At 28

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.