At 25, Part 7

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.