At 11, Part 2

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.