Change is Optional

Traditions

2009-12-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

Traditions are like compulsions, done over and over, without much thought as to why. Growing up, we'd attend midnight mass on Christmas eve. Why? It was tradition. We set up a traditional tree, decorated with ornaments made by my Polish grandmother. We ate a traditional Polish dinner, pierogi, golabki, kielbasa, and cruscik. I haven't continued any of these traditions, for the most part, they nauseate me.

Today, I create my own traditions. On Sundays, we get together with our neighbors downstairs and eat the dinner I prepare, usually out of the Fresh and Honest cookbook from Henrietta's Table, where we got married. We sit, hopefully reverend Austin is there to bless the meal, mostly by remaining quiet, resting his neck. Tuck (Aka: Tuck Amuck), sits patiently, waiting for me to toss him a morsel, several actually.

Being with Allison, or Al, never Ali, and Gaylen feels like home to us. They've been here since we moved in but it's only been lately that we've gotten this close. Actually, Rachel has always been close to them, it's me that it takes a while to warm up to. Mostly because of my faltering filters, that fail to stop me from saying whatever comes to mind. Countless times throughout the year, I've left them speechless. My sense of humor is like quills on a porcupine, relaxed, they are soft, erect, they prick.

Allison and Gaylen have the type of relationship that rara and I have. Separate, they are completely different people. Gaylen has an undeniable edge, that fiery anger that makes her a menace on the road and a riot after a few drinks. Allison buys humane mouse traps that contain rather than kill. Picture Gaylen in the early morning hours letting our mouse free in a field, something I'd do for rara. I wonder if, to the mouse, the experience is like an alien abduction without the anal probe. But I digress.

Unlike oil and water, they emulsify, their differences gloss over, and they blend. It's hard to imagine one without the other, or that either exists as separate entities. Sunday dinner, and our lives are richer because of them, good friends truly are hard to find.

A few Sundays ago I attempted what seemed a simple crab and corn chowder recipe. I bought all the ingredients except the rock crab that Whole Foods doesn't carry. The fish counter suggested I try H-Mart in Burlington. So Reverend Austin and I made the trek. We could tell by both the business of the lot and the predominance of the shoppers going to and fro, that H-Mart was a different kind of store. The size of a typical Shaw's, inside it opened up into a unique shopping experience. Immediately to our left were several glass cases of jewelry. With a furrowed brow I turned to Reverend Austin just in time to see him shrug.

To the right, a food court of sorts lined the wall, only there was no pizza, burgers or, greasy tacos, there were only Japanese steak houses, and Chinese fresh fish joints. The produce section was a plethora of every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The back wall was sectioned for meats, the reds made up only a fraction, the fish stretched the entire length of the building. They had everything imaginable, and five varieties not yet discovered, including a tentacle section. At each station stood at least three workers, waiting to assist. I asked for crab and was directed to the corner where several varieties sat chilled in a cooler. Only one was shelled and canned. I grabbed what they had and made my way to the front.

Many things stood out as Reverend Austin and I, made our purchase. One was that along with food, parts of the building were sectioned into smaller stores where one could buy a TV, luggage, T-shirts, and the aforementioned, Jewelry. But what stood out the most was the fact that as I hurried through, I was stymied countless times by groups of people standing in the way. Typically, this annoys me, until I realized that it wasn't coincidence, running into these groups. More than shopping, most were there to chat, catch up with old friends, or make new ones. There was a sense of community amongst these people and I found myself feeling ashamed of pushing my way through, intruding on these people's Sunday Tradition, just so I could get back to my own.

2009-12-12T20:22:00.000-08:00

Someone said, "It's like they got married in a Starbucks." It's funny how many people take offense when we tell them we got married in a restaurant. So conventional, marriage seems, that when it's done unconventionally, people write it off as if our bond isn't sacred.

I used to joke with Rachel that the only thing that mattered to me was the ring. I felt she needed it. She felt she had enough gems. So I bit the bullet, spent more than I had, and bought her the ring I am proud to see sparkling under the track lighting of the wine tasting we attended tonight. She, in turn, employed a local artist to design my band, using gold and stones bought by reputable, sustainable companies, who don't pollute or use slave labor. So quintessentially rara.

The ceremony was held in The Charles River Hotel, in the function room of Henrietta's Table. We invited close friends and family, 35 in all, to sit with us, enjoy a great meal with organic wine, the food prepared using ingredients bought from local farms, that grow mostly organic produce. The ceremony, performed by the newly ordained, Reverend Austin Ritter (rara's bro), could not have gone more smoothly, hilarious yet poignant. After, we ate, drank, some danced, without the stuffiness of most conventional weddings. The cake was perfect, the flavors accentuated by the excitement of the day, and the proximity of those we love the most.

For me and Rach, the day could not have been more perfect. We married in the same fashion as we live, for each other, conscious of where our money goes, careful to consider the long term consequences of our actions.

And we laughed.

Karate Kid

2009-06-13T08:14:00.000-07:00

The plan was fiendishly simple. Kill my brother, a stroke of genius. And who could blame me? No one. No jury in the world would convict a helpless, abused, doe eyed preteen of murdering such a callous individual. I’d parade countless witnesses that would corroborate my story, neighborhood kids that witnessed every wedgie.

So I enrolled in self defense classes. Cal, or sensei, was a seventh degree black belt that ran a studio with his son, Cal Jr. Cal was portly with golden skin, slicked back hair, and an overbite that gave some words a sucking sound. I never once saw him out of his gi, coveted for the black belt that proclaimed him a badass beyond reproach. It wrapped tightly around a rotund belly, he’d rest his hands on the knot as he looked over the class, casting disparaging looks, remarking about our softness and lack of discipline.

His son was the epitome of deception. Soft, soft spoken, shy to a fault. It almost made me doubt the veracity of his black belt, faded; possibly one of his fathers’s pulled from the closet, next to the untouched loafers, just under the tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches.
Pictures of Cal Sr. fighting in tournaments adorned the walls near the shrine, an alcove at the end of the empty studio where swords were mounted on a marble alter. Their lacquered handles gleamed seductively under the recessed lights.

No one was allowed to touch them out of respect for the weapon. Weapons were the last resort of the warrior, Cal would say, he must first learn to use his brains. It was that last resort I always waited for him to describe. Hoping he’d offer the justification for the hate I felt, that at times made me sick to my stomach. I’d wait patiently for him to elaborate, but he only talked of defending, never offending, of Sun Tzu and The Art of War whose teachings hung from a tapestry opposite the shrine:

When able to attack, we must seem unable;
When using our forces, we must seem inactive.
When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away.
When far away, we must make him believe we are near.
If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him.
If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.

I studied them. Learned to recite them on command. Except the last one. It slipped from my memory, evaded repetition, and washed away like liquid through a sieve. The last tenant mocked me, exposed me for what I was, a spy infiltrating to learn how to kill my brother, to use the art of defense to wage, not protect.

During sparring sessions my anger exposed me as a fraud. I’d rage toward opponents, no longer a representative of the tenants that hovered above, their essence betrayed.
Cal stopped every match, yanked me aside and reprimanded me for ignoring the first, last, and only rule of sparring, no contact. With each infraction I was sentenced to pushups until he saw that I needed a lesson in control.

He summoned Cal Jr. to the room, paired me against him, mumbled something about seeing if I had what it took. I saw it as my chance to expose him as a fraud. Cal Sr. offered the pads, shin, elbow, and head. I waved them off. We bowed to the master to show respect, to each other.
Fight! Cal asserted. I was already in my stance, brimming with energy, on the balls of my feet aching to move forward. My head snapped back. The hard rubber sole of Cal’s shoe hit front while the solid concrete assaulted my back. He flattened me with a kick I never saw.
I sprung up; water welled in my battered eye. Cal Sr. cupped my head in his meaty paws and rotated it left to right, checking the damage.

“Pay attention, your weight’s all over the place. Center.” he advised. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I was already poised, weight on my heels, primed to take the brunt of an oncoming attack. Fight!
Cal Jr. stood, immovable. I waited, ready to defend. The anger begged to engage. It built like steam against a turbine. When it was clear that Cal wasn’t going to initiate, I shuffled forward only to meet the gaze of water stained ceiling tiles. My legs were swept out from under me. I was once again flattened by an attack I never saw coming.

I had fantasies of becoming Cal Sr.’s progeny, the chosen one prophesized to take the art of self defense to the next level and beyond. I searched my body for a mark that slated me The One. I only found a mole that loosely resembled Charlie Brown. But the position was filled. Cal Jr. was next in line. The best I could hope for was to teach the Saturday morning toddler class when Cal Sr. was too tired. I quit after receiving my brown belt.

Suicide Watch

2009-06-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

During assessments I used to have to ask if patients had any suicidal ideations. Most veterans answered no because they knew I'd paste myself to their sides if they answered yes. An affirmative was always followed up with whether or not they had a plan. Only once was I given details. He was transferred to the psych ward and spent a portion of his thirty day stay in four point restraints. If conspiracy is father to the felony, the plan is the offspring of ideations.

When my anger chews me up and spits me out I fight back, swinging at ghosts, hitting only tangible things that matter most. I push love away, try to snap bonds in half. Isolate. I drag myself to therapy and pit my PhD in pain against her Masters in Social Work. So far she's held her own. We'll see what happens when I really try to push.

In session three she asked if I still felt like using. Of course I do, because this year has been so hard. But its less like a craving and more like a golden parachute. My way out of pain, however temporary. After thirteen years I'm smart enough to know that when I pull the cord, an anvil will jettison from the pack and drag me to the ground.

After I admit that I want to use she asks, "Do you have a plan?"

Funny how the same follow up exists for relapsing as for suicide.

Coincidence?

I think not.

WAAAAAH!

2009-05-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

There are benefits to being neurotic. For instance, I get to swing pendulous between extremes, moods turn on a dime, loving and hating at the same time makes for an interesting day. My neurotic side gets edgy at the prospect of a new therapist and shoots down potentials for having a lazy eye or a turkey neck. They're all crazy as Christians, he'll lament. I choose a woman so he'll compare her to Mom, orchestrator of this mess I call a psyche. She'll examine. But I'll shut her down at the door. Sorry, Bryan's unavailable at the moment, but if you'd like to leave a message....

I tried a male whose timidity fell somewhere between kitten caught in a thunder storm, and turtle surrounded by bored teens. I swear he salivated at my list of symptoms and their catalyst. I wrote him off, delighted that I present such a challenge.

I see her Monday. A smell something like potpourri or sleepytime tea will permeate the air. I'll decline all beverages. She'll interpret my choice of chairs. Hers will be cordoned off with everyday trinkets, glasses maybe, a cell turned off. Books will line the shelves, the titles will spill forth like bullet items on a resume. She read Jung and Erickson but finds Freud too...too...whatever. He snorted cocaine to quell a crippling fear of social occasions. Ditto. Call him what you like, the man had impecable taste in narcotics.

I'll need her to challenge me if this is going to work. She'll have to fight because I protect it. Cup it in clenched hands crowbars can't pry. Over time, she'll push me to release it, but how can I release the very thing that defines me?

My essence.

My pain...

Hindsight

2009-05-03T17:59:00.000-07:00

Flashback to 05/02/1987. Like any other 17 year old, my friends were my world, impressing them, my priority. Twenty two years later, Blaine sets up dinner on a night that we're all free. Ritchie and Tommy blow it off. Pete's detained by work. Blaine, Chris, Duane, Rachel, and I sit down to dinner. Olivia, our waitress, is wonderful, engaging, attentive. Alcohol flows, tongues loosen. The skeletal remains of past insecurities wash up on waves of nostalgia. But I am inherently different now...or so I thought.

I wear my past like a red badge of courage, proof that the depths of depravity are inhabitable. I flaunt it, deliver it on the butt of jokes about amorous cellmates and rusty shanks. Dad's ring tone is Darth Vader's labored breathing. Part of it is a giant fuck you to the other survivors who hide it like a hairy mole. Grandma behests, Don't tell a soul, lie if they ask...except when she marched me to the Social Security Office in Lynn. She told them I paced the floor non-stop in an effort to squeeze an over juiced system for disability. And why shouldn't you? The Spanish and the Blacks all do it all the time.

And so I sit through dinner. Split a burger with Rachel, my arm around her, caressing. We check out her ass when she goes to the bathroom, their praise validates my petty existence.

At her expense.

There was a time that I was quite astute at keeping my neurotic side from grabbing the wheel and driving us into a ravine. I think it's time to go back to therapy...

Lilliputian

2009-04-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

I’m little. No huge revelation there. Just take a look. Big is the last thing that comes to mind when looking at me. But I’ve always fantasized about being big. Working out everyday and gulping protein shakes only made me look like a blow fish, over-inflated and still…little.

They say you have to think big to be big. So I earned two college degrees. But intelligence is all relative. Compared to say, a vascular surgeon, I’m really little. I overcompensate with an outrageous personality, but little men with big personalities just look like assholes most of the time.

My littleness was tempted by the power of things like firearms. I felt so big the first time I held a gun. But when it went off by mistake it only shed light on how little I was. After I checked and rechecked to see if my stray bullet killed anyone, I realized I wasn’t big enough to wield it.

So overwhelming was my desire to be big that I followed other bigs like my father and brother into jewelry stores to rob them. For that they sent me to the big house where I had to survive amongst the most dangerous bigs in the world.

But I wised to the fact that to survive, I’d have to play the cards I was dealt. I embraced little and realized that bigs were the minority. I dropped twenty five pounds, toned down my personality, and let my guard down because vulnerability attracts other littles, especially female littles.

But nothing makes me feel littler than my felony conviction. It looms the biggest detriment to my littleness. Nothing looks as large on an application as --Have you ever been convicted of a felony. Massachusetts Law says I can seal my record, 15 years after the last day of my sentence, including probation. My record is eligible for sealing in 2017.

Maybe I'll apply to work in a flying car factory.

Getting Baked

2009-03-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

Budgeting is hard, especially since I don't make any money. Training is in the dumps.

Discretionary income?

Please.

So we tighten our purse strings. I can't spend over ten bucks without hearing it from Rara. "Three dollars, three times a week, is nine dollars, that's thirty six dollars a month that we could put away." So I try not to spend. I bought braided bully sticks for Mow the other day and was handed my ass on a platter. Damn that broad can do math quick. She figured what that would cost us over a millennium, then broke it down to me in terms I understood. "If we want to buy things for her to chew, maybe something else needs to go, like chips," referring to my inability to stop buying munchies. (Notice she didn't say wine.)

I feel guilty. Rachel gets up for work at 5am every morning. So do I, but I move from the bed to the couch, switching one snuggle buddy for another. The neurotic part of me feels castrated. I'm the man, (picture me beating my chest here), I should be bringing home the bacon.

On the other hand, we have gotten creative. We cook together more. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we huddle around the mixer, baking, sifting through cookbooks and magazines for recipes. We eat healthy for the most part, incorporating grains, fruits, and veggies, whenever we can. The challenge is to avoid ingesting five hundred calories before the batter even sees the inside of the oven. Time is spent contemplating baking them at all.

Ever notice how hard it is to make broccoli taste better and how easy it is to turn a sugar cookie into an insulin coma? The other night we made the aforementioned. Rachel made a sweet lemon glaze for the topping. I melted down chocolate. We voted on which were the best.

Any guesses?

Showdown at Fresh Pond

2009-03-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

It was a great walk up until that point. Mow frolicked in the small stretch of wood bordering the golf course, nothing new, but when she boldly stood at its edge and looked my way, I knew it was on. She baited and I fell hook, line, and sinker calling, "Mow Mow, this way."

She glanced back, poised to blow me off. I readied. We looked like two gunslingers, facing off at high noon, that is if showdowns consisted of one gunslinger running headlong into an open field while the other shouts obscenities. My blood boiled, propelling me forward.

I swooped upon her and grabbed her up, anthropomorphizing her with talk about how mangy mutts don't disobey me. I catch myself, as always, on the edge of an abyss. The edge of my anger. She did what any pup would do. I try to remind myself that running full speed toward a dead fish sounds like the most fantastic thing ever to her. I let her go, along with my homicidal ideations, and breathe. I leash her and deescalate, finding it hard to do these days. Eventually, I drop the leash again. Before my end hits the ground, she bolts back to the rotting carcass a few hundred feet back. I blast past her, feeling a measure of sick satisfaction that I outran a ten month old puppy. Her eyes begged, please Dad, don't kill me. Again I caught myself before committing the deed. Mow would live another day and I would be forced to temper my rage.

My therapist constantly points out the fact that my anger is never commensurate with the circumstance. Dubbed male's disease, he reiterates that I am struggling with the pain I'm in by dumping my anger on convenient targets. He adds that anger is usually equal to how weak I feel, that males especially, combat feelings of weakness by spewing anger on the world.

But I continue to fail at reconciling with the fact that I am human, and as such, try to deny my own ambivalence. No one can be all one thing all the time, and every powerful emotion has an equally powerful opposite. The equation sounds so simple: to acknowledge that we are comprised of both a healthy and neurotic side means that great love gets countered by stifling rage. I love you, and hate you equally.

It has never been more apparent that this concept eludes me as when Rachel says things out of the blue like, "It's the paradox of being Bry," referring to a conversation she had with her brother, Austin.

"Meaning?" I ask.

"You can be so resistant to change, you fight it tooth and nail, yet I've never met anyone with such a tremendous capacity for it."

Mow is safe, for now, but ignorance hasn't proven blissful at all. It becomes more and more apparent that digging out of old habits is like digging out of prison one painful spoonful at a time. But I'm hopeful...

Editor's Note: No Mow's were harmed during the writing of this post.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2009-03-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

FELLOW FOLLOWERS: I have finally launched my website: www.changeisoptional.org from now on all blog posts will be there and here. The site is for potential schools to check me out and see what I do...spread the word. Let me know if you know of any schools that need me. Thanks again for your support.

We are all faced with change. When there is dysfunction, we adopt behaviors that help us survive, that become so enmeshed into our unconscious, we never give them a second thought. Some lay dormant, others manifest in obsessions. From isolation, depression, and acting out to more serious problems like drinking, drugging, promiscuity, and crime, we act on our unconscious motivation to survive life, rather than live it.

We ask of those struggling, “Why don’t you just stop behaving that way,” and become even more frustrated when they shrug and reply, “I don’t know.” Both sides lose patience, and the lines of communication are severed.

Often, the catalyst for change is either a significant emotional event, or as in the case with the addict, hitting bottom. This can take years. As the consequences become more dire, family and friends may initiate ‘Tough Love’ in an attempt to force the willingness to change, and to preserve themselves from further emotional harm and deepening feelings of helplessness.
Nothing short of complete honesty will get the addict through this crucial time. Anger is high. Relapse is likely. Emotions crescendo.

Developing new coping mechanisms begins with the realization that anger is a non-optional response to pain. Confronted with the root cause of their need to self medicate, the addict comes full circle and must face the fact that substance abuse is a symptom, not the cause, of their issues.

Neurotic behavior can be traced to a faulty belief system. Beliefs about oneself that are inconsistent with reality, such as low self worth and self contempt, can cause erratic behavior. Guilt in the absence of a crime is neurotic, as is anger in the absence of any real threat. Faulty beliefs require thorough examination, often with the help of a trained professional. Here, the distinction between the ‘Dry’ addict and the recovering addict, emerges. Dry addicts see no need for change aside from cessation. Recovering addicts choose to look beyond the behavior.

Public Speaking 101

2009-02-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

I survey their faces at the start of class, during my introduction, and notice the ones that may embark on the road to hell. No one can convince them not to travel it and very few turn back, not until they realize the climb out hurts far more than the fall. Utopia is a concept dependent upon current generations learning from our past mistakes. But the inherent folly in our nature is that we need to experience it firsthand, despite wisdom’s warnings.

One tells me that cutting helps release her anger and gives her a sense of control over it. I grimace, knowing anger is a non-optional response to pain, toxic waste that no one wants dumped near them. But anger demands expression, so we’re forced to stuff it down. Inevitably, like a beach ball submerged, it pops up elsewhere, like cutting.

I feel a tremendous connection to these kids, especially the one that sits just outside my periphery and pretends to be bored, nodding off. Later, she’ll admit to taking an oxy, an 80, enough to knock most of us on our ass, but she’s stingy about the details, the why, the true reason for doing something so reckless. Some jump right in the water, others dip a toe to see how painfully cold the plunge will be.

They size me up and write me off before I utter a word. Soon their expressions change as whatever stereotype I fit initially is shattered. Suddenly they can relate, perking as I tell their story, wondering how I know.

I still get nervous but eventually find a groove. I focus on the one avoiding eye contact or cracking jokes in the back corner, in other words, me. After, I bask in the adoration and check my blog incessantly for new followers. Occasionally someone like my cutter contacts me and tells me she heard something in my story...

I hope to reach them all but am satisfied to reach even one. Healing is like tunneling out of prison one spoonful at a time. I’m still going through the process, I guess that’s why they say, progress not perfection. After all, change is optional.

Brothiz

2009-01-29T19:05:00.000-08:00

I'd have to ignore a few key issues before arriving at anything resembling brotherhood; my homicidal hatred of Kev, his blatant, twisted cruelty, the fact that we haven’t spoken a word in years. Besides his relentless abuse and putting my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, we were as thick as thieves. We made it through a tumultuous childhood, traversed the white capped waters of addiction, and waded through the hell that is incarceration.
But there was a split. I got sober and he didn’t. I ran headlong into the brick wall of his addiction, trying hard to get him to see the path to righteousness. All I ever ended up with was a headache. Hubris hurts.
I see Rachel with her siblings. They all have their own issues, quirks developed the same way we all get them, faulty parenting. But credit is due, the bond they share is undeniable, and like most people who share DNA, each would take a bullet for the other.
Dad tried as hard as he is capable of to bring us back together, but I denied him. “Would you be willing to sit down with him and try to hash it out?”
“No.” I said, savoring it a little longer than was necessary.
“Why not?” he asked, annoyed.
I thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “To be honest, I’m not even sure what our feud is about anymore. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I can’t and won’t deny that I miss him. I go over our history again and again, hoping to uncover some nugget of understanding. To what end? I’ll get back to you. I’ve been obsessing on the bond he shares with Dad, the one I still feel felt left out of.
So I declare that from this day forth I have adopted a new brother, Rachel’s brother, Austin. He laughs as heartily at my sense of humor, doesn’t pound the piss out of me for the sheer fun of it, and doesn’t actively put my life in danger (at least not yet). His anger is fresh and electrically charged, while mine is showing signs of decay. When he visits he draws off my thoroughly useless knowledge base and asks questions like, “What’s crack like?”
“Well,” I say, “you know that feeling, just before you become violently ill where you have to decide whether to sit on the toilet or kneel?”
“Yeah.”
“Like that, only worse.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” he asks wide eyed.
“Because it’s awesome,” is all I can answer.

Death Watch

2009-01-19T20:06:00.000-08:00

Death was neither early nor late, on time or past deadline. There were factors that made him less an exact science and more an estimation. She was ready. What the cancer hadn’t taken was dim and fading, but she refused to face him. He’d wait.

Her son tiptoed in with a tray, and placed it down gingerly, she knew him as John the orderly. He sat down. Death acquainted himself with the anger that flared behind his ice blue eyes.

“Where’s my petunia?” she asked John the orderly.

Bryan answered, “She’s out Mum. Here, take these,” and handed her a fistful of pills.

For the past sixty days she had subsisted on room temperature Ensure and morphine. She reached for her smokes. “Mum, you shouldn’t smoke those.” he asserted.

“Hmmph, why not?” she replied, her point too poignant to argue.

He let her smoke, watching her nod out. “Why are you lying to me about Jess?” she asked.

“Mum, she left,” is all he offered in reply.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He’s in prison, Mum.”

Her face contorted. “Bryan? My Bryan, please take care of him? He needs you.”

“I know, Mum, I will.” he replied unconvincingly.

Tears rolled hers and his. “He’s so angry. He won’t handle this well.” She looked over to where Death stood in the shadows. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“That guy.” She pointed to the corner

“Don’t know. What’s he want?”

She pondered, “He’s here to get me.”

“So go.” he said.

“Fuck that.”

“Well, you didn’t go when Uncle Teddy came, or The Goddess.”

“Well, he’s creepy.” she added.

“Mum, lay, I need to change your bandage.”

She acquiesced. He exposed the bandage that covered her stomach, peeling it back. Death shifted from one shadow to another, closer. The tumor threatened to breach her abdomen. Death watched her son’s reaction to his stench. Not long now.

Her son left. She stared. Death stared. “I can’t go yet. I don’t want to leave my kids.”

No answer.

“Fuck you!”

By nightfall, she fell into a trance. He put her where no one could reach her. Her eyes fell blank. She shivered. Her eyes failed to close or even blink. Death marked her passing by extinguishing each candle, one by one. While the last one flickered, he pulled her from her vessel.

My Midlife Crisis

2009-01-05T20:01:00.000-08:00

It's not recurring, this dream. I'm on top of a skyscraper. My crippling fear of heights is noticeably non-existent. Peering over the top, the clouds block my view of the ground. I have a distinct memory of jumping before, something I'd never do. Someone is suited up and ready. They jump as I slip off the side. I manage to grab and hold on. I hang. Clouds lick my feet. Imminent death waits to break my fall. Although my grip doesn't give, shows no sign whatsoever of giving, I know I'll die if I let go. I try to come to terms with death, a topic that permeates my waking thoughts, the idea of there being no me. I can't seem to integrate death's inevitability into my psyche. It seems so implausible, and yet...
I don't fall but wake with a start.
In the past year I have become truly lost.
I have no idea what turn to take next. The sign at the crossroads points in all directions, so therefore, at none.
It's all about choices, but choices are about options.
School? A Masters? In what? I'd love to teach but can't have my record sealed until 2017.
I'd love to write more books, but the process is so maddeningly slow.
I'm starting to crack.
Can anyone help me figure out what to be now that I've grown up?

12.24.79

2008-12-22T07:51:00.000-08:00

“We are all going to midnight mass and that’s all I want to hear about it!” she screamed loud enough for Santa, even Jesus, high in the heavens, to hear. That vein in her temple throbbed, seconds away from losing her feeble grip. Mom dragged us off to Mass because Babchi (Polish for Grandmother) insisted our problems stemmed from a lack of faith.

I passed my brother on the way to get dressed after spending a few minutes fussing over the tree. There was too much blue on the left, not enough green in the center. Babchi’s handmade ornaments glistened. Crystal beads sparkled without a hint of the pipe cleaners that strung them together. Santa’s helicopter flew, Frosty tobogganed, and Rudolph skated on a mirror. The star was store bought, God forbid. Mom hoped that Babchi would craft one like she had for her sisters, but Babchi played favorites. "Maybe if you spent less time in rehab, I could teach you to make your own," she'd remark.

The star stood out like E-Z Cheese slathered on filet mignon, but I didn’t care, too busy with my daily inventory of gifts. Should I pile them or was it taboo?

We staked out spaces under the tree. I took the left, Jess dead center. Kevin, too cool to care, flanked right by default, his gifts eventually flowed there as Jess and I delineated invisible borders.

Thirteen total. I preferred them spread out rather than piled up, tapered. I succeeded in staving off my burgeoning curiosity since that year I found my bounty hidden in the attic crawlspace. Christmas morning lacked the usual fanfare since I had ruined my own surprise. Not this year. I only peeked at one, the soft one, knowing full well it was a throw away, a pillow embroidered with a choo choo.

It was nine thirty. I’d just have to sit through Midnight Mass.

“You’re not wearing jeans to twelve o’clock mass!” she screamed into a cough, thick and robust, a cigarette dangling from her lip.

“Jesus Christ Ma, settle.” Kevin argued back.

“Don’t even. If Babchi sees you in those it’ll be my ass too.” she half joked, the fuck you half, the most endearing half. The other half feared Babchi as much as we did, as much as Dziadzia did. Grandpa was so afraid of her he had his own room in the attic of their two-family home. I'm convinced he’d live in the downstairs apartment, if Wujek didn’t already live there. We called him Uncle Wujek, uncle uncle, but I didn’t discover the redundancy until long after he passed.

The snow piled high on both sides of the road. My stepfather drove maddeningly slow, tired from chasing down shoplifters at the local Richdale he managed. He made the papers the day he chased one into oncoming traffic. The boy was hit, flew thirty feet, and was pronounced dead at the scene. I didn’t see it. I just saw my stepfather stand over the boy’s body, nudging Grim out to collect what was stolen. I hated him long before he proved what a retch he was, so I tried to forget the fact that his blood money probably paid for half the gifts under the tree, that and Dad’s alimony.

Tradition dictated we spend the evening at Cioci Franny’s, Mom’s sister. Babchi waited at the door to criticize each one of us before granting passage to the basement. Laughter reached us as we stood for inspection. Kevin’s hair was too long, shirt untucked, niechlujny (Slovenly). Sneakers over dress shoes would fall on Mom for letting him out of the house dressed like a Plucha (Slob). Being second afforded me the opportunity to tuck in my shirt. Still, I deserved a wallop for my year end report card that dubbed me unsatisfactory in all areas except gym.

Downstairs, I was greeted by Cioci Gladys whose husband, Henry, made a fortune unloading the family plumbing business. It cost him the love and loyalty of his two eldest sons who felt slighted after helping him build up its six figure price tag, only to be left out of the deal. As always, my eyes globed onto Gladys’s three carat ring, the subject of much contention among the females of the family, too showy for Mom, a built in pool with slide, to Cioci Franny.

Cioci Franny’s four boys milled about the room while Uncle Ray’s pickled finger waded through an icy glass of scotch, his hip stiffer than usual. Soon enough Santa would appear with the same stiff hip, slurring Ho Ho Ho’s, and passing out gifts.

After mass, while everyone slept, I crept down to the living room to lay on the sectional. Four more presents appeared, marked from Santa in Mom’s handwriting. The wind blew swaths of snow past the window. Being near the tree felt like standing inside Cioci Gladys’s diamond. Sleep seeds sprouted, weighing down my already heavy lids.

By dawn, the tree’s red hot bulbs threatened to snitch on me. A night away from bed was a major violation. I extinguished it before it could sing. I’d need piping hot coffee to appease the sleeping beast. She lay under a mound of blankets. I exchanged vices, a glass of melted ice and booze for the coffee and made sure her cigarettes were within reach. Jess woke. I left my offerings to join her in the living room, both of us held in limbo until Mom and Kev woke.

It was the one day a year that Kevin magnanimously let me wake him without flack or a beating. He even woke Mom. His imposing size and disposition lent him more and more freedom from her wrath.

I tried to saver opening them, but was weak. While Mom sipped hangover elixir and smoked, I sat amid torn paper and toys: Legos, Clash of the Titans action figures, Godzilla, and Stretch Armstrong, ging tinglers, flu floobers, tar tinkers, and who whobas.

In the end I raked in seventeen presents. Seventeen symbols that proved they loved me.

Only three hundred and sixty four shopping days left until they do it again…

Him

2008-12-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

The cold nipped. I walked with determination, but the same apprehension persisted. I was different, older, yes, but fundamentally different. My fists clenched inside my jacket pockets, my pace quickened. I couldn’t see the door to Capt’s yet, hoping to at least gauge what kind of entrance I’d make.

At the door, I felt him close by, to my left. Still rail thin, a rogue curl swirled out of the tail end of a wave that escaped the liberal use of product. He was in need of a gel intervention, still. His clothes were dated, not fashionable, or particularly stylish, seeking neither to stand out nor blend in. His eyes darted around the room, scoping which shadow he’d spend the night cloaked by.

There was no need to wonder if he was high. It was just a matter of figuring out what his poison was that night. Coke, no doubt.

He checked in, exchanged pleasantries with Lisa, and stared Erin down, waiting for her to flinch before saying hello. I felt the need to offer her an excuse. She meant the world to him back then, but I decided to ignore it and him for that matter. I was there to party, touch base with old friends, mingle. I couldn’t let his presence bother me.

I ate, watched with glee as Rachel worked the room. At first I slipped back into old habits, preferring the corners to the electricity emanating from the middle.

I flirted with the hors d’oeuvres waitress, shook hands with Jim LeDuke, the principal’s son and the first person to offer me a seat in the cafeteria the first day of freshman year.

I couldn’t locate any of the guys I hung out with. Ritchie and Tommy wouldn’t be caught dead at a reunion. Tommy told me as much on the phone a month prior. I haven’t seen or spoken to Ritchie in over a decade. Across the room I saw a gathering of my old crew, Duane, Lisa, and Chris. I moved over to them. Duane and I embraced. Chris, already shitfaced, seemed taken aback when I stepped toward him, like he was trying to remember whether or not I still owed him money for a bag of pot we split. We all roared at the retelling of the senior prom, where we spent only twenty minutes before deciding to travel into Boston, to Northeastern, where my brother had an apartment. There we drank and smoked till we all passed out, sticking out like sore thumbs in our rented tuxes and Duane’s father’s emerald green Jag. He ruined the night by stealing weed and two hundred dollars from my brother’s roommate.

I relaxed. No one seemed to blame me for the fact that he loomed on the fringe. No one blamed me for the deplorable things I had to do to protect him all those years. Besides, I made enough of a splash to drown him out altogether with where I’d been since: rehab, robberies, prison, now a personal trainer and hopeful author, with the hottest girl in the room. Just then Boomer, the class genius, pulled me aside.

“Dude, is that your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I answered. A compliment I couldn’t really accept credit for was coming, but I did it anyway.

“Man, you need to get a ring on her finger, she’s awesome.”

I smiled and noticed that he was watching, jealous. I got angry. No one else noticed him.

I ignored him, trying hard at first, then effortlessly. Erin approached but Pat intercepted and pulled me aside, “You were the one that dated Ellen, weren’t you?”

I nodded yes.

“Man, I took her to the senior prom. She only went so she could be close to you. I was pissed.” he said, half joking, the other half still reeling.

It wasn’t me, but him, Pat was talking about. I shrugged it off. He moved through the crowd, on the way to the bathroom.

Erin and I finally had a chance to talk. She was always a little standoffish, but one-on-one she softened and let her guard down. We talked as if a lifetime of choices hadn’t separated us. I’m thankful Erin never truly fell for him. He’d hurt her. I’m indebted to her for making him feel better, if even for a short time.

By the end of the evening I lost track of him. Just before I left I spotted him, standing alone near the window looking out at Salem Harbor. I knew what he was feeling, left out, alone, afraid. I walked over, put my arm around him like I had wanted to do a billion times before and told him it was going to alright, that the pain wouldn’t last forever, his life is better than he could ever imagine.

I pulled him close, enveloping him before he vanished, gone but not forgotten.

Ode To Blaine

2008-12-03T06:55:00.000-08:00

Some leave a fingerprint that takes a dusting of nostalgia to jog the memory.

Others leave imprints that trail off to another time and place.

There are those that leave scars, gnarled patches of the damage left in their wake.

But occasionally someone makes a meteoric impact on your soul, that no amount of time can erase their memory.

Blaine stepped into my life under the pretense of easing his own pain, self medicating like we all did at that age. When he asked if I knew where to get any weed, I looked him up and down. Clad in a bright yellow raincoat and matching boots, an argyle sweater, and course green corduroys, I thought, “This son of a bitch is going to get beat down.”

I told him I had a fiver I could kick in. If he went down beyond the hole in the fence, he’d find Mark, the neighborhood dealer, standing around a barrel fire with his friends, Larkey and Freddy. “Watch out for Larkey, he might try to steal those boots,” I only half joked since Larkey thrived off conflict in any form. But Blaine was resolute, and trekked down the sandy hill to where they stood, huddled.

“Whoa, it’s the Gordon’s Fisherman.” Freddy remarked.

“No, dude, that’s friggin’ Gilligan.” Larkey added.

It took two seconds to brand him. From then on he’d be referred to as Gilligan.

Blaine laughed, “That’s a good one. I was hoping to procure some smoke. Could you gentlemen point me in the right direction?” The group fell silent. Larkey took a strategic position behind Blaine. There go the boots, I thought.

Mark snickered. He was holding, always. My Catholic school friends were born with silver spoons, educated, articulate, and my public schools friends were, well, not. But Blaine was different. While the rest of us struggled with our identities, Blaine only ever wanted to be Blaine. Take him or leave him. I think they knew that in the first five seconds of meeting him, just like I did. Blaine walked away, boots intact. Mark even gave him six for ten, something he only did for his best customers, like me.

Our twentieth reunion was on Friday. I was as reluctant to go now as I was during all four years of high school. I never really felt like I fit in. I favored obscurity and remained on the fringe.
Blaine met with a lot of adversity in high school. He’ll tell you he doesn’t remember it like that, but I do. People took issue with the one thing I admire most about Blaine, his integrity.
Blaine handled private school differently and summed up his perspective in a drunken stupor after the reunion where he hugged everyone he met, drank like a sailor on leave, and partied like it was 1999, “I’d give you the shirt off my back, but you’ll never get me to change my mind if it’s set.” And he means it.

We’re great friends and in a way, he’s a hero of mine. He stands for something but does so unassumingly, and he asks for nothing in return for his unconditional friendship.

Care Less

2008-11-03T18:43:00.000-08:00

I need to start in the bathroom, definitely the bathroom. But wait, there's tons of dust on the Playstation. The dust needs to go first, then the bathroom, definitely the bathroom. Suddenly I’m Rainman.

I scrub every tile, twice, frenzied. The toilet is rubbed so thoroughly I'm surprised a genie doesn’t emerge and grant me three wishes. The sink gleams. I detail the vanity, wash the towel racks and mop. I move on to the living room, relocate the black couch to the kitchen, turn the green one on its side, vacuum, mop, and hand dry the floor. I roll up the rug, vacuum both sides of the pad, mop the floor underneath, and hand dry the rest of the hardwood. Frenzied. Why?

Because Mow Mow had surgery today and Bry Bry doesn't care very well. Rachel's concerned. Watches her intently now that she's home, even calls the vet to make sure her shaking isn't a sign of something serious (Other than the fact that she had her ovaries yanked out).

I look for dirt, unable to cope with intense emotion. She’s just a dog, I remind myself, and I’m just a human.

I'm not very good at caring.

If it weren't for Rachel, I'd isolate myself and consider the interaction I have with people on a purely superficial level--satisfactory. I avoid close relationships. I usually stay on the periphery of potentials because relationships are risky. I've been burned. My brother and I don’t speak.

I hate caring.

It requires vulnerability and where I’m from, vulnerability is weakness.

Weaknesses are exploited.

Manipulated.

Of course I’m sane enough to realize these beliefs for what they are: Faulty. But my neurotic side has his own agenda, out to prove my worthlessness by grabbing the wheel at every turn and changing my course, away from stability, fulfillment and happiness, towards uncertainty, anger, and isolation.

So I clean and let the two sides battle it out. Heads, my healthy side wins and clean is clean enough, caring isn’t so bad, and Rachel isn’t out to kill me softly.

Tails, and the dirt multiplies, caring is poison, and Rachel, well, SHHHH, she might hear us…

It's Not Easy Being Green

2008-10-31T18:56:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from my memoir:

I noted the date, a full month before Halloween. I approached Mom to ask for help in securing the makeup needed for my costume. With my voice softened to pathetic and in my best wounded tone I asked, “Mum will you help me be the Hulk this year?”
A reading lamp bathed half of her in light. She was stretched out with a drink in her hand. “Sure baby, how can I help?” she asked.
“He’s green.” I said, holding out the comic to her.
She grabbed it as if it were the daily news. I fought the urge to snatch it back and explain the damaging effects of oils and dirt in her skin, but refrained. “Aww honey, of course I’ll help.”
“I need green makeup. Can we go downtown after school tomorrow and buy some at the costume store?” It was a move tantamount to check in chess. She was not mated, but certainly cornered. I was asking for more than white sheets to fashion into ghosts, or endless toilet paper for makeshift mummies.
“I’ll do you one better. Go get me one of your brother’s old shirts,” referring to ones he had outgrown, yet I was five years and three thousand burgers away from fitting into.
My dash almost left a wake of flames on the hardwood. I fished out a plain light blue button down like the one David Brenner wore before a Gamma Ray attack rendered it a pile of tattered rags hanging by threads off the Hulk’s massive shoulders.
I handed it to her gingerly. Times like these were few and far between and volatile, like getting a woodland creature to eat from your hand. I remained still, calm and collected, careful not to make any sudden moves.
She took the shirt and freed it, tossing the hanger aside. Pulling shears from the bedside table, she set the shirt down and smoothed it out over the sheets. She turned to a picture of the Hulk in the comic, one that spanned two pages to emphasize his enormity. My tongue desperately wanted to warn about the dangers of scissors on the waterbed, but I held back, afraid it would shut her down.
She cut lengthwise, jagged, to match the natural tears of the transformation, and stopped just before the seams under the collar so it would still fit snugly. Then she fished out a pair of old jeans from her closet with Jordache embroidered into the back pockets.
I still needed the green face paint but was too scared to remind her. Nagging ignited her already short fuse and the threat of the paddle loomed over every impulse. I thought of asking Dad. Maybe we could just swing by the store Friday before he dropped us off at Grandma’s. I hated asking him for things because there was never cocktail hour where his senses would be dulled.
On Halloween morning I rose for school. My costume hung in the closet, set apart from the other clothes that were pushed aside to make room. I almost thought the colors were more vibrant, the stitching particularly taut, as if the Halloween gnomes set to work on it during the wee hours.
I dressed for school after setting a steaming cup of coffee with extra sugar by my mother’s bed, just the way she liked. Maybe the caffeine would jog her memory. At school I paid less attention than normal.
On the walk home I hurled rocks at the weather station the city put in the woods that year. It was a little bigger than a phone booth with instrumentation mounted atop girders that stretched skyward. I tried to take them down but my aim was skewed by anger. When I reached the house I saw that Mom’s car had moved.
I ran through the yard and up the back stairs, then flung open the back door to reveal Mom and her drinking pal Jeannie sitting at the kitchen table. I scanned for a bag or any evidence that the trip to get booze was supplemented with a quick stop at the costume shop. Nothing. I didn’t say a word. I went to my room, crawled into the closet, and read comics, reminded by both the pangs in my heart, and the oncoming dusk, of her abandonment.
That night I stood in front of the mirror clad in the Hulk costume. Without the makeup I looked like a document pushed through a shredder. I shuffled heavy feet to her room where she and Jeannie were smoking pot. I pushed open the door and gave them a second to drink me in.
“Aww sweetie you look wonderful, we did such a good job on that costume. Jeannie doesn’t he look menacing?” she said while exhaling a puff of the joint Jeannie was stuffing under her gigantic ass.
My look shot daggers at her. “I can’t go.”
“Can’t go? But you’re all dressed. It’s Halloween, of course you can go,” she said.
“I know I can go. But my costume is stupid, it doesn’t make any sense.” My tone stayed even.
“But we worked so hard on it, sweetie. It looks so good on you, doesn’t it, Jeannie?” She cast a glance at Jeannie, who was trying hard not to launch from her seat.
“No, it’s stupid because I’m not green. The Hulk is green.” I added extra inflection to each syllable.
I saw it dawn on her, the mistake, the neglect, depending on who you asked. “Oh sweetie I forgot.” She stood and came to me with open arms. I stopped her cold with a calculated hissy fit. I ran in place while tuning in circles. Tears flew freely. She gathered me up. I tried to wiggle free but finally succumbed. I let my body go limp as she hugged me. Eventually I hugged her back. She lifted me and carried me to the kitchen and set me down on the chair. A look of intent flashed across her face. “I can fix this,” she whispered while giving me a wink.
Jeannie followed along, holding her ass before sitting across from me. Mom tore apart the cabinets, finding what she needed among the baking ingredients and the poisonous cleaners under the sink. She took a bowl and plunked it down on the table along with the items from the cabinets--white shoe polish, green food coloring.
Mom wasted no time combining the two. She squeezed the shoe polish bottle, saturating the sponge tipped applicator until polish dripped into the bowl. She squeezed harder. Polish squirted in four directions. She tossed the crumpled container aside and grabbed the tiny bottle of coloring. A drop plummeted into the soupy polish, disappeared for a fraction of a second, then mushroomed outward.
“Voila.” Mom said in a terrible French accent.
Jeannie spoke the sum of all my fears, “Are you sure you can put that on his skin?”
“Why not?” Mom shrugged, frowning at Jeannie’s audacity.
Mom grabbed the polish container from the floor and read the label. “May be harmful if swallowed. If swallowed do not induce vomiting. Dilute with milk or water. Consult a physician if vomiting or fever persists.” Satisfied, she turned toward me while dipping the applicator into the mixture.
It hit me all at once, the smell and the burning. My eyes watered. Where I thought I had her, she trumped my hissy with a solution, any complaints and I would lose her.
After covering all the exposed skin she set to work on messing my hair. She used her metal pick, the one she used like a pitchfork to get her hair to beehive. I had to blink to make sure no tears smeared the polish on my face. She sent me off, stinking, possibly flammable, with no regard to the possible long term effects of trans-dermal shoe polish exposure.
I walked the streets. Onlookers snickered, a few took pictures. At the school Halloween party I entered the costume contest. There was another Hulk but his makeup was splotchy and caked. I was so nervous when they paraded us onstage beads of sweat gathered, but the polish didn’t run. I glanced over at the other Hulk. He looked like he was melting. When they announced me the winner, the showman in me shined. I posed, flexed, and snarled. For the briefest of moments, I was The Incredible Hulk.
It took weeks to scrub it from my skin. I spent long hours soaking in the tub. I used the splotches to my advantage. They got me out of gym class for three weeks straight. I spent time between baths enjoying the enormous haul of candy I collected that year, truth be told the costume was a hit. Mom pulled it off.

Attitude of Gratitude

2008-10-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

There are only a few things that I’ve done for longer than a quarter century. Two come instantly to mind. One of them is inappropriate to mention here. The other is exercise, and lately, I have no desire to do so. There have been countless times that I didn’t feel like working out, but this is different. All the other times I didn’t feel like it I still did it and often got the best workout of my life, but now my lack of desire has been followed up by a lack of execution. Other than my total body class, I haven’t worked out in two weeks.

Rara wants to buy us bikes. Yeah, I’m aware it’s almost November, and so is she. If you’ve been paying attention and thank you if you have, you know Rara not only finds the best deals, she finds the best time of year to buy.

I’m encouraged. But I still feel burnt out on exercise.

And then I picked up Dad who had a total knee replacement. He recovered at a place that doubles as a nursing home. I walked through the front door and passed a man in a wheelchair sleeping, unsupervised, in the lobby. After a short elevator ride the doors opened to reveal two elderly women, one talking to the wall, the other singing to her counterpart’s back, Sinatra I think. Then I passed room after room after room of forgotten souls, some mobile, others bed-bound, all of them looked at me like I was Death, passing through, touching no one, granting no peace.

My grandmother begs my father not to commit her to one. I’m going to side with her on that one.

I’m afraid of dying.

Terrified of facing what it will be like to cease to exist.

It’s a common fear.

What trumps it is living long into my nineties, decomposing in some human warehouse.
Dear youngins, if in fifty years you’re working in one of these places and you come across me; you have my permission to smother me with a pillow.

I need to be more grateful for today, look at the trees changing, delight in the laughter of a newborn, and make sure those that matter know how much I care.

I worked out tonight, cardio and my class, and hope to do so tomorrow.

Twenty six years and counting.

Any Leway on That 15 Minutes?

2008-10-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

Memoirs are considered narrative nonfiction, so I had to write a proposal. Chapter Outline, Bio, Marketing Plan, Competing Titles, all of it has to stick out among the other fifty proposals a publisher may have seen that day.

My agent looked at it for the fourth time last week and suggested more changes. She wants all the newspaper articles written about the jewelry robberies. I have them on my hard drive, but she wants the originals. So I hopped on the T, right down the street since we moved to Cambridge, alone mind you, without Rara, to visit The Boston Public Library and their extensive microfilm department.

It was easy since Rara took me there a week prior and held my hand through the ordeal. I'm no slouch. I can find my way around. But on my solo mission, proud after finding the articles I sought, I entered the greenline T stop and noticed out of the corner of my eye, that it was outbound only.

Outbound only?

Well, where the hell is inbound?

More to the point, where the hell is Rara to lead the way?

Last time we were here we took the outbound because we headed into Allston for Korean soup.

It was like I lost all my senses at once. I walked aimlessly, trying to think like a civil engineer, "If I were a geek, where the F would I put the inbound train?"

Five blocks later, I realized that the inbound was probably across the street from the outbound.

I was right.

Good thing because I'd probably still be walking aimlessly around town.

When I got home I re-read the articles written at the time of Dad's arrest. I couldn't find the one about me or my brother because Dad got most of the press. My two favorite headlines:

Man Held in Jewel Thefts

Nashua Suspect Accused in Robberies Netting $2.5 Million

and

Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed

Warhol wrote that we all experience 15 minutes of fame during our lifetime. I hope mine wasn't wasted on jewelry robberies. Maybe I can squeak out five or ten more on the NY Times Best Seller List.

Prodigal Son

2008-10-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

My brother and I don’t talk anymore.

After decades of conflict, we found a way to co-exist.

But when he demanded the three grand I owed him, even threatened to take me to court, everything collapsed. He was entitled, but I had just broken up with my girlfriend, things were tight. I asked him to be patient, I could barely afford food. In the following months I had to rely on credit to stay afloat. I just finished paying off those shylocks, ten years later.

My brother is the one I hated most growing up. One third of the memoir I wrote is attributed describing his cruelty. I absolved him long ago, intellectualizing his behavior; family dysfunction has a way of warping things. I’ve never come to an understanding of why I’m the only one of the three of us that has had any measure of success, however limited. I came out of it with a strong belief in therapy. My brother thinks it’s a bunch of crap.

Type I Diabetes is his crutch. He hobbles around on it like it’s a battle scar. Low sugars make him prone to violent outbursts that leave doctors, and Dad, shrugging. I’m not fooled. If my therapist is correct, anger is a non-optional response to pain. Pushing it down is like trying to keep a beach ball submerged; inevitably, it pops up elsewhere. His low blood sugars are the psychological manifesting itself in the physical.

I can only imagine that Dad feels some measure of guilt for my brother’s inability to rejoin the collective after eight years of being locked up. My brother tried, went back to school, made it onto the honor roll. His probation officer violated him after his first dirty urine, the judge’s reluctance to send an A student back behind the wall waned after the second one.

Dad called me last night at work and asked to speak to me. I need to see you, eight-thirty in the usual spot? Most sons never worry that meeting their Dad for a pizza at Regina's might be the call to rob again. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind. He told me a sentencing glitch and recalculation means my brother will be released on Friday. With Dad’s knee surgery scheduled for Thursday, there’s no one to pick my brother up.

I wouldn't ask if I weren't having my knee replaced. I know you have your differences. I was hoping you two could set them aside. Maybe get along again.

Dad doesn’t understand that it’s never been about money. My own brother threatened to take me to court. He forgot that when I got out I had to take care of Mom, alone, while cancer ate her alive. He forgot that the reason he has his inheritance is because of me.

Our relationship dissolved over a paltry three grand, the going rate for brotherhood.

So what do you think? Should I do it?

Dirt, Cheap?

2008-09-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

I clean.

Big deal, right?

Maybe you don't understand.

I CLEAN.

It wasn't always an obsession, a war, if you will, against dirt. At one time, I really didn't care about the matter, or more precisely, I ignored it because everyone else in my family was so obsessed with it. Ignoring it was my of telling them to F off.

It's not like you have to go out of your way to be messy. Just don't do anything, and watch dirt slowly, but surely, take over. Dust wisps in, coating every surface. Grime permeates shower tiles so subtly you hardly notice the build-up. Floors, once smooth and slick on your bare feet, become course and grimy.

My room growing up was deplorable. Mold grew freely, green patches formed like lily pads on all my wooden furniture. Discarded food crusted, molded, then crumbled to dust before ever being acknowledged. One of our eight cats frequently pissed under my desk, he wasn't neutered.

There were two spots that I kept clean, or at least free of clutter, my bed, and my porn collection, which was stored high lest the cat desire some reading material to shit on. In drunken stupors, I'd lie in filth, face down, careless.

Given the fact that she screamed about it constantly, I can only surmise that Mom saw Satan in dirt. She hunted it like a marksman, paling in comparison to her mother, who'd move all the furniture just to give the room a rim job.

But then...something happened. Dirt bothered me. I noticed it. Everywhere. The first time I cleaned a hardwood floor I stood over it, unconvinced the mop picked up all the dirt. I knelt with towel in hand, and wiped up my arch enemy, glaring at my mop the same way one looks upon a traitor.

Once I moved into my own place, things went from bad to worse. I worked long hours to make it on my own. Sunday I scoured. Monday I relaxed. Tuesday, dirt's assault began, showing up in the corners, random dustbunnies scampered across the floor. Wednesday, I'd clean. Friday. Sunday. Random spot checks on non-essential cleaning days. God forbid someone invited me out. I'd have declined, knowing full well dirt loves an empty house.

My therapist calls the behavior a neurotic loyalty to Mom. He must live in filth. Dirt and I have reached an understanding. It accumulates. Sometimes I let it, others I don't. It's hard to keep up an obsession, especially when you live with people who don't seem as offended by dirt's existence. It's not that Rachel is a slob, she just has better things to do. It's ironic how I've spent a good deal of my life trying to combat the very thing I'll be buried in when I pass.

Unless I'm cremated and mixed into a vat of 409.

Get my lawyer on the phone. Time to change my will.

White is Right

2008-09-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

It's a good god damn thing we keep those niggers behind fences!

She declared. It surprised us the same way a blown tire might have if it was blown by a laser from an alien ship. My brother and I looked around at first. I checked the radio to make sure we weren't tuned to WKKK while my brother rolled up the window, either because he thought it came from outside, or to keep the flagrant racism in.

Grandma sat in the back, purse clutched to her chest, wig secured by enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector. We were driving by a low income housing development just after gorging on Thanksgiving dinner.

Her rascism was usually more subtle. The tightening of her grip as we walked by anyone of color, the forbidden line that dissected the neighborhood, white from black, the generalizations spoken under her breath to friends, They all steal, you know.

When we were caught robbing jewelry stores and plastered all over the 6 o'clock news, she was devastated. I can't imagine the embarrassment, humiliation, and shame. Her peers would look down on her as a failed Mother.

She blamed it on a woman, Some girl did this to your father, brainwashed him into stealing, he'd never do it on his own. My therapist says she's right, it was a woman that brainwashed him, her.

I don't talk to her was her response when Rachel asked if she ever saw my sister. She ruined the family's good name by having a baby with a black man.

The family's good name? I thought. Didn't Dad single-handedly drive a wrecking ball into that long before my sister gave birth to the anti-Christ?

Classic Grandma.

John McCain will receive a vote from her not because he stands for what she believes in, but because he's the 'right' color. I fear others, black and white, are going to the polls this November to pick a color, not a candidate.

Maybe we should keep them behind fences.

Just Curious

2008-09-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

Who is this?

Wow! I found your blog last month and read all the entries that same night! I came back tonight to re-read the one that mentions my name, although, it's mispelled (no "ce" just a "z")I'm glad you're ok and I think you are a great writer... hopefully, you have some better memories of me...

My brain is sprained trying to figure it out.