Cataloging Crimes

The job marked the point where my brother and I started to wonder if Dad was out of control. He thought we that we could take down The Jewelers Building in Downtown Crossing, one jeweler at a time. If you've seen it, you know security's tighter than Fort Knox.

But we had inside info that an errand boy emerged every day and carried an armload of boxes three blocks, to the Fed Ex store.

A week before Christmas, the streets bustled with shoppers. Dad and I chatted back and forth on walkie-talkies, about to give up and go home when suddenly, the errand boy passed by. I signaled Dad and moved in behind him. I checked the gun secured in my waistband. Ahead, I saw Dad but not my brother. His blood sugar had dropped. Dad sent him to get food. Too late to abort, Dad lunged and shoved his gun into the kid’s side. The top boxes tumbled. I scooped them up as the kid squawked, Hey! Hey!

Dad snagged the remaining boxes and we ran to the car parked three blocks away. My brother continued to stuff hot dogs into his mouth after we picked him up. I tore open the box that was supposed to contain fifty grand in diamonds. Instead I pulled out a catalog. The chewing ceased. The car fell dead quiet.

Six boxes. Six catalogs.

We didn't know the jewelry store owner owned a police scanner. He heard our random transmissions, the catalogs were sent as a precaution.

Christmas was ruined for us, and possibly anyone expecting a catalog. Another job was planned and soon enough the catalog incident was forgotten. A few days ago while in Boston to take a class, I bumped into the Jeweler’s Building. It was like bumping into an old classmate whose friendship had turned sour. I reminisced quietly while the building continued to shun would-be robbers.

Which begs the question: If a crime falls in the middle of Boston, and no one profits, is it still a felony?

I am NOT Batman

I just finished Batman Begins for the umpteenth time. Possibly the best Batman to date. I speak as not only a fan of the genre, I've seen all the movies, hate all the actors after Michael Keaton, and own Knightfall in it's entirety, including The Vengeance of Bane #1. I can't wait for The Dark Knight with Heath and feel Hollywood has revived the character by returning to its grass roots and pulling plots from over fifty years of development.
At one point I traveled the same rocky road that made Bruce Wayne that venerable character so woven into our pop culture. My travels, unfortunately, lead me to a myriad of state run facilities.
My training, like Bruce's, started in the Martial Arts. Mom signed me up to the YMCA for their self defense classes. Uechi Ru is one of those arts that prefers you not fight. Should the occasion to defend yourself arise, well sure, rip out the offender's throat, but first try not to fight. For those of us who were tormented by bullies, you know how that goes. I quit after going for two years and only achieving a yellow belt.

I needed to learn the art of death. I was consumed with the idea of killing my brother. (Think of the worst bully you've ever known, square that, and multiply it by pi, that's my brother). So I found a studio in the town square that had Nun Chucks, butterfly knives, and pointed metal stars, hanging in the window. Fred Villari's School of Self Defense was the answer. They sold weapons. Surely they taught you how to use them. I didn't need the tour or the complimentary lesson, I just needed Mom to write a check.

I attended every class, climbed the ranks, yellow, orange, blue, green, green stripe, brown, brown stripe. I bought every book I could find on the arts and studied them all. My favorite was on Ninjitsu, the art of assassination. It even had an order form for an authentic Ninja uniform in the back. I filled it out and anxiously awaited its delivery.

It came riddled with pockets and drawstrings. The hood came in three separate pieces. It was so authentic I had to bring it to class and ask Sensei Cal to show me how to put it on. Clad in the uniform, facing my bad ass, assassin self in the mirror, I decided to take it out for a test run. I consulted the book one last time and memorized the more important points: Blend. Remain unseen. Never cast a human shadow. And leave no witnesses.

I took to the streets, draped myself in the shadows, calmed my lifelong fear of the dark, and headed to Grossman's to steal some wood. We thugs had every tradition every Halloween. After we spent the night searching for someone to buy us a pony keg, we mounted a cross atop the First Hill overlooing the school, and set it ablaze. I should note, we did this for attention, (no one pays much mind to a docile cross. But light it on fire...) Cops and fire trucks showed up. We grabbed the keg, ran away, and returned to a pile of smoldering, stolen two by fours.

I did pretty good moving through yards, ducking out of view, and getting there undetected. What I didn't plan for was the thirty foot high fence, cameras, and the fact that the wood was fifty shades brighter than my suit. I lost my motivation to remain concealed halfway home when I realized it was useless. A police cruiser caught me scurrying across Main Street, traditions fell by the wayside after my arrest. I quit Fred Villari's after I bought a quarter pound of weed with the money my mother gave me for private lessons. I tried to sell it but ended up fronting myself the majority.

I still owe myself seven hundred bucks.

Jack and the ProteinStalk

I heard him say it in his deep, booming, resounding tone that can be heard from anywhere in the gym. Tim talked to his doe eyed, perpetually happy, Asian client using that condescending, self righteous tone trainers are notorious for. "Now what are you gonna eat when you get home?" He asked, setting her up.

"Um, I don't know, I haven't gone shopping. Maybe just some cereal?" She asked instead of answered.

"Gotta get protein, and a high quality protein, whey is the highest quality protein." Tim bellowed.

"But I'm lactose intolerant." She replied. This threw Tim for a loop. His brow fell like a curtain after a play.

"They have lactose free whey protein now. Gotta get your high quality protein. It helps build muscle."

I'm surprised he didn't rub her head and swat her behind as he shoved her off with a head full of misinformation and the belief that she needed to ingest this whey or go catabolic on a grand scale.

I wanted so badly to remain neutral. I took this job to reinvent myself and shed my own self righteous ways. Tim and I were alone in the break room shortly after. My filter must have been down for repairs because I said, "You know, Tim, there's no scientific evidence that proves protein builds muscle."

"Yeah, it does, it's the highest quality protein." he reiterated.

"Actually, if you're referring to its bioavailability and essential amino acid profile, beef is the best. But none of it is proven to build muscle."

"Muscle is made of protein." Tim said, looking at me as if I was an idiot.

"True, but that doesn't mean that if I eat it I'll build muscle."

"Yeah it does. And whey is predigested." he added.

"What's that have to do with building muscle?" I asked.

This stumped Tim. "I don't know. But I like it," he said before striking a most muscular pose and scampering out of the room.

Protein, like all nutrients, provide calories. There's no way to prove whether or not strength gains come from a specific nutrient or overall calories. This is the problem with nutrition. Balance is the key. Suppose protein is solely responsible for building muscle. Vitamins and minerals (from fruits and veggies, NOT MULTIVITAMINS) are needed to help transport, and support the anabolic process.

The jury is still out on young Tim's declaration. Tim, with his magic protein beans, has fallen prey to genius marketing rather than solid science. Reputable sources don't recommend that more than 15% of overall calories come from protein (20% if you're an elite athlete). Maybe we should spend our money on basic whole foods instead of investing in the latest fad.

So far the fads are winning.

Penis on Wheels

Relationships are hard, no news there. Rara and I have been together for three years and one of the hardest aspects of living as a couple is finding other couples to hang out with. Worst case scenario: you find a couple that's cool. You share common interests. You dine, have a few drinks, maybe head back to their place and realize that you've just spent three hours with people who imagined the evening would end with a little partner swap. Best case scenario you meet a couple and find two new friends to weather the storm with. Maybe they've been through a slump and can relate when you, as a couple, inevitably do. But realistically you meet a couple and love one of them, only to have your hopes dashed because the other one is a chucklehead.

We met Andrew and Erica one summer morning while walking a cocker spaniel we occasionally dogsat. She broke her leash and ran right up to them. A conversation ensued and the seeds of a new friendship were planted. I liked Andrew, a former Marine, wrought with some overt maleness that was easily overlooked because he was just plain fun to hang out with. Unfortunately, Erica was on her quest to match wits with Rachel, a nurse. She constantly made glaringly ignorant statements like, "Female muscle tissue is different from male, it's more sensitive," and "I used to model so I know the human body." Yeah, like porn stars know how to screen for prostate enlargement.

We lost touch. Well, more like, we know where they are, and it would be easy enough to call them, but I just can't watch Rachel suffer any longer.

Then there was Christine. We met her one Sunday while we were admiring Duke, a burly bulldog with an equally burly owner. Duke let us shower him with attention before sauntering off to lift his leg over a rhododendron. After his piss he spotted Daisy, Christine's skittish collie, and moseyed up to her for a ride, (you'll excuse the pun), doggie style. We exchanged pleasantries amist Duke's writhing and Daisey's whimpers, and Rachel, god bless her kindness, invited Christine to dinner after Duke was out of earshot.

Christine was in the mist of a sexual orientation crisis. She hit on Rachel, dated our friend Colin for three months, then left us all for a butch lesbian more manly than Colin or I put together.

Which brings us to last night. Rachel invited her friends Liz and Meagan for dinner. It might be important to mention that the last two couples have been, shall we say, heterosexually challenged. Maybe she is sending me an unconscious message: Make one false move, bucko, and I'm heading to the other side. She would be a loss my gender would miss dearly. During a friendly game of Pictionary my usual spot next to Rara was taken by Meagan in a dry run of my worst fear come true, so I took Liz's side and we proceeded to play.

The word was burst. So in an act of desperation, I drew a picture of a penis "bursting," as any man will attest to the sensation. I saw her eyebrows crinkle in confusion, or disgust, so I added a set of circles at the base to clarify. She blurted, "Penis on wheels!"

She didn't guess 'burst' before the timer ran out. But we did win by quite a large gap. I'd have to say that finding that as a couple, finding a couple to hang out with takes trial and error. And more importantly, a willingness to draw outside the lines to find that perfect fit. It's fair to say I like Liz and Meagan, even if they eye Rachel like baseball scouts eye a new recruit. But their job isn't that hard, there's no brochure needed, especially when I say things like, "No, you lesbian, those are testicles."

The Servant waits while the Master bates

It started with the usual pangs of adolescence that blossomed into a desire to grind my pelvis into anything in a skirt. But my fear of girls overrode the will to act and I had to settle for grinding against inanimate objects, like the desk. Until I entered into an intimate relationship with an old back massager I found in the attic. It started out innocently enough: me, shirtless on my bed, massaging everywhere but the area that ached. I tried to ignore it. But it beckoned. It ‘slipped’ and a wave of pleasure overcame me. I held on as long as I could. Thirty seconds, give or take a few.
I had every intention of living life to the fullest with that massager, until the fateful day it died in a plume of gray smoke. I had to find another way to avoid the temptations of actual sex rather than appliance based simulated sex. I did pretty well for awhile, until I got sober at 23 and decided it was time to experience it in the flesh.
Enter Sandy. She attended my Tuesday night AA meeting. She was the only female in the meeting that didn’t have a front tooth missing or three rug rats running around. I suggested coffee afterwards and to my surprise, she agreed.
At coffee, we sat together in a booth. Sandy ordered tea. I had medium regular with extra sugar. “I’d love to go on a date with you sometime,” Sandy blurted between sips.
It caught me off guard. Maybe she sensed my hidden agenda. I tried not to react for fear it would expose me further, “How about tomorrow night?”
“Why not tonight?” She answered, her raised eyebrow made me realize I wasn’t the only one with an agenda.
We went to her house and once the lights dimmed Sandy turned into a rapacious predator. She said the filthiest things I ever heard outside of porn. She wanted to suck things, lick others, and asked me if I wanted to pound her into the mattress. Of course I wanted these things. But hearing them verbalized made them a little too real. My virginity was never a matter of integrity, only shame. Its abrupt three dimensional end, was a little too real for me. So I told her the truth.
“Um, before we get too involved in this there’s something I should tell you.”
Sandy leaned back. Candlelight illuminated her face. “What is it?” she asked tenderly.
“It’s just that…well…I’ve never done this before.”
No one knew. It felt weird to say.
She led me to her room where a candle provided the only light. When the time was right I reached for a condom, fiddled with the rapper, and rolled it on. It desensitized me, which helped.
Sandy moaned, panted, and screamed obscenities. I had a mental checklist going: I really liked the oral, wasn’t a fan of the slippery tongue in my ear, could’ve done without her asking me if she was my little slut. None of that mattered when I got behind her, though, and I was well on my way to finishing when Sandy rasped, “Slap me.”
I stopped and looked around, wondering if I heard her correctly. She said it again, “Come on baby, slap me.”
The whole idea crushed my groove and turned me off. “Um, I’m really not into that.” I said passively.
There was a short pause that made me think the matter was dropped. So I got back to work. A few strokes later, it came up again. “Please baby, slap me.” She repeated. I fumbled with a few words before she ordered, “Do it now, slap me now!”
I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I leaned forward, wound up, and smacked her upside the head. She broke the awkward silence that ensued by saying, “No, you asshole. I meant slap my ass.”
There were others. Shelly had a hygiene problem that roused my dog and forced him to leave the room. There was my first ménage a trois where I experienced pleasure overload that caused temporary erectile dysfunction. And let’s not forget Jeanine, who I inadvertently thumbed after our senior prom. I guess I’d say I’m an advocate for sex education, lest anyone else end up like me. I’m fortunate to have learned from my mistakes. Enough to bag a babe like Rachel.

Everybody loves Bry

Its not comfortable, not in the sense of familiarity, but comfortable like a silk suit. The material caresses, the fit is fantastic, but not at all what I'm used to, comfortable but uncomfortable at the same time. I'm talking about the natural high I've been on for over a week now. I was in Lexington, talking to the freshmen about exercise and nutrition, they loved me, asked their teachers if I would come and speak more often. The number one highest rated speaker they have, at least that's what they tell me to keep me coming back, and it works. My total body conditioning class is overflowing, some of the late arrivals don't even have weights, but stay anyway. My clients keep renewing, and others are lining up, because they have heard I'm a great trainer. Next month I sit with one of the better agents in the business to discuss my memoir. I attended a sales course for work and had to leave early. My coworkers complained they'd be bored without me. Everyone thinks I'm a riot.

But it won't last. No high ever does.

Ever since my first experience with drugs I've been caught in a vicious cycle of instant gratification, followed by self loathing, depression, and the subsequent hunt for the next high. Like all highs, this one will end with a crash. A plummet back down to earth where reality reveals me to be a good trainer, a decent writer, and lucky not to have gone back to prison, or a life of crime. When agents reject me, It'll be because my writing sucks. When my class is sparse, I'll be because I made it too hard. If my clients don't renew, it'll be because I'm an awful trainer. It's the duality of ambivalence, that tender trap. To deny it is to deny my own humanity. To misunderstand it dooms me to repeat it. My therapist tells me I can't ever be all one thing, that behind every intense emotion lies its polar opposite, lurking, waiting to center us, to balance the equation.

Thank god for Rachel. She lets me soar for awhile, tethered to reality but when I fly too high she grounds me. Sometimes it takes a a good, hard, slap to revive me. She winds me back up and sends me off into the world. She doesn't say it but I know she's bracing herself for the next crash.

Today I feel numb. Another unique aspect of living a life less ordinary. There are times, when someone really gets into my story, that I can feel that familiar pang, like before a robbery or scoring an ounce of coke. But I don't miss it.

Well, that's a lie.

I miss it sometimes.

Presents = Love

My 38th birthday is Tuesday and all I can think is, Big F'ing Deal. Birthdays are heralded as special days but in reality I didn't do anything magnanimous, except get yanked from a womb I'll spend the rest of my life trying to work my way back into (Holla Freud fans). But this year more than any other I feel less like celebrating the day Mom pushed extra hard so she could expel the one thing keeping her from boozing, the only reason she refused to breastfeed me. The day after having me, her breasts turned into taps. Although if what they say is true, that whatever Mom ingested would be passed through the breast milk, Mom was coughing up coffee brandy with a nicotine chaser.
It's a far cry from my tenth, the year Mom threw a party and invited all my friends. (Well, she invited my 1st grade class, hardly friends since I was a recluse). But they came and I was the man of the hour. My 'friends' gathered around the race car cake my mother made, a tribute to how much she paid attention, since I've never once alluded to being a fan of racing. To her credit she abstained from drinking, or at least curtailed it enough to avoid flipping out when we decided to re-wrap the cat in one of my present boxes.
I received a myriad of gifts but ultimately hunched over my Lego collection after I assimilated the small box Mikey Newhall gave me into the collective. Mikey took awkwardness to a new level. The type that could calculate Force=Mass x Acceleration in his head but had trouble zipping up or fastening his belt after taking a whiz. I piled my presents high, thirteen in all, and sat back to take in what they represented: Presents=Love.