At 25, Part 5

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.