devil eats children; I mean, what else would he eat? Adults? Cheese?

It’s Thursday night, October 28, 1982, the last night of our trip. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll climb into a bus and head back home. Just one more night. I’ve survived three nights without wetting the bed. I’m eleven years old, and every night when I lay down to sleep I say a prayer and hope that my bed will be dry in the morning. I should’ve stopped pissing my pants long ago, but I haven’t. In the weeks leading up to the trip, I started wetting the bed more and more. My mother began to worry. The night before I left for Mt. Misery, Mom said, "Ervin, you can’t wet the bed on your trip. You’re eleven now. You’re too old for that. The other kids will tease you if they find out that you wet the bed. You’ve got to stop. I’m only telling you this for your own good. Just stop it already."

But here I am on Thursday night, and I think I’m going to make it. I smile to myself as I walk back into the cabin. It’s been a good week. The Jersey Devil hasn’t ripped out my intestines yet. Hasn’t drained my blood. Guinevere has spoken to me more than once. I did well in the Mt. Misery Olympics. I won a few races my teammates gave me high-fives and I felt accepted. Felt almost normal. It’s been a fun week. The other boys in my cabin, Dean and Dave and Paul and the rest, chat and laugh and talk about stuff I know nothing about, while I sit alone on my bed and think about tonight. I don’t mind that the guys don’t really talk to me. They will once I tell them about my night with Guinevere and Lara. Tomorrow, I’ll have stories to tell, and then I’ll be accepted. Then I’ll be cool. Things are looking up for me. Life is somewhat less shitty than usual.

I set my little Superman Alarm Clock for 11:45 and lay down. It’s ten p.m., but I have a secret rendezvous planned at midnight, so I’ve got to sneak out. It’s easy to sneak away from our cabin, because our teacher, Mr. Braddock, the man who’s supposed to chaperone us, leaves every night to go home and check on his ill father. So my cabin is left without a teacher to keep an eye on us. I close my eyes with no real intention of falling asleep. Close my eyes and see Guinevere. We’re holding hands and kissing. She loves me. I love her. She tells me she wants to have my babies. All of them. She’s eleven and has the body of a seventeen-year-old. I’m eleven and have the hairless body of a nine-year-old. I’m thinking of her and feeling good. Relaxed.

Then I fall asleep.

I pop up at eleven-thirty and wonder why I woke before my alarm went off. I quickly realize that I’ve woken up because my bed is soaked. A sticky, warm wetness. A pungent scent in the air. I can’t believe it. I wet the fucking bed. It was only a nap, not even a full night’s sleep, and I pissed myself. My best pair of shorts. I start to cry, but only for a second. I’ve got work to do. I need to get myself out of this mess.

These boys I’m sharing the cabin with would use the knowledge that I wet the bed to torment me for the rest of my days. I do not want to be known as Piss Boy until the end of high school. I quietly remove the damp sheet from the bed and fold it into a ball. Then I turn the mattress over. In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and take a quick shower.

At five of twelve, I’m behind my cabin, wearing fresh, dry clothes, furiously digging the soft dirt with my hands. Once I dig deep enough, I fill the hole with the sheet from my bed and my soiled shorts, then cover it up with dirt. When you’re a bed-wetter, you’ve got to learn how to be a sneaky bastard. Got to know how to make the incriminating evidence disappear. I guess this will be good practice if I ever become a hitman and have to dispose of a few bodies.

I shake my head in disgust. I’m always the kid digging the hole. I’m always the one who’s up when everyone else is sleeping. The kid with something to hide. The one thing that’s not like the others.

At midnight, I’m where I’m supposed to be, behind the girls’ cabin. I wait for Guinevere and Lara. I’m not going to let a little bit of urine ruin my night. Guinevere will make it all better. She’ll make life worth living.

An hour later, I’m still waiting. The girls haven’t shown up. I guess they were just playing a joke on me. I hear strange noises coming from the woods, probably The Jersey Devil’s footsteps as he closes in on me. I’m shivering because I’m cold and scared. I don’t want to go back to my cabin. Don’t want to be anywhere near that stinky, pissed-in bed, but I also don’t want The Jersey Devil to drink all of my blood.

So I run.

I run and whisper, "I just want to go home."

At 10

2007-11-27T02:29:00.000-08:00

1981

I’m dreaming of girls. Young and old. Freckled and sunburnt. Fat and thin. Images of bare body parts flash through my brain like a quickly-shuffled deck of naughty playing cards. I’ve only recently seen my first pair of non-National Geographic breasts, on late-night pay cable. Mom ordered cable last month, and a whole new late-night world has opened up for me. After midnight, hand down my pants, under a blanket on the living room floor, I've watched 1001 Erotic Nights, Laura’s Toys, and more Emanuelle movies than I can count, my small television screen filled with copious amounts of female flesh. I’m ten years old, and I think I now officially like girls, though I certainly won’t admit it to my brothers or my sister, because they will tease me unmercifully. When my mother is not working, she’s sleeping, so I can watch whatever the hell I want, as long as I can stay up later than the rest of my family. And I can. I will stay up for days, weeks, forever, if I know that eventually I will get to see some skin.

I’ve also started masturbating. I like it. A lot. I’ve heard from older kids at school that stuff is supposed to come out when a guy finishes jerking off. Nothing comes out of me. Still, I get a tingle, a funny feeling, a warmth. If I were the last man on earth, I’d play with myself all day long. Jerking off is the best thing ever. Jerking off is better than Star Wars, and I’m not even kidding.

Lately, I can’t sleep without the sex dreams, and tonight is no exception.

In my slumber, I’m imagining what those girls from the dirty movies would feel like if pressed against me. Smell like. Taste like. In some of the movies I’ve seen, the girls appear to enjoy rubbing against each other, or touching each other’s boobs, and based on the weird sensation I get down below when two girls kiss, I seem to enjoy it as well. I guess that’s as good a way as any for me to find out that I’m not homophobic.

The dream takes a sudden turn. It’s no longer just images of random body parts. I’m now involved. Taking part in something I know nothing about. I’m on my back and the girl is on top. She’s in charge. I’m an innocent victim. A blushing pre-pubescent boy serving as a toy to many fully-formed, shape-shifting ladies. I can do nothing but take it. Sex in my dreams is a lot like wrestling. I’m pinned to the ground by the girl of my dreams, and that girl is a shape-shifter, is in constant flux. She’s the Bionic Woman and I’m her Bionic Boy. She’s tomboyish Kristy McNichol from "Family." She’s Shelley Duvall from The Shining—so pale, so sad, so beautiful, so on top of me right now. She’s Marcia Brady with a bruised, swollen nose, trying to kiss me but her huge honker is in the way. She’s sweet, innocent Linda Blair, then she’s possessed, nasty Linda Blair, and for a second the sweet dream becomes a nightmare. She’s busty Pam Grier, as Foxy Brown, naked atop me and holding a big-ass gun between her boobs. She’s Wonder Woman tying me up with her golden lasso. She’s that underdressed woman I saw at the supermarket whose unwieldy boobs kept falling out of her top and into the stack of bananas. She’s Cheryl Rainbeaux Smith, the lovely, vacant, glowing, snapping-pussy-having blonde who sang and fucked her heart out as the lead in the musical porno version of Cinderella. I love all the girls. And they are on top of me. All of them. At once. They can’t get enough of me. They sit on me and wiggle, because I don’t know what sex entails, but wiggling is definitely somehow a part of it. I know my penis is involved, but I’m not exactly sure what to do with it. I used to think that my penis was supposed to go inside a girl’s bellybutton, and until recently it probably would have fit. All I know about sex is that the boy and girl are supposed to get naked and move around a lot. And make weird noises. And silly faces.

I’m ten years old and on my way to Pervert Town. I’ve already watched the sexy, nudie, funny version of Cinderella five times, and I can’t get the jaunty, nasty songs out of my head (Do it, do it, do it to me!). I could dream about sex forever and not care. Like a superhero given his greatest desire by a villain, placed into an eternal slumber with no need to ever awaken. Lex Luthor running wild while Superman dreams of a Krypton that never exploded. My dreams offer naked, smiling beauties. The real world offers cockroaches, head lice, hand-me-downs, and government cheese. I don’t want to wake up. But someone is whispering my name. I want the dream to continue.

Unfortunately:

"Hey, Ervin, wake up!"

"Nnnn. No. Don’t wanna."

I open my eyes and see Dave staring down at me. He’s smiling. It’s not an evil Joker smile. It’s an easy, trustworthy smile. And what’s not to trust? He’s my brother. My blood. One of us. Dave is cool, and when I get older I want to be just like him.

"What’s going on?" I ask. "What happened?"

He sits down next to me on the bed, careful not to crush little William, who’s sleeping soundly next to me.

"I need you to come outside and see what I got. It’s like Christmas."

I sit up. "Like Christmas, with presents you mean?"

"Oh yeah. But it’s a secret. Our secret. And it’s better than Christmas ‘cause it’s right now. Who needs Santa Claus when you got me?"

I’m happy Dave thinks he can share his secrets with me. I’ll never tell. I like having a brother like Dave who always has secrets. Always tells you stuff you’re not supposed to tell anyone about. He’s mysterious and fun, and he’s my brother. I think When I’m older, I want to be just like Dave, cool like Dave, awesome like Dave.

I climb out of bed and follow my older brother. I don’t know him very well. He’s my brother and I should trust him. That much I do know. He’s been gone most of my life. Dave is almost a stranger to me. I’ve heard a lot of stories about him. Fights he’s gotten into. Teachers he’s cursed out. Furniture he’s tossed. Jokes he’s told. But only now am I getting to know him. He spent time in juvenile detention, and then went to live with a foster family. My mother believed they could give Dave a better life. A husband and wife who couldn’t have kids of their own. Who had lots of love to give. They promised Mom that Dave would have everything he’d always wished for. Promised Mom her second child would be happy. They made many promises. Mom agreed and reluctantly let Dave go, and he went to live in a big house in a nice neighborhood. It was like he’d won the lottery. But Dave’s new family quickly tired of him and sent him back home as if he were defective. They could have no children of their own but decided nothing was a better option than Dave. So he was returned to us like a defective watch. The only statement Dave ever made about his foster family was, "They were boring." All I know about Dave is that he smokes cigarettes and likes to make people smell his fingers after he’s had sex with a girl, although I’m not sure why. His fingers smell awful when he forces them in front of my nose. It’s funny, though. We both laugh. He tells me that I’ll understand when I’m older. After I’ve gotten myself some pussy. After I’ve popped my cherry, whatever that means.

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time hiding in the closet. Hiding while Ron and Dave beat the hell out of each other. Chased each other with baseball bats. Smashed electronic equipment. Punched each other in the face until they were both a mess of blood and bruises. My two older brothers, just a year apart, were constantly fighting. I hid and covered my ears. Blocked out the screaming. The cries of my mother. It was safe in there. Dark and private. I stayed far away from the shouting. I covered my ears. I hid. But a kid can’t hide forever. I used to think Dave was scary, but he’s not so bad. Dave’s nice to me, and he’s always smiling and giving me things, but sometimes when he talks louder than he should, I want to run and hide in the closet. Sometimes I want to close the door behind me and disappear.

"Get up," he whispers. "C’mon. You won’t regret it."

I trust him. I follow.

"You’re gonna love this," he says. "Hope you’re hungry. You like candy, right? Chocolate bunnies and shit?"

"Yes," I say. "I could eat chocolate forever. Until my belly explodes."

Dave smiles and pats my head. "Good. Then you’re just the man for the job."

"What job?"

He flashes a devious, charming, gigantic smile. "You’ll see." He’s wearing jeans and a damp T-shirt. Sneakers but no socks. His hair is a mess. He smells like fish, because yesterday he took his fishing rod out to a dirty lake and caught a big, hideous catfish, then cooked it in the kitchen and stunk up the house. Now, everything smells like catfish, especially Dave.

Dave leads me out into the backyard shed, and there it is. His bounty. Boxes and boxes and boxes of candy. Mostly chocolate. Chocolate animals. Chocolate bars. Chocolate eggs. Jelly beans. Candy canes. Enough sugar to get me high for weeks. We sit on the floor of the small wooden shed, which before the Great Chocolate Windfall was used mainly by Dave and Ron as a place to bring loose women so they could smoke the pot and drink the beer and have the sex. Dave has exited this shed with smelly fingers on numerous occasions. Once, I heard a girl ask Dave if she could come into the house just after they’d finished makin’ it in the shed, and he shook his head and said, "No, you’re only allowed in the shed. Only girls I really like are allowed in the house. So, sorry." She then ran off crying, but Dave didn’t seem to care. He simply sniffed his fingers, grinned, then came inside and ate a large bowl of Frankenberry cereal.

"Where’d you get all this candy?" I’m amazed. I’ve never seen this much candy outside of a candy store. It’s right there in front of me. I’m practically drooling.

"You know, it’s crazy. I went to the candy store and they were just giving it away? I guess they had, like, too much or something."

I may be ten years old, but I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe him.

"Come on, Dave, really?" I say.

He laughs.

"You ask too many questions. Who are you, Sherlock Holmes? Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions. Questions just get people in trouble."

We sit down together and I watch Dave tear open a box with a brown bunny inside and he quickly starts munching, biting off the milk chocolate ears. He asks me what I’m waiting for. I shrug, then dig in. We tear and eat. Tear and eat. It’s sweet, intoxicating, wonderful, and free.

"We’re not gonna get in trouble for this, are we?"

"No way," he says, with cocky assurance. "There ain’t no laws against eating candy, are there? This is America, right?"

I think about it for a second. "I guess you’re right."

He stares at me, as if we’ve only just met, like he doesn’t know me at all. "Hey, Erv, are you gay?" he asks. "You look a fairy sometimes. It’s okay if you are, just tell me. I’ll hook you up with some slut if you want to test yourself out to make sure you like girls."

"I like girls!" I say, embarrassed.

"Okay, big guy. Relax. Just asking. You want me to find you a nice piece of ass? You don’t mind sloppy seconds, right? Heh." He smacks my back so hard that I fall off of my chair.

"I don’t need any pieces of ass," I say.

I’m sick to my stomach within minutes. Sick in a good way. My stomach tells me that I should run to the bathroom, but my mouth tells me to shove in more sweets until my teeth rot and die from candy poisoning.

We eat enough candy to fill the bellies of a whole classroom full of children, but we hardly make a dent in the stash. I tell Dave I can’t eat any more and he calls me a pussy. He shrugs, licks his fingers, then declares that he is also full. We leave the shed and Dave locks the small door with a padlock.

"Look, Erv, we gotta eat this candy really fast. We can’t have the evidence sitting around in the shed for too long."

"Evidence of what?"

He smacks the back of my head. "Don’t act stupid. Remember, it’s our secret, right?"

"Sure it is," I say.

I’m tired and listless. Eating pounds of candy sure takes a lot out of a kid. I might not even have the energy to jerk off later. The candy gave me an initial jolt of energy, but now it’s wearing off quickly.

"Who’s your favorite brother?" he asks.

"You are," I say, as my stomach begins to make strange noises.

When I wake the next morning, I hear unfamiliar voices. I look through my window and see two tall, indistinguishable, well-dressed men standing out front, talking to Mom. I run downstairs to see what’s going on. I open the door and walk up next to Mom.

"Go back inside, Ervin," she says.

"Wait a second, son," one of the men says.

"How’s the candy?" the other man asks.

"What candy?" I say, playing dumb.

They’re dressed in dark suits, and I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that they’re detectives. The fuzz.

"Look, we know Dave stole the candy. This is the second time he’s robbed the same candy store. He didn’t find any money this time, so he loaded up his van with candy. We know all about it. There’s no reason not to tell the truth. Where’s the candy? I mean, besides the chocolate that’s all over your chin? Did you know the candy was stolen? Were you an accomplice?"

"No!" I blurt out, not wanting to get arrested and sent to the slammer. I wipe my chin. No chocolate. Bastard fooled me.

Mom begins to cry.

I had hoped that this time I’d get to know Dave. That we’d have some good brotherly-bonding time. But that’s not going to happen because he’s going to get arrested. Maybe in a few years we will get to know each other. When Dave is free again. Maybe someday I’ll actually get to know my own brother. Dave is cool and fun, but I’m beginning to think that he’s not all that smart. Who robs the same candy store more than once? Who robs a candy store at all? Who takes candy instead of money? My brother Dave does. My brother who’s going to have to go away for a couple of years. It won’t be all bad. More road trips out to the prison to visit Dave. I like road trips, and hanging out in prison makes me feel like a real badass. None of my friends ever get to go to prison to visit their brother. I guess I’m just lucky that way.

At 21, Part 5

2007-11-25T13:44:00.000-08:00

1992

Elisa smiles. That’s all it takes. Those full, upturned lips. Be strong, Ervin. Don’t give in. It’s after midnight and the store is closed and locked. No more pizzas to make tonight. The store lights are out. The parking lot is brightened only by one dim street light. We’re in our uniforms and we surely stink of grease and sweat, but we hardly notice the smell. Bits of processed meats, vegetables, sauce, and spices are stuck to my clothes, jammed under my nails. We’re alone. It’s cool but not cold, a gentle breeze against my skin. Elisa is smoking, blowing perfect, fragile rings as she stares into my eyes. She winks, sends her silent Siren’s Song my way. It’s the flirtatious Elisa. The horny Elisa. The Elisa who unbuttoned her shirt a few extra buttons just before we sat our asses down on the dirty cement. The Elisa who knows I’ll look at her exposed bra. At the flesh, the cleavage.

We haven’t been with each other in nearly a month. I haven’t eased my moist tongue slowly down her firm stomach. Haven’t wet the fine trail of hairs on her belly. Haven’t slipped that tongue beneath the cotton of her panties. Haven’t made her moan and arch her back as I dampened her dark pubic hair. Haven’t made her gasp and whisper, "Oh, God, don’t tease me like that..."

I’ve been avoiding her. Well, avoiding her as much as a person you work with four or five nights a week can possibly be avoided. I’ve tried not to be alone with her, because I am weak. I haven’t returned her calls. I’ve turned my head when she’s attempted to kiss me. I’ve stood limp as she wrapped her arms around me. I’ve made her angry. I’ve made her cry. But here we are. Just the two of us. And damn it, why won’t she stop smiling at me? I’ve spent a month pretending as if I don’t care for her. Pretending I couldn’t care less. Sending a message. It’s either him or me. I will not be with her until she breaks off her engagement. She’s written me angry notes. Left bitter phone messages. Begged me to speak to her. But I’ve shown no sympathy. No emotion.

Here we are. Alone. And she won’t quit it with that fucking grin.

"So, what, you don’t like me anymore?" she asks.

"No, I like you plenty. I just can’t be with you. It hurts too much. I’m done sharing you. I want you all to myself, and if I can’t have that, I’ll find someone else to love." I make it sound so simple. I’ll just find someone else. Right. There is no one else for me. It’s Elisa I want. Only Elisa.

"I’m sorry I put you through all this, but I can’t lose you."

"I think we should just be friends," I say, in a cold, emotionless tone. With every word, it’s a struggle to keep my voice from cracking.

She wrinkles her nose. "No, I don’t think I like that arrangement."

"You’re engaged to another man."

"I have the perfect solution," she says. Elisa sucks on her cigarette, then blows a cloud of smoke into my face. She giggles. "Pretend I’m not."

I shrug. "Can’t."

"You have no imagination, Ervin."

She rubs my knee. Moves closer. Shoulder to shoulder. She feels good pressed against me. It’s a feeling I’ve missed. Soft, warm, a bit of a tingle. I want this feeling all the time. Every second of every day. Her against me. Her heat charging me like I’m a dead battery needing new life. Fight it. Be a man.

"I miss you, Ervin. I miss spending time with you. Like, just hanging out and watching bad movies together. I miss lying on your floor with a blanket underneath us, your arms around me as we watch television. I sat through Frankenhooker with you. That has to count for something. And the fucking Toxic Avenger! I just want to see you, Ervin."

"We spend eight or nine hours a day together at work. Isn’t that enough?" I want to fool her into believing that I can take her or leave her. I want our lack of physical contact to hurt her. I want her to ache just thinking of me. Not being with her has hit me like withdraw. Shaking. Chills. Sleeplessness. I want her to hurt like I’ve been hurting.

"That doesn’t count. We don’t spend time alone anymore. I miss...being with you." A sudden moistness covers her eyes. "Be with me again. Tonight. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just ask. I won’t turn down any request."

I shake my head. "I won’t share you. We’ve had this discussion already. It’s getting old. I’m tired of it."

She flicks her cigarette. Takes a deep breath. Holds my left hand, lifts it to her mouth, kisses the scar. She goes to light another cigarette and I tell her to light two. We smoke together in silence. We stare at the nighttime sky. Bright and full-up with little stars. The universe looks like a video game, like Space Invaders. Tonight, the moon overwhelms the stars. I see the face on the moon. It’s always looked to me like the moon is screaming. A never-ending scream.

A tear rolls down her cheek. Then, in an exasperated voice, Elisa: "Okay, Fine."

"Okay, what?" I ask.

"You win. I’ll do it. You can stop torturing me now."

I smile. "How am I torturing you?"

I wipe away her tears with my thumb. Then I taste them. Salty, warm, delicious. Like sweetened rain. I want to remember this moment, our stink, our words, her taste, all of it. I like swallowing her tears. Her fluids. Like having her inside me. The liquid form of her. In my belly. In my blood.

She says, her voice cracking, "I want to be with you. I’ll do whatever it takes."

"You’ll break-up with your fiancé? You’ll make me your new boyfriend? We’ll be together, just the two of us? No leaving me every weekend to fuck some asshole. We’ll be a real couple?"

She nods. Moves her lips close to mine. "I haven’t even been with him in weeks. I've had some bleeding issues lately, and my doctor took me off the Pill. So I just haven't had sex this month. And I won’t. Not with him. I don’t even want to touch Dirk anymore. I want you."

More tears. This time, I don’t use my thumb. I lick her tears away.

Her hand slides between my legs. I’m instantly hard. I push her hand away.

"What?" she asks. "I said I would do what you want."

"This is for real, right? You’re not just saying all this so we’ll have sex tonight, right? You’re offering me a true commitment?"

Elisa says, "Yes, I am. I want you to be my boyfriend, Ervin. I love you. You’re sweet and kind, and you make me happy. I miss the smile that’s on my face whenever I wake up next to you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You know that, right?" She kisses me. Her tongue fills my mouth, her saliva hot and sugary. She pulls away, bites her bottom lip. "Can I get a little lovin’ on credit? I promise you I’ll end it with him tomorrow. But tonight we should go back to my place, have some wine, then screw our fucking brains out. I wanna fuck you so hard, you don’t even know."

I stand up, pull her up with me. Adjust my erection so it’s less obvious. I squeeze her as tight as I can without hurting her. "I’m down with that."

In the dimly-lit parking lot, we embrace. We kiss deeply, passionately, almost suck out each other’s tongues. We’re sloppy. Tears and saliva dripping off of us. Some jerk in a car speeding past yells, "Get a room!"

"Let’s go to my house," she says. "No one’s home, and if I don’t get your mouth between my legs soon I’m gonna burst."

Minutes later, we arrive at her dirty house. Her parents are gone for the night. We have the place to ourselves. We drink some wine. We drink some beer. She lights candles. Dances seductively in front of me. Removes her clothes. Gives me a prolonged, slow lap-dance as Sade’s "Sweetest Taboo" hums from the stereo. The song ends and she undresses me. She leads me into the shower. We scrub each other clean. We touch ourselves. I pull her close. Her back against the wall. Lift her leg. Slip it in. Just for a moment. Three quick thrusts. Take it out. Hear her beg.

"Let’s take this to my bed."

"Let’s go," I say.

She chugs some whiskey. She’s drunk and I’m almost drunk. We’re clean and naked and fresh and new, and we can’t keep our hands off each other. She feels right. This feels right.

"Since I’m so very clean, will you lick me anywhere?" she asks coyly.

"Of course," I say. I would lick her clean even if she was filthy. Especially if she was filthy.

"I want you to mark your territory."

She turns off the small lamp. The room goes dark. She lights a candle and a stick of blue lotus incense. Our skin looks orange in the candlelight.

"You ready for this, boyfriend?"

I lick the back of her ear. Bite her neck. Hope to leave a mark.

"For what?"

"You know what. Get to lickin’, motherfucker," she says, with more sweetness than those words deserve. "I want your tongue everywhere. Don’t miss a spot, or I’ll be mad."

She’s on all-fours in front of me. Her fingers waving me on.

I start at her shoulders. Work my way down. I lick. I bite. I suck. I nibble. I rub. I press. I fill. I kiss.

She tells me what to do, where to stick my tongue. She’s freer than I’ve ever seen her. Demanding. Savage. Reckless. And so am I. There’s nothing we won’t do tonight. I’ve got two fingers inside of her, in separate places. She tells me she wants me right now. I give her everything she wants. Anywhere she wants it. In positions that can't possibly work but somehow do. But I can’t hold back. It’s too much. I’m on top of her, unmoving. Another thrust and it’ll all be over.

"Should I take it out?" I ask.

"No. No fucking way."

Then it’s over. It takes several minutes for our panting to subside. We fall asleep. We spoon. We smile.

We don’t care that we were stupid. That we took chances.

I wake in the middle of the night feeling strange. Melancholy? Numb? Not sure. Maybe because I’ve never had a better night in twenty-plus years of living and I know there’s no way I’ll ever be this content again. I know it’s all downhill from here. Like a great high that’s beginning to wear off and you already miss its peak. I’ve wanted Elisa to be mine and only mine for months. She says I now have her all to myself. She says she’s mine. Now what do I do with her? Sometimes the anticipation is all the fun. Now that I’ve gotten what I wanted, is it really what I wanted? I don’t know. Also I wonder, If Elisa was willing to cheat with me, will she hesitate to cheat on me? Maybe I was just in it for the challenge. To see if I could steal her away from her boyfriend. No way. This is true love. Isn’t it?

I flick on the television and watch a "Happy Days" marathon until the sun the comes up, while Elisa snores beside me, a large circle of drool on her pillow.

I sigh.

At 25, Part 4

2007-11-24T01:18:00.000-08:00

1996

I come home from work and see Dave sitting at the kitchen table. My night is already ruined just from having to look at him. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t stand the sight of him. I open the refrigerator, grab a can of soda, and I’m mid-guzzle when I do a double-take. I turn back to Dave. He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing. No way. My eyes are surely playing tricks. Oh, he’s doing it, all right.

Dave, my nightmare of an older brother, is smoking crack. Casually. In the kitchen. As if it’s no big deal. As if he’s just reading the fucking newspaper. He’s sucking in the drug through a small crack pipe. The pipe looks like a clear piece of plastic, burnt at one end, shaped like a cigarette. Knowing Dave, I’m sure it’s a half-assed crack pipe. It’s probably not even what you’re supposed to use to smoke crack. But I wouldn’t know. I haven’t done any hard drugs in about seven years, since that last bit of cocaine went up my nose during those crazy nights with Manny and Vito and the rest of the gang at Pizza Tent. Part of the reason I stopped doing drugs is sitting right in front of me. I didn’t want to turn out like Dave.

He’s coated with a thick layer of perspiration. His armpits are wet, the T-shirt stained, sweat droplets falling from his stubbly chin. His wavy brown hair is dirty; I can see bits of grass and leaves on his Brillo-like mane. He’s been running from someone, maybe hiding. I’m standing in the kitchen, in shock, trying to process all of this. My brother is smoking crack at the kitchen table while my mother is at work. My little brother is nearby, watching cartoons in the living room, feigning obliviousness; maybe he feels like it’s not really happening as long as he doesn’t look.

"What the hell is going on here, Dave?" I ask. I’m already shaking. Tensions have been building. I know the violence is coming. If not today, soon. Someday, there will be blood. Will be pain. When all of this comes to a head, it’s going to be me or him. The house isn’t big enough for the both of us. But I don’t want to bleed today. I also don’t want to live in a crack house. He’s disrespecting my mother. Mom’s done nothing but try to help him, and Dave’s done nothing but shit all over her.

"What I’m doing ain’t of no concern to you, nerd."

His sweat is thick. Looks gooey and kind of green under the light. Like he’s recently been swallowed and spit back out. Like snails have been crawling all over him. Like he’s been slimed.

"You’re doing drugs in Mom’s house. That makes it my business. I live here, too."

"This is my house now," he says arrogantly. "I’m the boss. Fuck you. Fuck Mom. Fuck all y’all."

He takes a hit, smiles, forgets that I’m even in the room. His rigid body loosens. He moans softly. The drug fills him with ecstacy. He’s gone. Somewhere else. Drifting away. Head back. Eyes closed. Visibly Euphoric. I wonder where he’s gone. I wonder where the smoke takes him. His mouth falls open. A thin line of drool leaks out. He wipes away his dripping saliva without opening his eyes.

I walk into the living and tell my little brother to go upstairs. He nods, glances at Dave, sighs with disgust, then runs up the steps. William is a good kid. He’s seven years younger than me. Mom’s baby. No matter how old he gets, William will always be Mom’s baby boy. I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s baby. I’m glad I was the fourth of five. William reads philosophy books and likes to think that he’s smarter than the rest of us. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong. We’re all the same here, under this roof; we’re all just white trash children; we’re just brothers who grew up poor and had to have our heads scraped with a metal comb to remove the head lice every so often, brothers who’ve killed our fair share of cockroaches, who’ve had to suffer the embarrassment of flashing our Free Lunch Cards in front of our friends. Someday, William may indeed make something of his life; I might do the same; but at this moment we’re all just prisoners in Dave’s makeshift crack house. Our home is a drug den. Our brother is no longer our brother. He’s something else entirely. I don’t know what. But it sure isn’t pretty.

I walk back to the kitchen. The room stinks like barbecued dirty socks. Like burnt hair. Like melted plastic. With every hit off the pipe, Dave’s shirt grows more damp. If he keeps this up, he’s going to drown. His eyes roll up in his head when he inhales the drug. The crack cocaine is his best friend. I am not his friend. I think right now Dave hardly even recognizes me. I’m just a guy trying to kill his buzz. He has three little girls, and his girlfriend is about to give birth to a fourth. His lady is ready to burst. She’s a big girl naturally, but with-child she’s positively enormous. Last time I saw her, she looked like she was about to explode like something out of a Monty Python film. He should be buying his girls clothes and toys, should be giving them a wonderful life; instead, all of his money is spent chasing that high.

Dave rises from the chair, walks to the kitchen, pulls out a small, sharp knife, then sits back down at the table with the knife now resting by the crack pipe. He takes another hit, the last, I’d gather, since the product seems to have run out.

"What are you planning on doing with that knife?" I ask. My heart beats against my chest with rapid fury. My hands are shaking. I want to be a superhero. I want to save the day. I want to throw Dave’s ass out onto the street and show him who’s boss. I want to prove my manhood. It would be a lot easier to do that if I didn’t feel like such a scared little boy. If I didn’t want so badly to run and hide in the closet.

"Say another fucking word to me and I’ll show you what I’m gonna do with the knife."

"So now you’re going to stab me with a knife?"

His hand creeps toward the knife. Caresses the wooden handle. He smiles. Dave is treating the knife like some beloved pet.

There’s a knock at the door. Loud, urgent.

Dave grabs his drug supplies and shoves everything into his pockets. Pipe, baggy, lighter, tin foil, paper clip, all of it. "Shit," he says. "Tell ‘em to go away, Erv." He gets a solid grip on the knife, as if ready to strike, in case he needs to stab a motherfucker, I guess.

I walk to the door and open it. Dave’s girlfriend is standing before me, both hands against her enormous belly. Her eyes are nothing but blank, gray sadness. This is her lot in life. That’s her man with the crack pipe in his pocket. Her three children are flanked behind her, holding tightly to her thick legs. She’s all they have.

I feel very sorry for them, for the little girls, because their father is my brother. And my brother is the worst person I know.

"Is Dave in there?" Pregnant Mommy asks. "We gotta get to the hospital. I’m gonna have the baby now. I know he’s in there."

I look past her and see a waiting taxi.

I am not a man without fear, quite the contrary, but I do what must be done. When I take the knife from Dave, I’m trembling. He wouldn’t stab me, right? He’s my brother. Brothers don’t stab brothers, right? He gives it up easily enough, and I put the knife back in the drawer. I knew I had to take the knife from him, knew he wasn’t going to cut me. Someday, maybe, but not today. Still, I shake. I know I’ll be shaking for hours to come.

"She’s having her baby now, Dave. You’ve got to get her to the hospital."

"Eat shit and die, faggot," Dave says, shoving me aside.

He walks outside, slams the kitchen door shut behind him. Through the door, I can hear screaming. A minute later, Dave walks back inside.

"Can I borrow forty bucks?" he asks. "I need to pay the taxi driver and get her to the hospital."

I give him the money. Then I grab a can of air freshener and go about the task of turning this crack house back into a home.

"Sorry about all that," Dave says, his hand on the doorknob. "You knew I wasn’t going to hurt you, right? I’m your brother. I’m sorry, man. I was an asshole. Come on, brother, say something."

I refuse to look at him.

"You’re not even my real brother," I say. "You’re only my half-brother."

"Oh, so that’s how it is now, huh?"

"Yup, that’s how it is."

A second later, I hear the door slam. I look out the window and watch the taxi pull away. I’m hoping Dave never comes back. I don’t think I want him to die—I just want to make it so he never existed in the first place. Have him zapped out of existence. But that’s rather difficult to achieve, especially since I don’t know any wizards, mad scientists, genies, or megalomaniacal comic book super-villains.

At 21, Part 4

2007-11-22T01:12:00.000-08:00

1992

Something odd is going on. I’ve got that chilling kind of feeling, that sense of quiet panic, like when I’m home alone in the middle of the night and I suddenly feel as if I’m being watched. That’s what I’ve got. That ghost-in-the-room feeling. Like I’m empty inside. Like I’m a hollow shell and someone is banging on me with my stolen bones. No one here wants to look me in the eye. A secret has been revealed and I’m the only one who doesn’t know it. How does that saying go? If you’re not sure who the asshole in the room is, it’s probably you. Well, I’m definitely the asshole.

I’ve been at work for an hour and Elisa has been avoiding me the entire time. Usually, when she returns home from a weekend with her boyfriend, she’s thrilled to see me; usually, she showers me with kisses in the walk-in freezer and tells me how much she missed me; usually, the tips of our tongues meet and a small jolt of electricity is shared. After days apart, she always tells me how much she would have rather spent the weekend with me. How wonderful and understanding I am. How one day soon she’ll dump the boyfriend and we can finally become a couple. But something has changed. I was not showered with kisses by Elisa when I arrived at work today. I wasn’t even trickled with kisses. She’s ashamed. I can see it in those big chestnut eyes of hers. Those eyes that won’t make contact with mine. Those wet, red-streaked eyes. The store is busy so I don’t have a chance to speak to her. All I get are quick glances. I drop a pizza in the oven and notice Elisa looking back, but she quickly averts her eyes as soon as she notices that I’m staring. Whatever is going on, I know it’s not good.

Maybe I should just remain blissfully ignorant forever. Maybe I should grab hold of Elisa’s shoulders and pull her into the bathroom. Maybe I should say, "I don’t care what’s going on. I don’t want to know. I just want to be with you. I really don’t care. Don’t tell me. Please, don’t tell. Nothing will ever be the same once you tell. Whatever it is you’re holding inside will be the death of us. Never speak of it." But I won’t do that. I need to know. Need to know how much of an asshole I truly am. Am I asshole for falling in love with a girl who’s already taken? An asshole for believing her when she says she’s going to dump him? It’s been months, and the situation has not changed. Elisa spends the week with me, the weekends with her boyfriend. She has sex with both of us. Call me crazy, I’d like her to stop having sex with the other guy. But now that something has changed, I’m scared to death.

So I think, What’s the worst news she could possibly tell me? She’s pregnant? Maybe, but unlikely. She’s on the pill, and very strict about taking it, as far as I know. I’m fairly certain that a girl who’s sleeping with two different men is going to do everything she can not to get pregnant. I also remember her mentioning something about an ovarian cyst, about her maybe not being able to ever bear children. What else? She doesn’t want to be with me anymore? Could be, but doubtful. When we left each other last, as she was leaving for her weekend away with the jerky boyfriend, she admitted to being madly in love with me. "I’ve never felt like this about anyone," she said, tears in her eyes. Truth in her eyes. Maybe she acquired an STD and is too embarrassed to tell me. I make a mental note to check my genitals for discolorations, bumps, and strange little creatures as soon as possible. I would take the STD (a curable one, anyway), as long as I didn’t have to lose Elisa; that’s how much I fucking love her.

I’m at the make-table with Manny, my best friend. He’s dark-skinned and handsome, a real charmer. We’ve been best friends for awhile now, since I drifted apart from Vito, my former best friend. Manny has a big smile and a sinister laugh. A smile like The Joker from the Batman comics. Manny has smooth, dark, perfect El Salvadorian skin. He always smells nice, always has a powerful, manly scent, despite working with grease and onions and filth on a daily basis. Manny tells me that I smell like sour milk, but, then again, he says, "All white people smell like sour milk." He says that all the time, just to piss me off, just to watch me sniff myself. We were both nerds in high school, but now we’re exceedingly cool. Or so we like to think. He had an epiphany a few summers back, after watching Sid & Nancy, and returned to school in the fall with a leather jacket, a Sex Pistols button, and a near-permanent sneer.

"What’s going on with Elisa?" I ask, staring at a string of white order slips hanging in front of me. I’m saucing and cheesing the pizzas, then handing them off to Manny, who adds the toppings and seasonings. We have a system. We’re a good team. We make perfect pizzas. Except for the occasional pizza that Manny spits in if he spots someone he doesn’t like sitting in the dining room. But that hardly ever happens. Almost never. Rarely. Somewhat infrequently. Definitely not every day.

"Look, Erv, it’s none of my business, so I’m not saying anything."

"But you know something, right?"

He smiles. Big. All teeth. Perfectly-straight, white teeth. "I always know something, my friend. Who do you think you’re talking to here?"

"I need you to tell me what’s going on. Why is Elisa acting so strange today? You’ve been here all day. What have you heard?"

At Pizza Tent, secrets rise like heat. Everyone is in everyone else’s business. All up in it. My relationship with Elisa is common knowledge, though I’ve spoken about it to no one except Manny. Although we may have been spotted making out in my car after closing, because we make out after closing in my car every night. We are not careful, because the only person who can’t find out about our relationship is her boyfriend, and he lives across the bridge in Philly. He’s not even in the same state, so it’s hardly like Elisa is even cheating on him. We go through the motions at work, pretending that we’re not fucking every night. But everyone knows that we are. We’re fucking every night that she’s not fucking the other guy. My relationship with Elisa is an open secret. Everyone knows, but at least they have the courtesy to whisper when they gossip about it.

Manny shakes his head while sliding a large hand-tossed pepperoni pie onto the oven. We’re the only two people currently in the back of the store, and even though we’re not too far away from the cashiers and managers in the front of the store, the oven’s loud hum grants us our privacy. Waitresses occasionally walk back to drop off dirty dishes, but they’re too busy to pay us much mind.

"You don’t want to hear this," he says. "You’ll cry like a bitch."

I stare into his eyes, squeeze his shoulder. "I do," I say. "I need to know what’s up. Look, Manny, I’m in love with her. I’ve never been in love before, not like this. She makes me crazy. She makes my skin burn. She also makes me really fucking happy. You gotta talk to me, man. I’m losing it."

He glances from side to side, searching for eavesdroppers. "She’s not the one for you."

"I think she is."

"You think wrong."

"Screw you."

He squeezes my shoulder and says, "You’re too nice for Elisa. You’re delicate and fragile. Dainty."

"I am not fucking dainty!" I snap.

He sighs, then leans in close and whispers into my ear. "That guy she’s got in Philly. He asked her to marry him."

I feel a sharp jab in my stomach, like I’ve just been gutted with a jagged knife.

"They’re engaged, Erv. That’s why she can’t look at you. Elisa and her boyfriend are going to get married. He asked her and she said ‘yes.’ That’s the deal."

I turn my head and catch Elisa staring at me. Her face is pink, with sweat dripping from her chin. From my expression, I’m sure she knows what Manny just told me. The orange light from the oven reflects from her wet eyes. She looks away. I check out her hands. No ring.

"You gotta forget about that slut. I’m serious. She’s gonna cause you nothing but heartache. Trust me, I know about this shit. She’s wrong for you. I’ll bet she’s gonna keep right on fucking you, too, if you let it go on, right up until the wedding, maybe even after. But getting your dick wet ain’t worth all the pain that’s gonna come your way in return. If it were me, I’d keep fucking her, but I don’t have that problem you got of being pussy-whipped, you see."

"You’re right," I say. "I’ve got to be a man about this."

He smacks me hard on the back. "That’s my boy."

The order tickets begin to pile up. We’re swamped. The dinner rush is hectic, but we’re good enough to handle it. We’re the best. I don’t want it to slow down. I want the rush to last forever. As long as I’m busy, life stands still. Nothing can change. No one can hurt me while I’m making pizzas.

The orders stop coming. Customers are leaving. The dinner rush is coming to a close. I don’t want to stop working, stop moving, because that’s when real life takes over. I’m staring at my cheese-covered fingers when Manny nudges me. I look up and see Elisa. She motions toward the walk-in freezer, mouths Follow me.

I follow, as if Elisa had bitten my neck once during sex and put her vampire obedience curse on me. She beckons, I follow.

"Let me explain," she says, her breath clouding in front of her.

"Sure," I say, the loud hum of the freezer’s cooling system nearly drowning out my words. We’re alone in a small, cold box, surrounded by meats and cheeses.

"I don’t love him."

"Then why are you going to marry him?"

"It’s complicated."

I take her hand in mine, lift it to eye level. "Where’s the ring?"

"I’m not going to wear it to work. I might ruin it."

She leans in and kisses me. Her lips are frigid.

"I thought you were going to dump him."

"I am," she says.

"You have a funny way of breaking up with a guy."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I guess you won’t be coming over tonight." I try to smile, but I can’t hold it. It breaks down. Collapses. My mouth refuses to cooperate.

"I want to come over," she says, running her fingers across my cheek. "I want to see you. Let me come over. I still want to be with you. Pretend I’m not engaged. Let’s just keep on doing what we’ve been doing. I’m not going to marry him. I promise you. I’m going to give him the ring back. It’s you I love. Can I come over tonight? Can I spend the night? We'll work this out. I know we will. Tell me I can come over and be with you."

No, no, no. Do not let this madness continue I think. I have to stop this relationship once and for all before this girl tramples on my heart even more. I stare into her eyes and say, "Yes, come over."

We’re both shivering when we kiss, and a small piece of skin from my bottom lip breaks off and sticks to her mouth. Every time I see her, this girl takes a small piece of me and never gives any of the pieces back. She swallows them.

At 25, Part 3

2007-11-19T15:06:00.000-08:00

1996

MJ honks her car horn. I run out of my house and hop into her ride. It’s a reunion of sorts, and I’ve been nervous all day. I kiss her on the cheek, slightly on the lips. She looks great, smells even better, like cream over peaches. The insecure high school girl I once knew has blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Wow. We’ve recently become friends again after years of not speaking. It’s been all catch-up phone conversations to this point, with a bit of expectant flirting tossed in for fun. We even had one night of dirty talk. The past is forgotten, or at least not mentioned.

MJ’s tall, cute, funny, a former high school cheerleader. Brown hair, big eyes, great calves. Sturdy cheerleader calves. I worked with MJ at Pizza Tent. She was heavier then, hadn’t outgrown her baby fat yet. Now she’s into fitness and martial arts, kick boxing, self-defense, and stuff like that there. MJ can totally kick my ass, which might not be saying much since I’m a bit of a pussy. I did her wrong back then. MJ was just a kid and I toyed with her emotions. I cheated on Elisa with MJ; well, maybe that’s not necessarily true: I broke up with Elisa for a month so I could have sex with MJ without feeling guilty, then I broke up with MJ and got back with Elisa. We all worked together and it was a mess. Very "Days of Our Lives." It’s hard to keep more than one lie going at once. My body just didn’t fit with MJ’s like it did with Elisa's. So, even though Elisa was, well, a coke whore, I went back to her because we fit, and I feared I’d never fit with another girl like I did with her. MJ was sweet and kind, loving and true, but our naughty parts didn’t connect the way I thought they should. The first time I had sex with MJ I remember thinking, "Uh oh, this doesn’t feel right." It felt good, certainly—it is sex we’re talking about here—but our bodies didn’t snap into place like two bodies should when it’s meant to be. Hearts were broken. Elisa smacked my face and left a red mark in the shape of her fingers. I made mistakes. I lost them both. Now I’m older. Smarter?

MJ doesn’t hate me anymore. Maybe she never did. But she sure should have. Within moments of seeing her, I know we’re cool, all’s forgiven. We smile and touch and exchange the kind of witty banter that’s probably not as witty as we think it is. We’re going to the movies to see a Stanley Kubrick film called Eyes Wide Shut, starring Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. After the film, we’ll go and have dinner somewhere nice but not too nice, then we’ll come back to my house and mess around. I know this because every phone conversation we’ve had of late has been sexier, naughtier, more intimate than the last. We haven’t had sex with each other in years, but from the first few moments in the car, from our mutual, excited glances, I know she’s as attracted to me as I am to her. I want to touch her new grown-up, well-muscled body. Her breasts are smaller now, because she’s lost weight, but her newly-formed muscles are kind of sexy. I want to make up for the shitty way I treated her. For using her and dumping her. For making her cry. She never had a chance in those days, when she was simply a naive seventeen-year-old cheerleader, because I was blinded by my irrational love for Elisa. Now we’re older, and I wonder if her new body will fit me better than her old one did. My body hasn’t changed. My penis certainly hasn’t gotten any bigger.

The movie is long but good. Sexy, gorgeous, interesting. We hold hands for a few minutes. She pulls away and I wonder if it’s because my hand is sweaty. I wonder if she’s digging me. I wonder if the movie is turning her on. As I watch the movie, I think back to the few times we had sex. Her scent. I remember her scent. It fills my nose. I want the real thing.

"What did you think of the movie?" MJ asks, as soon as we’re back in her car.

"I liked it, I think. If I were making a movie, and I knew that the script was somewhat lacking, I’d make sure I had many, many pairs of boobies. Big boobies, little boobies, lopsided boobies, famous boobies, unknown boobies. So I give Kubrick points for that."

"Nice, Erv, real nice," she says, smiling. "Boobies? You’re some kind of deep thinker, let me tell you. "

"Thanks. I try."

We look into each other’s eyes, sweetly. Our fingers touch, tangle. I want to get her alone. She lives a good distance away, so it’s either my place or no place. I pray that Dave isn’t home. If he’s already left for his nightly mission, he probably won’t be back until morning. I want to get MJ in my bed. I want to lock the door and kiss her all over. I want to touch her and give her all of me, finally, after all these years. Because of Elisa, she never got more than half of me, half of my attention. It was never all about MJ; someone else was always on my mind. But now, I’m in my mid-twenties and free of Elisa’s grasp. I can spend the night with MJ while actually thinking about MJ and no one else. Unless I fall asleep. Or unless my drug-addled, nuisance of an older brother ruins everything. Dave is a well-known ruiner of things.

MJ parks in front of my house and instantly it feels as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I’ve got the burning. The ache. A fire inside. The good news is, Dave is not home. The bad news is, he’s stolen my car. The second I see that my car is not parked in front of the house, I know Dave has taken it to Camden. My car will be involved in a drug deal tonight, maybe several.
Soon, I’m sitting in the living room, MJ by my side, my head in my hands. Mom is sitting across from us, crying. MJ offers a sympathetic smile as she squeezes my shoulder. She’s wearing her glasses and looks adorably adult. She never used to wear her glasses as a teenager, but now, as a women, she’s more confident in her appearance, and cares less about what people think. I like a girl in glasses. I almost don’t even recognize the girl sitting next to me. It’s MJ all right, but a slightly different MJ from the one I used to know, as if the old MJ was replaced my a new MJ from an alternate earth, an earth where all the girls wear glasses and smell like cream over peaches.

"Should I call the police?" I wonder aloud.

"Please, Ervin, don’t call the police. I don’t want him arrested. He’s my son."

"Mom, he stole my fucking car! He went into my room and looked through all my stuff until he found my keys. This isn’t right. I’m your son, too. It’s not fair to me."

"I’m sure he’ll bring the car back tonight. Just...give him a chance. Please. He’s your brother. Don’t hurt him like that."

"Me hurt him? That’s a joke, right? Tell me that’s a big fucking joke!"

"Stop yelling. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, I swear! This is killing me. I can’t take it anymore." Mom is trembling, and I suddenly feel more sorry for her than I do myself.

I shake my head and sigh. "Fine. I’ll give him a bit longer. But if he’s not back soon, I’m pressing charges. How long do I have to sit here and take his abuse? Fuck it." I grab MJ’s hand, wrap my chubby fingers around her slender digits, and say, "Come on." I lead her into the bedroom and lock the door. She does not protest. MJ seems keen on comforting me.

We sit down together on the bed and she rubs my back, tells me everything will be just fine. I turn and stare, tell her that she’s beautiful. She kisses me, climbs on top of me, grinds into me, bites my neck, licks my lips.

She says, "Why don’t you just forget about the car for awhile. Let me help you do that. Do you have any condoms?"

I nod. "I have condoms. Eleven condoms."

"Do you want to sleep with me?"

"Does it feel like I want to sleep with you?"

She reaches down and squeezes. "Oh, yeah."

I reach for the remote control, switch to MTV, turn the volume up all the way.
We giggle as we undress each another. We’re clumsy and sloppy, but it’s all in fun. I have trouble with the condom, fumble a bit, and lose some of my hard-on as I unroll it over my modest erection. I ease myself inside her. Not a perfect fit. My rhythm is off. I’m zigging when I should be zagging, coming when I should be not coming. MJ wants more but I’m all out. I really wanted to give her my best effort, but I haven’t had sex in months and was ready to burst from the get-go. I was so backed up that I worried I might break the rubber with the sheer force and volume of my orgasm. I haven’t even jerked-off in about a week. MJ kindly allowed me a glorious release. A discharge of pent-up frustration in fluid form. Luckily, the condom held up to my major explosion.

As soon as we’re done, I know we’re not meant for each other. I know our bodies don’t connect like they need to, still. I had hoped otherwise. Our puzzle pieces are mismatched, ever so slightly. We’re not going to be a couple; we’re not destined for each other. We’re just two old friends having sex. I needed it for various reasons, and I’m sure she had reasons of her own. This will not be a great love affair, but maybe, if I’m lucky, it’ll be the start of a great friendship. MJ and I will be great buddies, who sometimes "do it." I’m sure I could get her to go for it. A few years ago, she was obsessed with me. Now, who knows? I’m almost certain she fucked me just to cheer to me up, to make me forget that my car had been stolen. A pity-fuck, I’m guessing.

MJ falls asleep soon after we finish with the sex. She’s in my bed, wearing panties and a tight T-shirt, sleeping peacefully. I stare at her tan, long legs and arms, at her slightly-open mouth, her perfectly-outlined breasts. Her thin fingers. I take her in, breathe in her scent—her strawberry shampoo, her sweet cream/peaches perfume, her almost odorless sweat, her fragrant sex. There’s something about having a nearly naked, slightly sweaty, unconscious girl in your bed that makes a guy feel important. MJ is in my bed and she wants to be in my bed. Maybe she just had sex with me out of kindness, or maybe she truly wanted me. Maybe it was just for old time’s sake. Doesn’t matter. She’s here now, softly snoring, and soon my skin will touch hers and we’ll squeeze each other tight. We’ll spoon and I’ll drift off. It’ll be perfect.

Then Dave will come home and ruin everything.

But he doesn’t come home.

I make her breakfast in the morning. Nothing fancy, a bagel with jelly. We sit together on the bed as she eats and we have a pleasant conversation. There’s none of that morning-after awkwardness that sometimes happens when you wake up next to someone you usually don’t wake up next to. We’re cool. She gets dressed and sneaks out without my mother seeing her. My car is still missing, out having a wacky adventure without me. Sadly, I care more about the safety of my car than I do about Dave’s well-being. I want to call the cops. But I won’t. Because Dave is family. Because my mommy doesn’t want me to.

I walk with MJ out to her car and hug her goodbye. It’s a nice, long hug, and more than that, it’s a challenge. The person who lets go first has all the power, because that’s the person who has better things to do. Places to be. Other hugs to dole out. The person who holds on too long immediately becomes "needy."

She lets go first. Back in the day, she never wanted to let go.

"Thank you," I say.

"For what?"

"For keeping me company. You turned a potentially horrible night into a night I’ll always cherish."

"So," she begins, "about what we did."

"Don’t worry. I know."

She kisses my cheek. "We should probably just be friends."

"Yeah."

"I’m not saying we won’t ever have sex again. But I think we should give just being friends a shot. We’ve never tried that."

I scratch my chin thoughtfully.

"Is it because I only lasted, like, 60 seconds? Or because my penis is kind of small?"

She laughs, says, "Don’t be silly," and I’m not sure which question she’s answering. She regroups, transforms into a serious young lady. "You broke my heart when I was seventeen. You really did. I loved you and you hurt me bad. We can have fun, we can be friends, but you will never get the chance to break my heart again. Times have changed."

"I’m so sorry. I just didn’t know what I wanted."

"You should’ve picked me."

"Yes, I should have. I fucked up."

She pats my cheek condescendingly. "Oh, yeah, you so did. Elisa was such a whore. She cheated on you all the time, and everyone knew she was doing it. She was out doing coke and fucking random guys all the time while you were dating her. But you kept getting back with her."

I shrug, simply say, "I loved her."

She nods, as if to say I understand.

She leaves me. I wave as she pulls away, then I take a seat on the front step. I look at the empty spot in the driveway where my car should be. When Dave finally comes back, I’ll need to find a better hiding spot for my car keys. If he’s not back by tonight, I’m calling the cops. I swear. Well, maybe not tonight. Definitely tomorrow, for sure. Unless he calls and apologizes. Then maybe I’ll give him a few extra days.

At 21, Part 3

2007-11-18T14:51:00.000-08:00

1992

I’m driving to Elisa’s house and thinking about high school. Us in high school. The person I used to be, she used to be. We went to the same high school in South Jersey, but didn’t know each other. We knew of each other. She was a junior, I was a senior. We probably passed each other in the hallways hundreds of times, not knowing that in the near-future we’d be madly in love. Fucking like bunnies. Carrying on a secret affair behind the backs of our friends and families. I’ve been out of high school for less than four years, and, honestly, I haven’t changed much. The only real change between the seventeen-year-old Ervin and the twenty-one-year-old Ervin is that the older me knows what it’s like to truly be in love; and I also snort a hell of a lot less cocaine.

I was shy in high school, went under the radar, and most of my classmates have probably already forgotten me. I was not the memorable sort; I was the sit-in-the-back-of-the-class-and-try-not-to-get-noticed sort. At least I didn’t get beaten up. Didn’t get hassled much at all. I wasn’t particularly cool, wasn’t particularly uncool. Just was, but not in a cool Zen kind of way. I didn’t get laid for the first time until the summer before senior year, with a girl several years older than myself. I never scored with high school girls, not while I was actually in high school, anyway. Elisa wasn’t popular in high school, either. The main difference between uncool high school girls and uncool high school boys is that uncool high school girls can get laid, even if they are somewhat...less than appealing. Elisa wouldn’t have dated me in high school. She might have had sex with me, since she’s never been too choosy, but she never would’ve been my girlfriend. I was aware of her presence back then because I worked with her older brother at Pizza Tent.

I was involved with someone for the entirety of my senior year. An older woman. Katherine. She also worked at Pizza Tent. Cashier and pizza cutter. We almost got married. Bought her a ring. Asked her to marry me. The engagement was her idea. I went along with it so she wouldn’t stop having sex with me. I liked the sex. Right before graduation, I broke her heart. Because I wanted to try the sex with other girls. Lots of other girls. Black girls. Asian girls. Tall girls. Chubby girls. Goth girls. Tiny girls. Funny girls. Sad girls. Booby girls. The idea of having sex with Katherine, and only Katherine, for the rest of my life, scared the connoisseur in me. I wanted to be able to sample all of the delicacies, not just one.

I’m glad Elisa didn’t know that Ervin, the Ervin who snorted coke because he thought people would like him more if he joined in on the partying, the Ervin who told lies to Katherine so she wouldn't stop taking off her clothes for him. I wasn’t in love with Katherine, and even as I was down on my knee asking her to marry me, I knew that the marriage would never happen. Now, at twenty-one, with Elisa, I’ve found the love of my life; I know this because when the sex ends, I don’t want to get up and leave.

I’m also thinking about the future. I want to make something of my life. Something other than pizza. I want to rise above the low expectations. The white trash upbringing. The lack of money. The history of alcoholism and drug abuse in my family. The whispers of incest from generations back. No one in my family has ever really amounted to much. I want to be the first. I’m just not sure how I’m going to achieve that just yet. What I am sure of, though, is that I really want Elisa to stop fucking that other guy. That would be a good start to my new, exciting, non-white trash life.

It’s just before noon and I arrive in front of Elisa’s house. Usually, she’s waiting for me outside, brightening as soon as she sees me, but today she’s still inside. I walk up to the door and knock. In the backyard sits a stripped car Elisa’s father has been working on for about a decade. The patchy grass looks like is hasn’t been cut in years. The white paint on the front door is dirty and cracked. It’s a cloudy day, and the surrounding gray haze gives Elisa’s already bleak house an added layer of grimness.

I’m wearing my finest pair of brown polyester work pants, tight-fitting, of course, to show off my excellent ass. My dirty blond hair is parted in the middle and feathered to perfection, a little long in the back. My pretty (yet manly) blue eyes are bloodshot today, after staying up until dawn with Elisa. We had sex, cuddled, then watched the sun come up. Most nights we don’t even say much to each other. We don’t have to. Last night, we held each other tight and cried a little, not out of sadness, but because we were both utterly content. I don’t feel tired today. I’m exhilarated. I feel like I’ve crossed the threshold with Elisa. I feel like she’s mine. That I’ve won her over. That we’re beyond the point of just messing around. Beyond just a casual fling. It’s real. My want for her overwhelms me. I am powerless against it. She owns me. I wish she didn’t, but the girl fucking rules my existence. I’ve joined her cult. There’s only one other member. Him. That jerk of a boyfriend she won’t dump.

I knock on the door. Wait. Hear strange footsteps. Elisa’s boyfriend answers. He’s staring at me as if I’m a six-foot-tall fungus. He’s short and compact, handsome in a reform school kind of way. "Who the hell are you?"

"Um, I’m here to see if Elisa needs a ride to work, because, um, we work together. At Pizza Tent. We’re friends. Me and Elisa. I’m kind of her boss, actually. I just got promoted to Assistant Manager. It’s pretty cool. Anyway, sometimes I give Elisa a ride. Sometimes she rides me. We take turns."

I should shut up now, so I do.

"Is that so?" he asks, without the slightest hint of the smirk that this situation clearly calls for.

"Yeah. We work at the same time today, so—"

"Whatever," he says, unimpressed.

Elisa comes up behind her boyfriend, looks at me and mouths I’m sorry. She smiles weakly.

"Hey, Ervin," she says, trying to sound composed. She’s flushed and talking fast. "I don’t need a ride today. I’m okay. Dirk is going to drive me. I mentioned Dirk, right? My boyfriend? Anyway, I’ll see you at work. Bye now."

Dirk. Fucking Dirk.

When she left my house early this morning, my scent was all over her. I’d been inside her, on top of her, under her. All of my fluids mingled with hers. We didn’t use a condom. We were messy. Crazy. Maybe broke a few rules of nature. Put things in places they didn’t belong. I let go when she told me it was time to let go. Filled her up. Several times. We stunk of sloppy sex. My scent is now gone. Elisa smells like Dirk. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

"Okay, Elisa. I’ll see you at work. Long day ahead of us. Nice to meet you, Dirk."

Dirk shrugs and says, "Yeah, nice to meet you, Erwin."

"Ervin. My name is Ervin."

"Same difference. Like it even matters, dude."

Nice guy I think.

I nod and wave, then walk away. I turn back, hoping to see a glint of sadness in Elisa’s eyes as I depart, but the door is already closed. I was not expecting that. I feel like a rejected encyclopedia salesman.

Motherfucker.

Something has to change, and quick. I can’t go on having sex with her, loving her, if she won’t even break up with that asshole. What is she waiting for? I keep saying it. That I can’t go on like this. I have to mean it. I have to be strong. If I’m not strong, Dirk will always be there to snuff out my scent.

At 21, Part 2

2007-11-17T23:39:00.000-08:00

1992

We’re alone in Elisa’s shitty house. No one who lives here seems too keen on cleanliness. If I’m disgusted by the state of Elisa’s house, after spending my childhood in one cockroach-infested apartment complex after the next, then there is definitely a problem. The room smells strongly of five-day-old trash and dirty feet. Elisa’s dirty feet tickle my own, much cleaner feet, as I stare across the room at the overflowing trash can that hasn’t been emptied in five days. I feel sad for this house. It was probably a perfectly quaint home a few years earlier, before Elisa and her family moved in. My family never had a nice home to mess up; the apartments we lived in were already disgusting by the time we arrived, and the one house we occupied during my childhood was a fixer-upper, but we never got around to the fixing or the upping.

Elisa’s family has gone out for the evening, bowling, I think. They love to bowl. Each family member has their own bowling ball. It’s nice to have some time alone with Elisa, where we can hold hands and kiss and pretend we don’t smell whatever awful thing it is that we’re smelling. When her parents are around, it’s torture, because they think that I am just their daughter’s nice friend from work. They know her actual boyfriend—they don’t like him but they know him. We have to keep up the "friend" act in public, pretend to be just good buddies until Elisa breaks up with her jerky boyfriend, who just happens to be a drug dealer in Philadelphia. Small time, for sure. A punk.

"I don’t understand why you can’t just break up with him," I say, more whiny than intended.

"It’s not that easy," she says. "You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been in love with two people at the same time."

"Sure I have. Right now, I’m torn. I’m in love with you, obviously, but I’m also in love with Molly Ringwald from The Breakfast Club. If Molly ever calls, we’re through. I left some messages with her assistant and I’m waiting for a call-back." I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. I find myself hilarious. My hilarity is rarely contagious.

"You’re a fucking idiot," she says, with appropriate affection. "I’m trying to be serious here, and you’re acting like a clown."

"Oh, there was also that time a few years back when I was equally in love with Kimberly from ‘Diff’rent Strokes’ and Joanie from ‘Happy Days.’ So, you see, I know exactly what you’re going through." I pause. "Should I even mention how I was once torn between Samantha Fox and Stacey Q?"

"You suck." She punches my shoulder.

"Ouch," I say. "That hurt." Elisa is strong for a girl. Also, I’m weak for a boy.

We’re sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the couch, our legs tangled. The television is on but we’re not really paying attention to it as music videos play. We’re watching the MTV, because kids sure do love the MTV. I catch a glimpse of Jane’s Addiction, a minute of The Beastie Boys, a second of Madonna’s torpedo tits. I’m wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. Elisa is wearing tight cut-off jean shorts and a pink half-shirt barely long enough to cover her breasts. Her bare bellybutton is beginning to cause me some mild internal combustion. I’m getting an erection, and my sweatpants are powerless against it. Elisa smiles smugly when she sees the modest rise in my pants.

"You’re hard, Ervin," she says, mock-scolding me as she fights a smile. "Bad Ervin."

"I’m not hard. You’re seeing things."

"Well, if you’re not hard than you’ve got some sort of small reptile in your pants."

"Okay, I’m hard. It’s your bellybutton. I made the mistake of looking at it."

"Do you want to fuck my bellybutton? That’s new. Well, I guess we could give it try. Might fit."

I shake my head, as if offended. "So you’re saying my dick is so small that it would fit in your bellybutton? Nice, real nice. And don’t think I missed your small reptile comment."

"Ervin, how many times do I have to tell you? Your penis is not small. It’s basically just the right size. It’s fine."

When she says my penis is "fine," I want to gouge out my own eyeballs with a butter knife so I never have to look at my disappointing fucking member ever again.

Elisa playfully fingers her bellybutton, and I’m amazed by how much of her pinkie she fits into that small crevice. She licks her lips, moans in an exaggerated fashion, sticks out her tongue. She has the sexiest, naughtiest, most devious smile I’ve ever seen. I could stare at her mouth for weeks.

"Can we just get off my penis?" I say, my dimples in full force. I realize how silly I sound before I even finish the sentence.

"Ahem! As I was saying, before your cock so rudely interrupted me. I can’t break up with him yet. He needs me. I’m all he’s got."

I place both my hands on my lap, covering my distracting erection. "What about his drugs?"

"I’m all he’s got besides his drugs. He’s unstable. If I dump him, he might hurt himself. He’s very violent."

"I’m not going to keep having sex with you while you’re screwing some other guy. It’s gross. It makes you seem like a slut."

"You calling me a slut?"

"Of course not."

Slut. Princess. Slut. Angel. Slut. Goddess.

"Go fuck yourself, Ervin."

It’s about a hundred degrees in Elisa’s house. There’s a fan blowing hot air on us. Elisa’s face is beaded with sweat. A touch of pink fights to show itself through the olive skin of her face. Dampness suits her. She wipes sweat off her forehead with the bottom of her shirt, briefly exposing her small, dark, firm breasts. Breasts the size of tennis balls. Her nipples are brown and hard. She never takes her eyes off of me as she wipes away the moisture. She looks like a character in a Tennessee Williams stageplay, damp, seductive, a bit crazy, wild in the eyes. Elisa is a clever girl. She always distracts me with sex. Whenever I’m mad at her, whenever I question our relationship, whenever I seem on the verge of ending it, she "accidentally" shows me her tits. Clearly, Elisa is a genius. Some people at work think she’s dumb, but I know better. She’s a girl who always gets what she wants.

"Well," she begins, sighing, "if you’re not going to fuck me any more, I guess we’d better have one last night of wild passion to remember each other by."

"Sounds reasonable," I say. I cannot classify any suggested act involving myself having sex as anything but reasonable. I know this will not be the last time we have sex. In the end, Elisa will choose me. She must. She will. No other outcome is acceptable. I’ll do whatever it takes to win her heart.

"I want you right now," she whispers, her lips tickling my ear.

She stands up and removes her shorts, but leaves on the shirt, pulling it up above her breasts. I pull down my sweatpants. Elisa stands above me, touching herself. She slowly lowers herself onto me, then leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. My hands grab tight hold of her hips, and I pull her back and forth, creating great friction. I squeeze her ass tightly, gripping it with both hands. Our lips connect. When her tongue enters my mouth, I bite down and hold on, as if I never intend to let go. I make her bleed, just a little. A love bite. Her blood trickles down my throat. When I release her tongue, she’s grateful, as if I’ve just given her a present. She tells me she’s about to come. I hold her still. All movement ceases. She tries to move her hips but I won’t let her. I refuse her what she wants most. She wants only to grind against my stomach for a few more seconds. Elisa wants only sweet relief.

"Please, let me come," she says. "I’m so fucking close. I’m right there. Why are you torturing me?" Her eyes are closed. She’s panting. Sweating all over me. Begging. Her sweat drips into my eyes. Sweet burning. Drips into my eyes and runs down into my mouth. Tastes like salted lemon water. Tastes good. I swallow.

I want to believe that I am some kind of sexual master, that Elisa has never been pleasured so intensely, but I know that’s not the truth. Elisa is just a sex maniac who comes easily and I just happen to be the cock of the moment. Still, I want to believe there’s more between us than just sex. I know we belong together. I know we will someday marry and start a family. I know we will never tire of each other, and we’ll fuck like bunnies until we’re old enough for my pecker to give out. The only matter left to settle is her maddening "boyfriend" problem. The problem being that she doesn’t see it as much of a problem at all. She gets to have sex with one guy on the weekends, and another during the week.

"Break up with him," I say. I’m holding her so tightly that she can’t move even an inch. She’s trying to squirm, to get just one good jolt of orgasm-releasing friction, but I won’t allow it. I’m cruel. Cruel to myself as well. She’s not the only one who’s close. I’m right there with her.

"Fine, whatever. I’ll do it. Just please let me finish. Fuck! Please!"

I smile and give her want she wants. I let go.

She grinds against me so hard it’s painful. I burn. I throb. An invisible fire. Her nails dig into my neck.

It’s done. Now we’re both sweating. Both panting. We’re still. I hold her tight. Never want to let go. Just have to hold on forever. Not let her go.

"So you’ll break up with him tomorrow?" I question, as we share a smoke in the afterglow.

I stare at the television and watch Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam sing "All Cried Out." It’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard. I start to cry. When Lisa Lisa sings Inside I’m slowly dying, but the rain will hide my crying, crying, cry-ahi-ahi-ing, I know exactly how she feels.

"Sure. Tomorrow."

"You promise?"

"Soon. I promise."

"I just can’t stand the thought of sharing you for another minute. I can’t do it. Not like this. Not anymore. Every day you’re still with him, it hurts me a little more. The situation has got to change. Now."

She caresses my burning cheeks. Looks into my eyes. Sweet smile. Maybe sympathetic. Wet eyes. Says, "I know."

At 25, Part 2

2007-11-16T02:40:00.000-08:00

1996

I’m dreaming of Elisa when I’m shaken. I’m slow to wake up, because I don’t want the dream to end. In dreams, we’re still together, still happy. I’ve forgiven her, and she’s forgiven me. But it’s not the same Elisa. This is a better version. Her smile is sincere. Her eyes don’t lie. I smell a freshness about her that lets me know she’s no longer a slut. Elisa in my dreams is the Elisa I want her to be. The dream Elisa is perfect: caring, honest, and almost always naked. The real Elisa ended up disappointing me. The dream version of her is perfection. During the normal course of my day I almost never think about her, but I dream about her often. The dream part of me wants her back; the waking part knows better. In my dream, Elisa is on her hands and knees, her ass just inches from my mouth. She turns her head in my direction and slyly says, "What are you waiting for? Aren’t you hungry?" In the dream, I am very hungry. Famished. I eat.

"Ervin, wake up, man!"

I don’t want to lose this fantasy. Dreams of a naked girl. A girl I loved more than any other. A pleasant dream. About to be ruined. I’m fighting consciousness with all I have. Fighting to keep this lovely dream going. This dreamworld where I’m ravishing the girl I love. She’s moaning as I lick, bite and suck. I know it’s not really happening, but it feels and tastes and smells so very real. When I wake up, I will no longer be ravishing her. When I wake up, she’ll be long out of my life. I fight, but it’s a losing battle. Some motherfucker wants me awake.

"Can you hear me?"

Eyes still closed, dream eroding, fighting to keep that moving picture of Elisa in my head. I hear her moan one last time, hear her say, "You’re gonna make me come. Don’t go away. Don’t wake up." Her pretty smile erodes. Dissolves. I’m awake.

"Come on, Erv, you gotta wake up," Dave says. There’s an urgency in his voice. "We got a problem."

"Didn’t I lock my door?" I wonder aloud.

"It’s William. He needs our help."

My eyes spring open and I pop up like an automaton. Dave slowly comes into focus. A thick head of wavy light brown hair. Bloodshot eyes. Tanned skin covered in a layer of moisture. Dave is handsome in a rugged, action star kind of way. I’m known to be handsome in a nerdy, boy-next-door kind of way.

"What’s wrong?"

"He just called. He was hanging out with some friends of his and they ditched him in Camden. We gotta go get him before he gets jacked."

I hop out of bed and throw on sweatpants and a Batman T-shirt.

William is always getting himself into trouble. He’s the youngest, the baby in the family, and even though he’s nearly twenty years old, I still see him as a child who forever needs my help. I was in charge of him for years, because I was the only one of her children Mom thought responsible enough to babysit. My main qualification as Head Babysitter: I hadn’t ever been arrested. Staying out of prison has always been a major accomplishment in my family. I still consider William my responsibility, even though I’ve long since stopped babysitting him.
Camden is no place for him to be. It is not a safe city for white folks to be wandering the streets in the middle of the night. It is not a safe place for anyone. Camden has one of the highest murder rates in the country. The only reason suburban white kids go to Camden in the middle of the night is to score drugs or hookers. I know from experience. The good/bad old days. I haven’t been to Camden in a few years, since I gave up snorting coke. I think most white people are happy that Camden exists. Keep all the drug traffic there. Isolated. Let Camden fall apart. At least it’s not my town. All the upper-class whites can turn a blind eye to Camden, because their neighborhoods, while only a few miles away, are lily-white and clean. Meanwhile, the children of Mr. And Mrs. Lily White are copping an 8-ball every weekend in the ‘hood. I know because I did it. Made runs to Camden. Scored. Brought the coke back to our Pizza Tent smack-dab in suburbia. But I never, not once, looked down at the drug dealers. Never thought I was better than them. I knew better. Knew where I came from. My family. My roots. My past. My potential future.

It’s a forty-five minute journey to Camden, round trip. My brain is still fuzzy. Blurred images of Elisa still dancing about. I’m not sure where I’m even going. I ask Dave for more information.
"Is there some crack house I’m supposed to be looking for?"

"I’ll know it when I see it," Dave says. "Left up here on the corner, then a right."

"I can’t believe William got himself stuck in Camden. What did he say on the phone?"

Dave shrugs. "Not much. Just said to come get him. He sounded scared. I told him I’d come and save him." He then says the "N" Word, or some variation of it, about fifteen times, then laughs as if he’s just told a funny joke.

"Great. Why don’t you roll down the window and shout that racist shit out loud?" I ask. I’m not a big fan of Dave’s racism. I love everyone, unless they do me harm. I dated a black girl named Lovely for about a year, but I never brought her home. I told myself I did it to protect her, to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Really, though, I didn’t bring her home to meet my mother and my siblings because I was a pussy. I should’ve stood up proudly and told the world that Lovely was my girlfriend. But I didn’t. And I regret it. Maybe I just dated her to prove that I wasn’t a racist. Maybe I just wanted to feel better about myself. Or maybe I just thought she was hot and didn’t give a shit what color she happened to be. I thought her dark brown flesh pressed against my bone white flesh was damned sexy. Aesthetically, I love the visual of black skin on white. It’s hot.

Dave takes a deep drag off his Marlboro Light, exhales, flicks his ashes, then smiles. "Sorry. I forgot how sensitive you are. My bad. Still, man, you need to toughen up. The world ain’t pretty. I seen some things that would make your head explode. It’s okay. You’re still young yet, Erv, but someday you’ll see that you can’t trust black people. I’ve been buying drugs off these people for years. They’re always trying to rip me off. Hookers, drug dealers, they’ll fuck you over every time. I know from personal experience."

"I don’t think they’re ripping you off because they’re black. I think they’re ripping you off because they’re drug dealers."

"Whatever. Same thing," he says, with a dismissive wave. "Still can’t trust ‘em." Dave once sold a bag of flour to some morons in the neighborhood and said it was cocaine, quickly and effectively ending his career as a drug dealer. Dave’s always been a very poor scam artist. He’s always makes the fatal mistake of being a complete fucking idiot.

The only person I know I can’t trust is Dave, my own brother, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious of our trip. I’m getting the feeling that I’ve been had. I should’ve known better.

"Up head," he begins, "there’ll be an Elephant Man-looking guy dressed like Run DMC. Short guy, stands kind of crooked. When you see him, we’re almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Where we need to be."

I turn the corner and see the hookers, all shapes and colors, all nearly nude. Most of the hookers are happy and smiling, waving cheerfully, and the ones who aren’t smiling are catatonic, standing frozen like statues of the recently dead. I see the kids selling drugs on the corner. I see the lookouts and the runners. I see a decaying city ravaged by poverty. I see boarded-up, burned, condemned buildings. I see the city where I almost lost my hand when I was five. The city where my father lived with his new girlfriend after he ditched my mom shortly after I was born. (Dad lived around the corner from Mom, and would hide when Mom came knocking. I see where he was coming from. I mean, how dare my mother ask for five or ten dollars so I could eat and have fresh diapers? The nerve of that woman!) I see children who have long since stopped being kids. What I don’t see is my little brother. This is wrong, all wrong, and it I should’ve known better. I should be smarter than this. Should be. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"He’s not here, is he?" I say, disgusted. "You fucking lied to me, didn’t you?" When I speak to Dave like this, I tremble a little, because I’m no tough guy. I’m scared, but still I speak. I cannot hold back my anger.

"Look, man, I needed a ride. You gotta give me points for creativity, right?" He laughs, as if he’s just pulled a great prank. "Well, now that we’re here, I might as well make the most of it." He points to the corner. "Park right there, next to those dudes who look like the Jackson 5."

A kid who’s probably still in elementary school nods at Dave and Dave nods back. They’ve seen each other before.

"Fucker," I say, softly, spitting the words out. I stop the car and Dave hops out. A chubby Spanish hooker approached the car and shows me her floppy tits, says I can play with them for ten dollars, five dollars per titty. I look away. The hooker calls me a limp-dick faggot. Seconds later, Dave is back in the car.

"Thanks, Erv," he says, checking out the goods, sizing-up his little bit of rock.

"This is it, Dave," I say. "Don’t ever ask me for another thing. If I get pulled over, we’re both going to jail."

"Then drive carefully, motherfucker!"

"Go fuck yourself, Dave," I say. I’m shaking. I hold the steering wheel tightly, bracing myself. My stomach is burning. Lava for blood. I’m dizzy. I can’t believe this is my life. Driving my brother around Camden on a crack run. Fuck me.

"No, fuck you, Erv. Say another word and I punch you in the face and throw you out of the car. I don’t need your shit. I like to get high. Deal with it. I love drugs. I love it! So what? So fucking what?"

"You can get high all you want. Go to the moon. Whatever. Just keep me out of it. This is it. We’re not brothers anymore. We’re nothing."

Dave is technically only my half-brother. We have different fathers. At least Dave knows his dad’s location. Prison.

"Stop crying, baby."

"Don’t ever ask me for a ride again."

"Fine. I’ll just steal your car next time."

There’s no arguing with him. He’s happy. He has his drugs. Mission accomplished.

I drive us home, carefully. In mere minutes, the landscape changes. Burned, boarded-up houses turn into pretty, fenced-in houses. We’re home and Dave hops out of the car. He feels no guilt, no shame. None of that. Dave is proud of himself. Got the better of book-learnin’, school-goin’, jail-stain’-outta Ervin. He disgusts me.

The worst person I know is my very own brother.

At 21

2007-11-15T02:21:00.000-08:00

1992

I open my heavy eyelids and see her staring down at me. She comes slowly into beautiful focus. Elisa. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Or at least the most beautiful girl who’s ever let me put my tongue in her warmest, darkest places. A short, frizzy mess of black hair. Big smile, just the right amount of teeth and gum. An infectious laugh, husky and wonderful, a smoker’s laugh. A body that bulges and dips in all the right places. Tall, olive skinned. An intoxicating scent that ignites me, spicy yet still sweet. She does it for me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, not even about that girl I almost married when I was seventeen.

When you make love to someone for the first time, you know almost immediately if your bodies fit properly together. We fit. Ervin and Elisa. I slide gently in and find my place. It’s right. Like our bodies are puzzle pieces snapping into place. So fucking right. I’m twenty-one, Elisa is twenty. I’ve only had a few sexual partners (two and a half or three, depending on your definition of "sex") and Elisa’s had many. Before we’d had sex, I worried that my average-sized dick would be too small to satisfy a girl who’s been around. But I needn’t have worried. It’s fate. We’ve only had sex a couple of times, but each time we do it our connection grows stronger. We both realize that we’re perfect for each other. Or maybe she’s realized it at this very moment, while she looks down at me with glossy eyes. She’s staring so intently at my face that I’m suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t like being studied. I’m afraid she’ll find some flaw that she hadn’t previously noticed, something that’ll turn her off to me completely. She stare at my face and think Oh shit, I hadn’t noticed that ugly bump on his nose before. Gross. Guess I can never have sex with him again. Oh, well.

She has a weird, twitchy kind of smirk across her face, and I wonder if maybe she’s drawn a penis on my forehead with a magic marker for laughs. She’s staring, smiling, biting her lip, her dark eyes big and attentive. She’s looking at me as if I’m a puzzle, a mystery that’s she just begun to figure out. I’m on my back on the living room floor. Arms behind my head. A thick blanket beneath me. I’m wearing only my underwear, tight and white, oh yeah, just like the ladies like ‘em; Elisa’s wearing one of my long T-shirts and nothing else. My mother is at work, on the overnight shift at a greasy burger place the size of a backyard shed. William, my younger brother, is upstairs sleeping. David is in jail, which is not uncommon (Dave and his father stole a car together, rather unsuccessfully. Not the best way for a father and son to bond, I suspect). Ron and Sheri are living in Florida. I don’t think my father is coming home tonight either, since he hasn’t been home since 1976. He may have been abducted by aliens, or he might just be a deadbeat douchebag. It’s the middle of the night. Two in the morning. We made love at midnight and then passed out in each other’s arms while watching Frankenhooker. But now I’m awake and she’s still staring. Her fingers gently brush over my cheek. I know it’s not a dream because I can smell the scent of sex on her fingers.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" My face flushes, but it’s dark and she can’t tell. I hate when anyone looks at me for too long. I’m not a fucking painting. Look at something else. But then I feel okay about it. Because it’s Elisa. Because she’s smiling. Because her eyes are damp.
Her fingers graze my lips; I lick the sweet taste of sex off of them.

"You’re so beautiful," she says, in a poetic whisper. "Make love to me."

It’s an amazing moment. To have this goddess of a girl say those sweet words to me. To me. The hair on my arms stands on end. I’m speechless.

Even though I’m still groggy, even though her scent is still on me from the unprotected sex we’d had a little earlier in the evening, I’m instantly aroused, the kind of aroused where the throbbing and stretching threatens to tear right through my clothes. She’s quickly on top of me, pulling off my underwear, easing me in. No foreplay. None needed. Her words were enough. Elisa’s already ready. Drippingly ready. She rides me unrelentingly hard and I finish in what seems like a minute. I let it all out. Everything I have. We wrap our arms around each other and suddenly, for no reason I can even comprehend, we’re both crying. Then I know we’re crying because it’s right. Because it’s perfect. She tells me not to take it out; she hates when I take it out; she hates that feeling of sudden loss. Soon, though, the blood will flow back where it’s supposed to, and it’ll slide out on its own. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can’t keep something where you want it. That’s life.

"Keep it in as long as you can," she says. "Please."

I nod, but it’s already almost too late. The blood is making its way elsewhere, back to my brain maybe, which is still illogical with lust.

My small, soft manhood slips out and I hear her resigned sigh. I feel awful for having let her down.

Elisa kisses my scarred left hand, and I tell her how hideous-looking I think it is. She says, "Nonsense. It’s beautiful, like everything else about you." I tell her the story of how my mother freaked out when a doctor suggested that they might have to chop off my hand. Mom drove me to a different hospital, where they said they could save it. All it took was three months in the hospital with my hand elevated, hanging from a metal pole with wheels. But it was worth it. Because I don’t have a hook for a hand. I’m sure Elisa wouldn’t love me if I had a hook. The only good a guy gets out of having a hook for a hand is stalking kids at Lover’s Lane or chasing after Peter Pan.

"That ridiculous," she says. "I’d love you with a hand or without."

I smile. "Are you admitting that you love me?" The "love" word had never come up in conversation, but we’ve clearly been headed in that direction for weeks now.

"Shut up, dork," she says sweetly. "I’m just saying, I’d take you any way I could get you, is all. A hand is just a hand. You’re more than that."

"Would you love me if I didn’t have a dick?"

"Don’t get crazy now, Ervin. I like sex too much to spend my life with a guy with no dick."

She has a boyfriend and she’s cheating on him with me. I’m slowly winning her over and one day soon she’ll be mine. All mine. I already love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I fucking love her so much that my stomach burns every time I think of her with that other guy. Still, right now, I’m the other man, and none of this is real. We’re in Fantasy Land. Every Wednesday night she comes over, we watch a movie, passing the time until my kid brother goes to bed. Then we have sex. I never last very long because it feels too good. She feels too good. We’re in a little pocket universe of our own creation. We’re scientists and we’ve created a secret world.

Everyone at work knows what’s going on. The way we look at each other. Flirting, hugging, longing glances. How could they not know? I’m an assistant manager at a large pizza chain that for our purposes we’ll just call Pizza Tent, and she’s a counter girl. I give her special treatment, because I can. Elisa’s boyfriend lives in Philadelphia, and she spends every weekend with him. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. I long for Mondays, to see her again. A couple of hours a week. That’s all we have. I want more. I want all of her. If I could just stay hard forever she’d never leave. I get soft and she goes and spends the weekend with him, her real boyfriend. I explode inside because I know she’s fucking him. I wonder who she enjoys more. I wonder if she begs him not to take it out. Last week I asked her if he was bigger than me, and she wouldn’t answer. It’s not that I necessarily mind her having sex with her boyfriend—I just don’t want her to enjoy it. I don’t want him to have a bigger dick than me. Is that too much to ask?

"I don’t want to share you with that guy anymore," I say.

"I’m working on it," she says. She’s standing up, with a towel between her legs, wiping away my mess. "I should go." Her dark pubic hair is neatly-trimmed, shaped like a triangle. Her toenails are a faded, chipped red. She bruises easily. Her breasts are perky. Her ass is round and just about perfect. When I look at her ass, I want to do sinful things to it.

"That’s gross," she says, reading my mind.

I stand up and wrap my arms around her. "Why do you have to have sex with him?"

She laughs. "He’s my boyfriend. Duh! If I don’t have sex with him, he’s going to know something’s up."

"Just dump him. Let me be your boyfriend," I say.

She looks away from me. "I have to go now. I’ll see you at work tomorrow."

I watch as she slides on her panties and bra, her tight jeans. She catches me staring and winks, licks her lips.

"If it helps you any," she begins, "when I’m having sex with him, mostly I’m thinking about you."

"Do you use a rubber when you have sex with him?" I ask.

"You know I’m on the Pill, baby. Don’t you think it’d be a bit suspicious if all of a sudden I asked him to start wearing rubbers after two years of not wearing them?"

"Yeah, I guess. Good point."

She leaves me. Next time, I will tell her I love her. Next time, I will demand that she be my girl and my girl only. I can’t keep going like this. Sharing. I’m losing my mind. When she’s gone, on the weekends, off with him, I don’t shower. For several days I keep her scent on me, until I can get the real thing again. My weekends are spent pacing, worrying, my stomach turning, my skin burning, because on the weekends the woman I love is busy screwing another guy. If this keeps up much longer, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Every weekend Elisa slips away. You just can’t keep something where you want it forever.

At 5

2007-11-14T02:15:00.000-08:00

1976

I’m five years old and climbing. Pulling my little body higher and higher. Straining and grunting. I see myself not as a kid in a poor neighborhood scaling a crumbling wall, but as a boy scout climbing a majestic mounting on the cover of a fancy kids’ adventure magazine. Exhilarated, blood pumping, sweating, looking up, smile on my face, digging in. I can do this. It seems like an endless climb, as if I’m pulling myself up to the clouds on a decrepit beanstalk. But it’s just a poorly-maintained cinder-block wall. A wall that has silently taunted me for weeks. I’d pass by every day and stare at the big kids atop the wall. Wanting to be up there myself. Wanting to conquer that maroon monstrosity. Today, I decided that I was going to go for it. Join the other kids.

Several older black kids sit atop the wall, looking down at me, egging me on. I want to impress them, because in the small kid universe you only get one chance to prove that you’re not a wimp. It’s not about black or white—I’m too young to worry about all that; it’s about respect. So I climb. Beneath my fingertips, small bits of wall break free. It’s a piece of shit wall. It is my enemy. Soon to be my bitch.

I think I’m gonna own this fucker.

"Come on, runt, you can do it," a smiling kid says to me.

"Climb, climb, climb," a fat kid chants. If he can make it up to the top, I sure can. I’m skinny, wiry, and light.

A third kid, all teeth, says, "You can do it, white boy!"

I might just be the palest person in all of Camden. There are, at most, five or six white families left. My family holds out not because of some deep sense of loyalty, not because we love Camden, but because we simply don’t have enough money to move to a nicer neighborhood. All of the truly respectable Caucasians have moved on to Pennsauken or Cherry Hill. My family is far from respectable. We eat too much glow-in-the-dark yellow Government Cheese to garner any respect. But we do eat. My mother is a lunch lady at the local elementary school, and she’s allowed to bring home some leftover food, so we do get our proper nutrients. Plenty of cold tater tots and warm chocolate milk. We will always eat as long as Mom is around. She’d sacrifice anything for her kids. She gives up everything so we can have something. She takes on extra jobs during the holidays so we can have presents under the tree come Christmas Day. I’m a white kid growing up in a black neighborhood, but I have at least one parent who cares, and that’s more than a lot of kids I know. Many of those I share my slice of Government Cheese with have no one at all.

My father is already out of my life. He hung around just long enough for me to barely know him. I picture my father as a loveable silent film tramp. Jerky movements. Bad facial hair. Always on the run. Up to his nose in minor comical misadventures. Running from my mother as she pushes the baby carriage his way. Running from Mom’s first and only husband, Big Ron, a convict who chased after my father during his always-brief excursions from prison. I’m told Big Erv (my dad) and Big Ron (Ron, Dave, and Sheri’s dad) had an honest-to-goodness car chase through the streets of Camden. (The French Connection had just opened, and I guess everyone was chasing each other with cars.) Big Ron with his foot on the gas, waving his fist in the air, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Dad sweating and swerving. Trying not to die. That’s how I see my father. Always running. In black and white. Silent. Comically pathetic.

"You almost here, kid!" the toothy boy shouts. "You almost with the big boys!"

I’m sweating and panting, but focused. My muscles, and I’m assuming that I have muscles despite visual evidence to the contrary, burn. The sun beats down on my hot cheeks. Higher and higher I rise, and I’m feeling like I can do anything, like I’m Spider-Man, like I am unstoppable, until I fall and instantly realize that I am not Spider-Man. Beneath my fingers a brick comes loose. A whole brick. I fall and the brick falls with me. I’m flailing, trying to grab hold of something, anything, but there is nothing. I’m falling in slow-motion, a cinder block just above my head, waiting to land on my skull, waiting to crush my little brain. If I’d had a life to this point it would’ve flashed before me, but I’m five and haven’t done shit. I twist and flop in the air, like a high diver who’s lost his footing, and then hit the ground. For a second, I’m relieved. I’ve landed and I don’t think I’ve broken anything. Then the brick drops. The cinder block lands on my left hand and that’s when I hear the crunch, the sound not unlike a boot coming down on a bag of fresh light bulbs. I know immediately that my hand is broken. No, much more than simply broken. Shattered into tiny bits. The wait for pain is worse than the pain itself. I just go numb, numb with a growing throb, as if my hand was attached to a bicycle pump and some jokester was filling it up with air. I’m silent as a great wail rises inside me. I know my pain will soon be a siren.

The three kids who’d been egging me on do not come to my rescue. Instead, they run away, leaving me crying and bloody. I hear one of them say, "Damn, that was some nasty shit!" I push the brick aside with my good hand, then run home, my right hand holding my seemingly-dead left hand at eye-level. If I don’t hold it up it’ll flop about like a dead fish.

"Help me!" I scream. "Oh, God, help me!" I repeat the word "help" over and over. I don’t know what else to say. I’m just a kid. A broken kid.

I’m weeping, bleeding, heading home to show the babysitter what’s happened. My babysitter today happens to be my great grandmother, Mom’s mom’s mom. She will not be happy about this. She’s watching her "stories" and I will interrupt her and ruin her day. Nanny is just going to have to miss "All My Children" today while the doctors either fix or remove the hand I’ve destroyed. I’m not a big fan of staying with Nanny, because she yells a lot and makes me go to bed when it gets dark, but on the plus side, she does make the best iced tea in the world and has a large collection of National Geographic, a magazine overflowing with titties—floppy, unfirm titties yes, but titties nonetheless.

"Jesus, Mary & Joseph!" Nanny says, looking my rapidly-swelling hand. "What did you do, you little asshole? Now I’m going to have to call your mother at work and make her come home for this. You little shit. Goddam it. Oh, no. Why did you do this? What’s wrong with you?"

Nanny is not a bad person—she just doesn’t know how to handle the situation. She’s not good with kids. A few of her own children were molested by her husband, and she was said to have been unaware. I hope she was unaware. We all hope she was unaware. Back in those days, no one spoke about child molestation. It was just a family’s dark secret. Nanny’s husband, my great grandfather, was eventually arrested. But lives were ruined. A child forever damaged eventually committed suicide. Life goes on. A family’s legacy forever tainted.

Nanny lowers my hand into a bucket of cold water. My hand that now looks like a few piranhas have had me for dinner. The clear water in the bucket turns pink, then red, then black. I cry. I don’t want to lose my hand. I don’t want to have a hook for a hand. I want today to be yesterday, when I was too chicken to climb the wall. I just wanted to be cool, but being cool is painful. I’ll stay uncool from now on, especially if I end up with a hook for a hand.

Nanny changes the water in the bucket, a fresh batch of clear water than I will soon darken with my blood. I glance down at my hand and it’s now twice its normal size and still growing. My throat burns and it’s all I can do not to throw up.

"Why are you so stupid?" Nanny asks. "Who told you to be so dumb? Don’t you think, boy? Well, my day is ruined."

My day ain’t looking so hot either, Nanny.

"I just wanted to be cool, like the other kids," I say.

"And look where that got you. Now you went and broke yourself."

My hand looks unfamiliar, like one of those big spongy hands you see at sporting events, and even at five I know it will never be quite the same. I’m left-handed and I’ve just destroyed my left hand. How will I drawn and write? How will I eat? How will they manage to shrink it back down to its normal size? I am so very screwed. I turn away from the hand. I can’t look at it anymore. I won’t. They can’t make me. By the time my vomit does come, Nanny has another bucket waiting.

At 9

2007-11-12T13:02:00.000-08:00

1980

I’m nine years old and The Philadelphia Phillies are about to win The World Series. It’s Game 6, at Veterans Stadium. Sixty-five thousand screaming fans. I’m seated in the Picnic Area (which is exactly what it sounds like; several picnic tables arranged near the fence down the third base line), because my Aunt Marie got us in for free and we don’t have actual tickets; Marie knows the nice old guy who retrieves foul balls that roll down the left field line. We’ve been to at least fifty games during this great 1980 season, and haven’t had to buy a single ticket. The game is almost over. The stadium feels like it’s swaying. Obedient horses with cops atop them trot onto the field before the final out, the city anticipating the best, and the worst.

A skinny man with a handlebar mustache tries to run onto the field prematurely, the power of joy compels him, and the power of several tall cups of beer; he can hardly contain himself, and for his excitement he gets whacked hard by a cop wielding a baton. The anonymous fan’s fingers are bloodied and broken, pointing in impossible directions and dripping blood like something out of a gruesome drive-in movie, like a lost scene from Phantasm, but he’ll live. A fan through and through, he turns his attention back to the field and smiles, relishing the victory, ignoring the pain; it helps that the alcohol has dulled his senses. His fingers have just been broken, but still, the game is more important. The sudden, contained outbreak of violence distracts me from the game; I know what it’s like to have your hand smashed; I know what it feels like when the tiny bones shatter.

But at this moment, there’s nothing more important than my favorite team winning the Big Game. I have my glove, my hat, my jersey, my lifelong devotion. Then it happens. Swing and a miss. Tug McGraw jumps into Bob Boone’s awaiting arms. A perfectly respectable display of manly, heterosexual joy. It’s fine for men to embrace if there is some sort of ball involved. Victorious men can do whatever the fuck they want. The Phillies win and pandemonium erupts. Sixty-five thousand smiles. Orgasms without the mess. I’m nine and think life will always be this sweet. I’m not a very smart child. I’m nine and I think this one wonderful moment will make up for all the other shitty ones. And I’ve already had my share of shitty moments. Almost ten years of shit.

Aunt Marie squeezes me ‘til I’m nearly out of air, cigarette dangling from her painted lips. Marie: sports fans, chain-smoker, middle-aged unmarried woman carrying on a long-term affair with a married cop who’ll never leave his wife. Her cigarettes are always covered with a thick layer of cherry red lipstick, and the butt always ends up looking more like a crayon than a cigarette, like something a circus clown might try to smoke. If someone popped her in the mouth you wouldn’t even know she was bleeding. She spends more time coughing than not coughing, and I usually feel like my life is in jeopardy when she drives me anywhere (trekking across The Walk Whitman Bridge, Marie coughing up little bits of her insides, me covering my eyes, sure that at any moment the car is going to fall off the bridge, my window all the way down just in case I have to swim to the surface, in case I survive the fall). But because of tonight, because of this, I will love Marie forever. She’s given me a moment. A chance to be at a bar with friends twenty years from now and able to say, "I was there. Fuck you all, I was there." A chance to have all the grown men standing around me say, "You’re so lucky." Because, who knows? The Phillies might never win The World Series again. Unlike money and women and cars and dignity, a moment can never be stolen. This almost makes up for all the times she’s made me sit and watch "Hee Haw" with her on her tiny black & white television.

Marie tries to drive us back to Jersey after the game, but the cars are simply not moving, because there are no drivers. People are out of their vehicles, jumping up and down on the hoods, setting off firecrackers, guzzling beer, smokin’ weed right out in the open. It’s pandemonium, screams from every direction, but not at all scary. People are too happy to fight. I’ve hugged fifteen strangers since that final pitch, given a hundred high-fives. In Philadelphia tonight, we are one: black, white; rich, poor; woman, man; clown, mime; smoker, nonsmoker; cop, mangled-hand fan. We’re all just witnesses of the moment. I don’t make it home until three o’clock in the morning, and Mom says I don’t have to go to school tomorrow, which is actually today. The Pennsauken school system will just have to get by without me for a day.

Mom says, "You’re so wound up you won’t be able to fall asleep until the sun comes up. You need your sleep. Missing one day of school won’t hurt you. Are they teaching anything important this week?"

"Nah," I say, coming down on the side of long division’s unimportance in the grand scheme of life. Math in general, really. Anyway, what the hell did she think I was going to say? "Oh yes, Mother. Today’s lesson is of great importance. Without it, I fear my life will be irreparably damaged." Yeah, right.

"Okay, then, Ervin. You get tomorrow off. You’ve had a big night. I’m glad they won. Enjoy it."

"Thanks, Mom!" I say. I instantly forgive her for making me bleed the week before. No, she didn’t beat me. No child abuse here. I’d gotten a touch of the head lice—a common affliction in our white trash neighborhood—and my scalp needed a good scraping with that awful metal comb. Most of the time I don’t mind being poor, but the rampant head lice is a bitch. The cockroaches aren’t much fun, either. There’s no worse sound in the world than my mother’s voice when she’s checking my head and suddenly says, "There’s one! Shit! I see the little bastard," because I know my scalp will soon be bleeding.

I wake up with a smile, until I feel the wetness under my ass. For a second I wonder if it’s one of those cool wet dreams the older kids are always raving about, with the sex and naked girls and the kissing and the inserting, but I’m not that lucky, and no thoughts of naked women passed through my head while I slept. Wet dreams are cool. All boys have them. What I’ve done is much less socially acceptable. I’ve pissed the goddamn bed, but I don’t care, because the Phillies are World Champions. Surely this bed-wetting thing is only temporary. I just drank too many Cokes at the game, Mom assures me, saying it’s no big deal. It happens to everyone, I’m told. I’m somewhat embarrassed nonetheless. A glorious evening, a damp morning.

"I’m sorry I wet the bed," I say to my mother. "I did have a lot of soda last night."

She pats my head lovingly. "It’s fine. Just don’t make a habit of it. You’re a big boy now. Big boys don’t pee the bed. You’re way past the age when it’s okay to do that sort of thing."

"I won’t do it again," I say, as if I have any fucking control over it.

It’s 1980 and all is right with the world; it’s 1980 and the future seems bright. So maybe I can’t keep my bed dry and my family is poor and my deadbeat father is nowhere to be found and my mother works sixty hours a week slinging burgers just to keep her kids fed and I can’t get the image of that poor fan getting nailed by the cop out of my head because I know his fingers will never again function properly but still I’m ten and feel like I can do anything. I feel like a champion, and I’m sure this bed-wetting business is really nothing, and I’m sure my life is going to be great. What could possibly go wrong?

At 25

2007-11-12T01:57:00.000-08:00

1996

"You got that twenty dollars you owe me?" Dave asks, his politeness belying his crack-addict status.

"I don’t owe you twenty dollars," I say, with much less politeness. "You owe me twenty dollars. In fact, you owe me a couple of twenty dollars."

He pauses, pretending to think about it. "Oh, yeah...yeah, that’s right. Well, in that case, how ‘bout we make it forty and I’ll get back to you next week. I’m good for it.?"

Dave is my older brother, and I am not thrilled to see him. I haven’t been thrilled to see him since I was ten years old and he robbed a local candy store and filled our backyard shed with chocolate delights and let me have my way with the bounty. It’s been downhill ever since.

"I’m broke," I say, lying.

Undeterred, he asks, "All I’m sayin’ is, how ‘bout you get me that twenty dollars? We’re brothers, right? So hook a brotha up."

"Dave, please, not tonight."

"It’s always a good night for some twenty dollars," he says, spreading his brand of sunshine. Dave is happy, speaking in his pleasant, hey-there-best-buddy-Erv voice. This will last about five minutes. Then Angry Dave will arrive. I don’t like Angry Dave because he breaks things.

I’m twenty-five years old and living at home with my mother. We’re residing in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Finally, a home we don’t share with hordes of cockroaches. I mow the law, paint, clean, give Mom money every week, help her with whatever I can. Dave also lives with us. He’s in his early thirties, and has a bit of a drug problem. And an alcohol problem. And a being-an-asshole problem. Most nights, I come home from work, watch television, read a few comic books, maybe even a book without pictures, have dinner, write. Most nights, Dave knocks on my door and begs for twenty dollars. The twenty will get him some crack cocaine, which he can easily acquire in nearby Camden, New Jersey. Get him that rock. He’s already drunk, the alcohol a warmup for the harder stuff.

Tonight, I’ve made a crucial mistake. I forgot to lock my bedroom door, and I know what’s coming next. Dave, after having begun our conversation speaking through the closed door, turns the handle and enters. He’s wearing a big, charming grin, as if it’s painted on. Dave can be a charming motherfucker when he’s not being a jerk. Some days, I really like him, despite my knowing that he’s an asshole. Some days, he’ll make me laugh so hard I forget what’s to come later in the evening when Dave gets that itch.

This is how it always begins, every night, with Dave smiling, asking politely for money. Then I decline to give it to him and he stops smiling and starts breaking stuff. My stuff. My mother’s stuff. He would probably break his own stuff if he hadn’t sold it all off for drug money. Lately, he’s been eyeing my comic book collection, and I’m sure the day is coming when I’ll come home from work and find all of my comics, twenty long boxes’ worth, gone. My First Print copy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles no. 1. My full run of New Teen Titans. My treasured set of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. I know Dave is thinking about it. I see the devious glint in his bloodshot eyes.

"I don’t get paid until Friday," I say, not looking up from the latest issue of Detective Comics. I’m wearing my pajamas, lying on the bed, rubbing my purring kitty as I read. I hope that if I don’t look at him, if I continue to read my comic book, Dave will understand that I am in the middle of something and leave me alone. Yeah, right. He’s more likely to rip the comic from my hands and tear it to shreds than he is to allow me to finish reading it. The written word has no friend in Dave.

He sighs. I’m pissing him off. "Come on, man, just lend me twenty dollars. I’ll pay you back. I always pay you back. You know I do. What am I, a fucking deadbeat?" He does always pay me back, eventually. Just like he always apologizes for being an asshole, which I’m sure he’s about to become.

"Just go away, Dave. Please."

He laughs bitterly. "You know how to make me go away, Erv. It’s like a fucking magic trick, man. The twenty appears, I disappear."

"No."

"Twenty dolla!"

"This is ridiculous."

"Ten and ten equal twenty dolla!"

Dave does impressions. Bad, racist impressions.

"I’m tired."

"Yo yo yo, homeslice! What up wit’ dat twenty dollars?"

"I can’t help you, Dave."

I hear his fist slam into the wall, and I immediately look up. His knuckles look like they’ve been used to clean a blackboard.

"Look, nerd," he says, his smile now gone. "Don’t make this fucking hard. Why do you gotta be such a dick about this? You know I’m not leaving ‘til I get some money. I wanna get high. I like getting high. I love drugs. Hook me up. Don’t make me get violent."

"Come on," I plead.

"I LOVE DRUGS," he screams.

My heart is pounding. I’m sweating. My stomach feels like several small fires have ignited inside my intestines and colon. "What are you gonna do, Dave, beat up your little brother? Huh? Is that what you’re gonna do? Beat the shit out of your kid brother? You’re a real big man, let me tell ya."

Dave is shorter than me, but much stronger. He’s been in prison, spent his days lifting weights and protecting his ass from man-rape. I’m more on the delicate side. I read comic books. I don’t like to fight. I’m sensitive. I’m somewhat athletic, fast and agile, which means that I can outrun Dave, if the need arises. He can barely read, and enjoys fighting. But he’s never hit me, never yet crossed that line. Still, as time goes by, I sense a day of reckoning coming, when lines will be crossed, when blood will be shed. I talk back to him. I express my opinion. Dave does not like hearing other people’s opinions. Once, outside of an arcade, a guy with a smart mouth gave Dave his opinion, and that smart guy’s bloody teeth ended up all over the sidewalk. Dave stomped the guy’s face against the cement. Dave walked away, as legend has it, and the police never came for him. Not that time, anyway.

"Nah, I ain’t gonna hit you, little brother," he says, regaining a bit of his friendly smile. He gently pets Prometheus, my no-longer-purring kitty. "But I am gonna stand here and bug the shit out of you until you cough up that dough. I’m gonna sit right here, and I’m gonna keep on talking all night. Tough to read with me talkin’ shit all night, right? Whattaya reading there? Batman? Wasn’t Batman all gay and shit with Robin?" This threat I take seriously. Dave, after a couple of beers, will talk nonstop for hours, will talk until I want to burst my own eardrums with a hot needle just so I don’t have to hear him anymore.

I rub my eyes. I shake my head. "I don’t have any money."

Dave screams. My cat scurries under the bed. He’s raging, looking for something to break. Face red. Veins throbbing. Sweat dripping off his chin. He punches my wooden dresser. The dresser doesn’t give way. His hand bleeds, just a little.

"What should I punch next?"

He looks at me and smiles. Bleeds some more.

I close my comic book and say, "You win."

I give him twenty dollars. Twenty dollars buys me a night of peace. Tomorrow, the scene will replay itself. Sometimes I feel like the two of us are putting on a play that no one ever bothers to show up and watch.