Missing the Big Picture

by Donovan, Luke

  When I was growing up, my mother forbade me from playing sports or throwing anything in the house. When she told Eric and some of my other friends, “No balls in the house,” Eric told me, “Guys, that means that we have to leave.” I even remember Eric licking dimes and nickels that he had found to get a laugh from his friends.

  Eric also got along with my grandmother. He found her quirkiness entertaining, and he never asked why she walked around the house in a bathrobe all the time. One time when Eric was over for dinner, my grandmother just shouted out in the middle of the meal, “I think a penis is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.”

  In sixth grade, Eric and I teamed up with another friend for the school talent show. We pretended to be little people and danced to “Funkytown.” We originally wanted to dance to “YMCA,” but the director wouldn’t allow it. Soon Eric and I and some other friends were hanging out on an everyday basis. We would usually go to the corner store and buy candy, or go to the mall and walk around or play arcade games. Once we went to the pay phones and called and talked to one another just to get a reaction from the other mall-goers. Eric rarely censored himself and would often make comments that upset others. One time, when he saw a student in our class adjust his pants, Eric told him that toilet paper must have been on strike.

  In April 1995, when my mother and I were at Anthony’s house watching Little Giants, to my surprise, Anthony proposed and my mother accepted. The wedding was scheduled for August. In July, my mother and I moved from the suburbs to the city of Albany into Anthony’s house, where Julie and Paul lived. We would only live there for six weeks before we moved back into my grandmother’s house.

  That summer, my mother made arrangements for me to go to Holy Cross, the Catholic school that Julie and Paul attended. Julie and I grew close, and I didn’t mind moving in with her family. Every morning we would watch American Gladiators on television, and we would often walk to the movie theater a few streets away. The only thing blocking Anthony and my mother’s marriage was Anthony’s son, Paul. At fifteen years old, Paul was very quiet and arrogant. He had few friends and spent most of his time in his bedroom. With his father’s help, Paul bought and read The Anarchist’s Cookbook. He would tell me that he was planning to make a bomb from his chemistry set—a bomb that could destroy his living room. The first conflict that arose with Paul was actually the night that Anthony proposed. After my mother said yes, Paul cornered her in the kitchen and said, “Don’t think that this changes anything. This is my house.” The first time that my mother made dinner after we moved in, Paul took a bite of his food and then ran to the garbage and spit it out. Anthony let this happen.

  Besides having limited social skills, Paul was very mean. He would make fun of the way I chewed my food. When Anthony complimented my mother on her beauty, Paul would remark, “Oh yeah, she’s pretty,” in a very sarcastic tone. So, six weeks later, my mother and I moved out, mainly because of Paul. Anthony had waited until he was thirty-nine to become a father. He always did what his children wanted, and since Paul didn’t like living with my mother and me, Anthony and my mother decided to separate. Julie, however, did love my mother. After we moved out, my mother received a letter from Julie saying that she would always regard her as a second mother.

  Both of Anthony’s children could be very disrespectful to their father at times. They would yell and scream at him and even call him retarded. I could never talk to my mother using that tone of voice, and my mother punished me severely the one time I told her to shut up. About two months after their separation, my mother and Anthony started dating again. They decided that they were just going to date and not live together or get married. After we moved back to my grandmother’s house, my mother began working two jobs to help her get out of debt. She was a single mother and had to pay rent and help my grandmother, who was on a fixed income. My mother still spent hours shopping with my grandmother. My grandmother would usually buy a certain electronic item, and then ask multiple people what they thought of it, only to return it later. My mother would drive her all around town buying and returning these items.

  Up until high school, I was very content with my life. The highlight of my sixth grade was the day that Abby, a fellow classmate, was wearing a black tank top without a bra and her nipple was showing. I was only sitting a few feet away. Soon I decided to tell all of my friends, but the more people I told, the guiltier I felt. I decided to fix the situation by writing Abby a note: “Hi, Abby. The day was June 11, 1994, the sun was shining, and somebody’s boob was showing. Abby, that was your boob, and by accident, I saw your boob.” Then at the end of the note, I apologized and told her to feel free to call me if she had any further questions. Abby was embarrassed, of course.

  Besides seeing Abby’s nipple in sixth grade, another highlight of my childhood was developing a close friendship with Eric. Eric’s favorite pastime during the winter was sledding. Even if there was less than an inch of snow, Eric and I would be at the hill of Sand Creek Middle School, sledding until nightfall. One time Gary, another boy I had known for years, was going downhill with Eric while Eric’s father videotaped them. Gary made a wrong move, and the two of them landed face-first in the mud. They later tried to submit the video to America’s Funniest Home Videos, but it wasn’t accepted.

  We enjoyed cruising the mall. Colonie Center was a moderate-size mall located about five miles from where we lived. Sometimes we would get rides from our parents, but the majority of the time we either walked or rode our bikes. Every time we frequented the mall, the two of us had a set routine. First, after all that walking or bike riding, a stop at the food court would be the main priority. Eric would gulp down a soda and then chew on the ice so loudly that it would irritate the hell out of me. Eric loved to make people laugh with his body. He was often known to fold himself into a pretzel to get attention, and he had large amounts of excess skin on his face that he would play with as if he were a baker kneading dough. No matter how much skin he manipulated, he would always generate a laugh.

  Another memorable moment at Colonie Center was when Eric and I were standing at the top of the mall watching a band playing on the first floor. I tried to get Eric’s attention by gently slapping his hand, but it made him drop his soda. We watched it fall right in front of some woman on the floor below. The two of us ran out of there. Finally, none of our mall crusades were complete without at least one of us gawking over some pretty girl both of us knew we could only have in a wet dream. One time I started smiling at this very voluptuous, beautiful older woman, and the two of us made eye contact. Suddenly I read the woman’s lips saying, “My boyfriend is going to beat you up.” Once my friends and I saw the girl’s boyfriend, we ran out of the mall like bandits.

  The main difference between Eric and me was that Eric could get girls easily. While I had an easy time talking to girls, initiating any physical relationship with them was considerably more difficult. When I first met Eric, he was dating this girl, though only for a couple of days. He was only eleven, but he claimed to have already had several girlfriends. Eric’s girlfriend at the time was either named Kristen or Caitlin. Eric met this girl at a private school dance, where he also met the girlfriend’s best friend, and now he didn’t know which was Kristen and which was Caitlin. Eric talked to Kristen/Caitlin for about a week until our friend Gary told her that Eric didn’t know her name. Also, Caitlin/Kristen complained that Eric never called her in the week that they’d been dating. Eric would have called her; he just didn’t know who to ask for.

  I was very glad my mother did not marry Anthony, as this let me stay in Colonie and be friends with Eric. My mother and I moved back into my grandmother’s house, with just a few minor problems. We moved back in August, about a month before I entered the seventh grade. I spent the majority of that month hanging out with Eric and Gary. Gary had a large swimming pool where we spent much of our time, splashing around and having raucous chicken fights. Gary and his friend Martin were big guys, while Eric and I were scrawny. Eri
c would get on Martin’s shoulders and I would get on Gary’s shoulders, and Eric and I would battle each other. One could only imagine what the neighbors who could see through the fence must have thought.

  As the summer of 1995 drew to a close, Eric’s father and his siblings rented out a camp at a local lake near the beach. Labor Day weekend was a big gathering for Eric’s extended family, and I was happy to find out I was invited. Upon arriving, Eric and I went to the beach, where Eric told me that he had just masturbated for the first time the day before. I didn’t reach puberty until tenth grade, so I would often lie and say I was masturbating, but I really wasn’t. It was the only topic Eric would talk about that weekend.

  The next morning I fell into the bathtub really hard, and the sound echoed through the house. A couple of Eric’s aunts rushed into the bathroom because they were worried that I might have passed out. Luckily, I survived with minor injuries. One night the whole family had clams for supper. I accidently started chewing on a shell. One of Eric’s aunts ordered me to spit it out, and in front of at least fifteen people, I gagged it up. The last night the family was there, Eric’s two uncles were drunk and got into a fight. A couple of Eric’s cousins got up out of bed to try to stop the fight and I tried to do the same, but Eric yelled from his bed, “Luke, sit down! You’re not going to do shit.”

  It was still a fun weekend.

  The following week I entered the seventh grade. I spent most of my afternoons with Eric and Gary. Gary loved to throw huge Super Bowl parties. In 1996, the Dallas Cowboys would win, but I wouldn’t know this until later because Eric and Gary decided to put me in a cardboard box, big enough for a Christmas tree, and throw me into the closet during the final two minutes of the game.

  A typical Saturday night for my friends and me would be going out for pizza, then staying overnight at Gary’s house watching episodes of Red Shoe Diaries, a soft-core porn series, until the wee hours of the morning. One sleepover, Eric and I had to share the same bed. Gary always had to fall asleep listening to music, which irritated Eric immensely. About three o’clock in the morning, after everyone had fallen asleep, I awoke to Eric putting on his shoes. I asked where he was going, and Eric replied that he was going home because the radio was too loud. After Eric left, I was still awake, so I just decided to turn off the radio. I could never understand why Eric just didn’t turn off the radio while Gary was asleep.

  My house was another place where we would spend the night. At one party, Eric and everybody else started throwing Jenga pieces at one another. Even though Eric had a morning paper route, he would stay overnight and my mother would wake up early Saturday mornings and help him deliver the papers. Eric was always ungrateful, though, and never acknowledged my mother’s help, which made me extremely mad at Eric. I never said anything to him, though.

  Seventh grade was also the year I decided to join the cross-country running team at school. I have no idea why I did this, as I wasn’t athletic at all. I was consistent in most of my races—out of one hundred boys or so, I almost always came in last. Eric was on the team for a short period of time but then faked spraining his ankle so he didn’t have to compete. I remember one race in which I was battling for last place with this wheezing, overweight boy. I decided to cut across a playground. The overweight boy started yelling, “He cut! He’s a cheater!” Nobody could hear us. The next track meet he came up to me and said, “You better not cut here.”

  Later that season, I got to go down to Manhattan College and compete. Once again, I came in last place. As I was running down the hill, I fell and scraped my knees and elbows. Then I was surprised to hear a rush of noise behind me, thinking, I didn’t notice anybody after me. The girls’ race had started fifteen minutes after ours, and I was being ambushed by a bunch of female track athletes. I made it across the finish line, bleeding.

  The highlight of seventh grade was my thirteenth birthday party. My mother told me that since I was a teenager now, I should invite some girls. Her only fear was that we would play a kissing game like Spin the Bottle or Seven Minutes in Heaven, and she would have to break it up. Her fear didn’t come true, though, since we had a massive food fight instead of a make-out contest. Gary threw a mini-bagel dog at one of the girls, and it ended up in her overalls. “Well, at least now you have something there!” Gary screamed at her. Seventh-grade boys could be so cruel.

  Other highlights of the night included orange soda spilling all over the carpet; my cousin ripping Eric’s jeans so that Eric had two huge holes in them by the time he left; kids breaking two pool sticks; and somebody anonymously picking his nose and leaving it on the cellar door to dry. I yelled at everybody, “Nobody is leaving this party until I found out who put his booger on my door!” Nobody ever admitted to it, but it was rumored that Greg, another friend of Eric and Gary’s, was the culprit. I had met Greg a year earlier. He was very small and energetic, and was known for his intelligence and the rattail he wore down his neck. In twelfth grade, only weeks before we were supposed to graduate, I got up the courage to ask Greg if he actually did pick his nose and put it on my door. Once again, even five years later, Greg said, “It was dry already.”

  In 1996 I entered eighth grade, my last year at Sand Creek Middle School. Eighth grade would be a fun year for me, but it was filled with many conflicts. On most afternoons, my friends and I would make a routine stop at The West Albany News Center convenience store. I often had leftover lunch money and would use it to buy a Nutrageous candy bar and a Dr. Pepper. Eric would always say to me, “Geez, Luke, I never knew anybody who liked nuts as much as you do.” Eric and I started hanging out with a new kid, Dan, more often. I had known Dan since third grade. Even though Dan and Eric would spend a lot of time together, Eric had some reservations about Dan. About a year earlier, Dan and Eric got into a fight after school and Dan beat him up. Dan apologized to Eric, but Eric never really forgave him. Eric would ridicule Dan for buying a Nirvana T-shirt without ever really listening to the band’s music and for smoking cigarettes but never fully inhaling.

  One reason Eric and I started to have problems in eighth grade was that Eric started smoking marijuana frequently. Eric and some of his other friends decided to attend the Halloween dance stoned. I declined their invite to smoke because I was involved in the dance’s haunted house. The haunted house took place in the school’s courtyard, and it was my duty to lie under a picnic table and trip the visitors with a rake while they walked past. When the first group of students walked past me, I was too far away from them and missed their feet, so I ran up to them and started yelling. One student grabbed the rake from me and broke it in half. That was the end of the haunted house for me.

  Even when Eric and his friends were smoking up outside of school, I didn’t get involved. I was afraid to experiment with drugs because my mother threatened bodily harm if she ever found out that I had. My mother would often say, “There’s one easy way to throw your life down the toilet: smoking pot. You better never come home stoned.” I kept this promise to her, but with friends like Eric it was especially hard. The first time Eric smoked weed, which was about a week after he turned thirteen, it soon became the only thing he would talk about. I could never understand the big deal. The first time Eric got high he went to Stewart’s, a convenience store, made himself a sundae, and then threw some sprinkles over his shoulder. Even though Eric found the story hilarious, I was tired of him telling me, “Oh, you just have to try it.” Soon Eric began smoking marijuana almost every weekend, and during the week he would talk about how he was going to get high the following weekend.

  Eric and I had our quarrels, but Eric and Gary started to lose contact in eighth grade. Gary and Eric had known each other since the third grade, and Eric was simply tired of hanging around him. About midway through seventh grade, Gary started to hang out with other friends. Eric and I were spending endless amounts of time together, and Eric’s new friends began to exclude Gary. Eric didn’t like hanging out with Gary anymore because he claimed that Gary wa
s too fat, even though he had been friends with him for about five years. One time when I was hanging out with Eric and his new friends, Eric remarked, “Oh, good thing Gary isn’t here. Could he even fit into one of these seats?” Eric was becoming very mean.

  One time Eric tried to convince me that all girls loved to shave themselves. I almost fell for Eric’s lie, since all we would look at was Playboy, and anybody who has read Playboy and never seen a woman’s vagina in person might come to that conclusion. Another time, when Eric and I were talking to a group of girls, one of the girls announced that her friend hadn’t yet had her period. Eric then told those girls, “Well, Luke hasn’t gotten his period yet either.” Another time our friend Al put gum in my hair as a practical joke. I couldn’t get it out and had to go to a nearby hair salon to have it removed.

  Since I was upset at Eric and his other friends for teasing me, Dan and I became close that year. Dan also liked to play practical jokes, but not on me. Dan and I used to go to the shopping mall and buy fart candy and stink bombs. One time Dan set off a stink bomb in study hall. He would give the fart candy to his friends but he was careless once and left some fart candy on his kitchen table. Dan’s grandmother thought it was her pill and swallowed it. It was a practical joke gone totally wrong. Most sixty-year-old women have enough gas without the aid of fart candy, and a pill that makes people fart is the last possible thing Dan’s grandmother needed.

  Dan and I also liked to prank people. Playing pranks was one of my favorite pastimes, and somehow my friends and I were clever enough to outsmart *69 and caller ID. Dan would usually pretend that he was this boy named Dwight, whom Dan hated, and would tell everybody that he was having a party at his house over the weekend. Some people weren’t fooled and knew it was Dan, while others fell for it and came up with excuses as to why they couldn’t attend. They must not have liked Dwight either.