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.
"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.
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