Since Billy was younger, we never saw each other in school. I was closer in age to his sister, Mary, and sometimes I'd see her at the bus stop or in the corner of the library. If the hallway was empty, sometimes we'd wave to each other, our hands never any higher than our hips. Most of the time, we looked the other way.
My mother and I often saw Billy's mom walking in her bathrobe. Limping up a quiet side street, her face caged in black hair. Or shuffling along the white line, cars whipping by at forty miles an hour, her bathrobe undulating in heavy waves like a waterlogged cape.
"That poor woman," my mother said, her tongue clicking on the back of her teeth.
We never stopped to give her a ride. We thought about her only when we saw her and drove on.
I didn't want to associate with Billy or his family outside of his house. Inside his house, I was not myself. I was Billy's protege, his understudy, learning how to be bad. Outside, I was the polite, chubby, red-cheeked child with the permanent smile. Always polite, always got along with others. I was known for my ability to share. But inside, I longed to learn Billy's language, to understand the way he communicated with the world. Because after his mother got us our Happy Meals or fetched us another round of Cokes, I quickly forgot about the look on her face. Billy's way of communicating worked like a charm, and though he often called his mother "Bitchy" or "Fat Ass," the name that he used regularly, the one that seemed to insult her the most, was her real name: Jeanie.
Billy was the opposite of me. Outside his house, he felt vulnerable and weak. Once, I invited him on a trip to visit my grandparents. He agreed. I guess I felt comfortable with the situation because we'd be far away from home and no one would know us. My parents asked me if I wouldn't rather take another friend, someone I knew better. They didn't know as well as I did what went on in Billy's house, but they sensed something, as if a sinister soundtrack became audible as soon as Billy appeared. As my father loaded Billy's backpack into the car, he looked at me as if I might still change my mind.
"Sure you wanna bring that peckerhead with us?"
I thought about Woody Woodpecker and heard the theme song in my head.
"Yeah, Dad."
Billy didn't talk the entire trip. Not one word. Nor did I see him eat anything. When my grandmother asked him if he'd like some lasagna or a slice of meatloaf, he just shook his head and sat at the table with his head down. Though he was obviously uncomfortable, I marveled at the power he had over the table, none of us sure how to behave in his presence.
One day, Billy and I were in Mary's room. Mary was downstairs. Jeanie was asleep. Josephina sat on the edge of Mary's bed as we flipped through a dirty magazine and dialed the numbers in the back. We used Mary's telephone, the trendy kind made of clear plastic so all of the inner workings were visible. The transparent receiver blinked in Billy's hand.
"What's that?" he said. "You want to speak to Anthony? Okay. Here he is."
Billy tried handing me the phone but I ran to the other side of the room, tripping over Josephina's Twister mat. He laughed and gave the phone to Josephina instead. I picked up the cordless phone on the table and listened. A woman on the other end moaned softly, asking Josephina what she wanted. She said she wanted to please Josephina and make all her fantasies come true. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?" Josephina seemed soothed by the voice, as if listening to a nursery rhyme. Billy hung up the phone and Josephina screamed, holding the phone to her ear, slapping all the buttons, trying to make the voice come back.
That was when I would leave. Josephina would scream and Billy's mom would wake up and run to her—"What? What is it? What's the matter?"—but Josephina couldn't tell her, couldn't speak her language. She'd just scream and reach out in the air for some invisible savior. I'd slip out the back door and run home.
Once, while Jeanie was out buying us McDonald's, Billy and I snooped around her bedroom. My parents' room was spotless—the alarm clocks dusted and angled toward their pillows; the bed, wrapped tightly in blankets, rested high off the ground in its wooden frame. Jeanie's room was littered with shoes and underwear, and the bare mattress lay on the floor. Someone had thumb-tacked two bed sheets over each window.
I stood in the doorway while Billy opened drawers and rummaged through Jeanie's stuff. Then he started tossing around the clothes and makeup on the floor. One part of the room was piled so high with clothes that it reminded me of the ball pit at Sesame Place.
"Come on," Billy said. "Help me look." He threw more clothes over his shoulder, then bent down and pried the mattress up off the floor.
I didn't know why Billy thought I'd be any help searching his mother's room. He seemed to know his way around. But I was glad that he invited me in. He gave me permission.
I went straight for the closet because that was where Don hid all the good stuff in his room. He had a canister of Fart Spray that didn't really smell anything like real farts—more like garbage in the sun. Jeanie didn't have any Fart Spray, just shoeboxes filled with papers and some clothes half-hung on hangers. One piece of clothing hung in a plastic zippered bag. I opened the bag and touched the soft white material.
"Got it!" Billy yelled.
I ran out of the closet and stood next to Billy. He was holding a long white box, the kind that were often filled with roses and delivered to women in offices on TV. Billy walked over to the bed. I heard something knocking against the inside of the box. I thought maybe there was a gerbil or guinea pig inside, but there were no holes in the box. Billy hummed the Star Wars theme as he held the box high above his head, flying it over the mattress. He looked over at me and grinned.
"Ejector Seat!" Something flew out of the box and hit my arm, then dropped in the blankets.
"Ow, man. What the heck was that?"
Billy reached into the blankets, taking his time, making a show of it, then held up what looked like a pink rubber sword with two ends. "Bitchy's boyfriend."
I laughed and watched Billy wrap one end of the sword in a pillow case. He held it up as if he were leading a marching band. Each time he moved his arm, the sword flopped from side to side, like some animal whose neck was too weak to support its head. Billy stood in the doorway, gave the sword a jiggle, then walked out into the hall. I heard Mary scream.
"Billy! That's disgusting. Put that back."
I ran to the kitchen and saw Billy, humming and marching around the table, holding the sword high above his head. Mary chased him and Josephina chased Mary. Josephina was giggling and holding her piece of chalk up in the air like Billy. Mary grabbed hold of Billy's shirt and shook him, hard. His collar ripped.
"Fuck off!" Billy said, then continued humming. He opened the screen door and marched onto the deck, his sisters close behind. I stood alone in the kitchen for a moment. I could do whatever I wanted, I thought. I could run back into the bedroom and look for more stuff. I could sit on the couch and watch anything I pleased. I could walk out the door right now and no one would notice.
I followed them onto the deck and saw Mary and Josephina chasing Billy around the pool. Mary quickly gave up and went back inside. Out of breath, Billy sat in a folding chair while Josephina watched him, waiting. I dragged a small plastic chair out of the sandbox and sat beside them.
"She ripped my shirt," Billy said, picking at his collar. I stared at the sword.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.
"This?" He launched the sword out into the grass and it hit the ground with a solid thud. Josephina jumped up and ran after it.
"Josie, leave it," Billy said. But she didn't listen. She held the sword with both arms and brought it back to Billy. "I said, leave it." Billy said, tossing it back out into the grass, but again, Josephina chased it.
"God damn it," Billy said. He stood up and walked over to Josephina and took the sword from her. "I said, no!" He flung the sword high in the air. I watched it tumble, end over end, then slap the pool's surface. Josephina ran to the side of the pool, but the railing was too high for her to se
e the water. She started to cry.
"Let's go," Billy said.
When we walked back into the kitchen, Jeanie was unpacking our cheeseburgers and French fries. Her forehead was sweating and she kept rolling up her sleeves, but the elastic was stretched out, so the material kept slipping down her arm. She crumpled the paper bag into a ball. When the kitchen was quiet, she heard Josephina crying.
"Where is she, Billy? What happened?"
"I don't know," Billy said, chewing. "She's outside."
Jeanie ran out to Josephina, who was still standing beside the pool. She was reaching her arms up above her head. We watched Jeanie kneel down and talk to Josephina. Jeanie picked her up and climbed the steps to the pool. She leaned over the water, then looked back at us in the kitchen. Billy asked me if I wanted ketchup, as I stared at Jeanie, extending the skimmer's long metal handle, stretching out over the water.
If I kept going there, kept watching, I felt I would somehow be responsible. Billy's life would rub off on me and people would know where I'd been, like a miner covered in soot emerging after a long shift.
But I continued to go over there. All I had to do was stay away for a little while, sometimes a day, sometimes even as little as a few hours, before I felt invincible enough to go back. The feeling was similar to when my brother took me on the roller coaster. After I had gathered up enough courage to ride it once, the next time and the time after that and the time after that were easier. I might have to sit on a bench and wait for the world to stop spinning or drink a soda to calm my stomach, but eventually I'd walk back up to the roaring, twisted metal and get in line.
16
A PHOTOGRAPH: Don and my mother at JFK Airport. He is twenty. He has his arm around her, pulling her close, as if, a second before the picture was taken, my father shouted, "Get your arm around your mother, boy!" She is squished, and so is her smile, tight-lipped. Dressed in the magenta track suit that became popular with her and her sisters around that time. Comfortable. Easy to move in. My mother is afraid to fly.
Don looks ready to hop a freight train or hitchhike. Green duffle slung over his shoulder, frayed denim shorts, long-sleeved white thermal shirt. Chain wallet. Black boots. A cocky grin, perpetual squint—can't see where I'm headed, but I'm going. He is not a destination man; it's not about that. Just move. Just go. Fill out the college application as long as the address at the top contains a California zip code, a place as far from Long Island as possible. The sky is purple. Is it dusk or dawn? I can't tell.
There is no picture of me and my brother at the airport, but I imagine he pulled me in for a side-hug, my shoulders scrunched up beside my ears. I was about thirteen when Don left, so I was probably wearing my Raider's hat and Raider's jersey. My father loved the Raiders, so I did, too, if only for the colors and the logo. All of my sportswear beside Don's grunge gear made us look like mascots for opposing teams. He probably unhooked his arm from my shoulders and turned toward the gate. As he walked away, he glanced back at us like a driver changing lanes. No signal.
*
"He's out in California. Drawing stick figures or some shit."
My father knelt on the garage floor, the rotary phone's red receiver cradled in his shoulder, telling Bobby Haggemeyer about Don attending art school. He worked a rusty lug nut free from his Chevy, applied a white chemical, and scrubbed it with an old toothbrush.
"I haven't the slightest clue, Hag." Bobby was the only person my father spoke to on the phone for longer than five minutes. His voice changed. Bobby brought out the redneck jive that lay dormant most of the day. At the supermarket, between the hours of five a.m. and three p.m., my father spoke in quick choppy statements: Got it. All set. Ma'am, can I help you? Number sixty-two. Now serving number sixty-two. After work, in the hazy garage, Winston dangling from his lips, the levee broke. He opened up.
"You gots to be foolin' me, Hag. I know you ain't bin messin' wit my tunes. Yup. Dats right. Dats right. I want 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out,' then 'Night Moves,' THEN 'Beast of Burden.'"
He laughed.
"Uh huh. Nun'a dat Eagles shit, friggin' Neil Young's cryin', or any'a dat new shit you bin listenin' to. Chimp Biscuit. Friggin' Marion Manson."
I heard Bobby laughing. My father spat on the lug nut and worked it into the chrome.
Bobby was more computer savvy than my father, if only because Bobby called it a computer instead of "the machine." I ain't messin' wit dat machine, boy. Punch this in for me. At the time of this conversation, Bobby and my father were deep into a Napster binge—Bobby having discovered the program after his nephew e-mailed him a link and explained what Napster could do. My father and Bobby had been downloading songs for months.
"Yeah, boy. Good call, Hag. Great call. 'Against the Wind.' Dat one slipped my mind."
I sat on the vinyl stool, feet dangling, listening to their conversation. His wide workbench spread out in front of me. In the corner was a long silver radio, always tuned to The Fox. The radio was plugged into an outlet that was powered by the light switch, so when the garage lit up, the radio immediately kicked on. The Fox offered the same dozen or so artists every afternoon, a predictable rotation of Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller Band, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Eric Clapton. Once in a while they'd surprise us and throw in some Otis Redding or Wilson Pickett, and my father would strut over to the radio and ease up the volume, as if he didn't want to scare "the brothas" off.
"Yeah, boy. 'Mustang Sally.'" He slid back beside the tire. "Ol' Sally can ride wit me anytime."
I laughed and shook my head, knowing all the lyrics, but shying away from singing with my father. Instead, I spun on the stool and tapped my foot and took inventory of the tools on the wall, the items on the shelf.
Fishing poles lined the walls like an armory, his green and black Army knife stabbed into the wall. Posthole diggers stood with their mouths shut. Birthday card on a nail, giant breasts holding a lit candle, Bobby's handwriting asking: How'd you like to suck on these, you old bastard? Pictures cut from magazines: centerfolds of muscle cars. El Caminos. GTOs. 442's. The car my father loved the most, his "mudda fucka:" a 1941 Willys. A rare, stubby little hot rod. When a Willys entered a car show—gleaming hunk of obsidian absorbing the sky—people turned their heads. The car was expensive. My father played the lottery.
Secret items. Stuff I couldn't see then, but knew was there because I snooped around the garage while my father was still at work. An old crumpled pack of Kent cigarettes. His father's brand—the same brand the Army issued to my father with his rations in Vietnam. I also found a dusty brown eyeglass case containing my father's green sunglasses. He wore the same pair in most of his pictures from Vietnam. The lenses were loose in the case, but I popped them back into the frame and tried the glasses on. The world was emerald, the sun shining like a precious stone. The water in our pool became green. The brown grass, burnt by the sun, appeared fresh.
"Listen to this drum solo, boy. John Bonham is nasty." He laughed. "God damn."
The Fox had entered its "Stairway to Seven" routine, which meant my father and I would be enjoying a solid rock block of Led Zeppelin, but also it was just about time for my mother to come home from work. My father lit another Winston, bent his knees, and went to work on another rusty lug nut.
*
Wednesday was junk day. It was also my father's day off. He let me ride around our block and look for cool things in our neighbors' trash: radios, televisions, food processors, anything. Most people threw out furniture or records or boxes. I had no use for that stuff. I needed electronics, wires and motors, appliances that, with the turn of a few screws, revealed their inner workings.
One hand on a coffee maker or blender, the other steadying the handle bars, I coasted down my street in sweeping S's, drunk with anticipation. If my find was too large to carry, I tied it to my bike with rope and dragged it home. Once, I pulled a small electric lawn mower three blocks. Items too big to drag—a microwave or mini-fridge—I stashed in the
woods, where they waited until my father drove me back to pick them up.
I parked my bike and carried my VCR, my electric typewriter, my walkie-talkie into the garage. If my mother was working in her garden, I hid behind my neighbor's bushes until she stood up, stretched her back, and went inside for a glass of water. She wasn't angry when I brought home junk; she just wasn't as encouraging as my father. We often kept secrets from her—the cost of a new power tool, pork sausage instead of turkey. Just between you and me, boy.
Stale-sweet scent of gasoline, coffee, cherry cigars. I believed the garage and my father were created from the same material, at the same moment, separated at birth like a freakish set of Siamese twins. The garage was alive in the summer, when I had all day to scour the neighborhood for items to dismantle.
One Wednesday, I spent the morning at Billy's house. On my ride home, I searched the streets for something to take apart, but couldn't find anything good. I came home and went upstairs to the attic and dug through Christmas decorations and old photo albums, some boxes filled with my baby clothes. One box contained canisters of 16mm film from my parents' wedding. I held the negatives to the light and saw a tiny couple on the dance floor. I slipped the reel onto my finger like a giant ring and pulled out more and more film, but the tiny couple seemed frozen in the same position. Carefully, I rewound the spool and shut the metal canister. Behind the box was my old Fisher-Price tape recorder.
I flicked the switch in the garage, spotlighting the Chevy. My father had started restoring his truck. He had smeared Bondo, a goopy paste, over the rust holes on the front and rear fenders. When it dried, he sanded them smooth, wrapping sandpaper around a wooden block so as not to leave fingerprints in the metal. The garage maintained its scent of oil and tobacco, but the Bondo had added a chemical scent, like the pickling solution he used on his animals in the basement.
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