yourself a fair God? Really? If you’re fair, then why would you take him, but you leave Mengele out there? How is that fair? Why would you do this to me? WHY?
“It’s the hand I’m dealt? The cards I get to play? Oh, that’s just great. Are you God or some blackjack dealer? I mean, Jesus Christ! How could you say . . . Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there. You look great. No. I didn’t recognize you with your arms down. You look great. Went into business with the old man, huh . . . ? Well, maybe I wanted to do that too.
“You know what? I will never believe in you. How can I? Look what you’ve done to me. I will have other gods before you. There should be an Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not be a schmucky god . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I turn to leave, but I can’t . . . “Would you do me one favor, please? When you see him, would you tell him that I passed the chemistry test?”
Getting back to school was so hard because I had this boulder to take with me everyplace. But then I developed something else. The best way I can describe it is by what I called it. I called it the “otherness” because that’s how I felt. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t there. I was in an other place. A place where you look, but you don’t really see, a place where you hear but you don’t really listen. It was “the otherness” of it all.
I pushed the boulder up the hallway in school. Friends flying by me having a great old time. Some of them staring at that stupid black mourning ribbon I was wearing. I looked like I had won a contest for making the very worst pie. People either avoided me, or they looked at me in a strange way.
I thought I knew what they were thinking: “There’s the kid whose father died in a FUCKING BOWLING ALLEY!” I would feel angry at Dad, embarrassed, because he died there. This isn’t how it should be. You should die in bed with all your family around you, smiling at each of your loved ones, telling them you love them, and that it’s okay. You’re ready, and not afraid, and don’t be sad, didn’t we have a great life? And with them almost rooting you on to the next place, you leave this earth—that’s how it should be, not dying on the floor of a bowling alley surrounded by people wearing rented, multicolored shoes. I was seething . . . at my life, and that I felt that way.
And then I’d see The Girl with The New Boyfriend. Blond-haired, blue-eyed football player, Impala-driving, Nazi bastard. And I’d get confused. I’d get so confused sometimes. I didn’t know what I felt worse about, the fact that my father was gone or that I didn’t get The Girl. I’d feel so guilty. I’d feel so torn apart. I mean, who was I grieving for? Was I grieving for him, or was I grieving for me?
Basketball tryouts. The sign was posted in the hallway. I wanted to be on the varsity basketball team. That was the glamour team. The whole town would come out for the Friday night games. I played three years of varsity baseball in high school and the only people who came to the games were the players. I had made
junior
varsity basketball the year before, but I had to make the varsity team because my brother Rip had been on the varsity, and I wanted to do whatever he did because I thought he was the coolest (except for the kicking leg). I also had to do something just to get out of the house.
It was probably too soon for me because the first day of tryouts, somebody threw me the ball, and it bounced right past me. I just couldn’t see it. I would dribble the ball off my foot because I was in some other place. The otherness was blinding me. The ball kept going places I didn’t want it to go. I couldn’t guard anybody. I couldn’t keep up because I had this boulder to take with me everyplace I went. Three days of trying out for the team, total disaster, total. Embarrassing play.
After the third day of this, the coach, Gene Farry, called me into his office after practice, I thought to cut me. Instead, he
“It’s the hand I’m dealt? The cards I get to play? Oh, that’s just great. Are you God or some blackjack dealer? I mean, Jesus Christ! How could you say . . . Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there. You look great. No. I didn’t recognize you with your arms down. You look great. Went into business with the old man, huh . . . ? Well, maybe I wanted to do that too.
“You know what? I will never believe in you. How can I? Look what you’ve done to me. I will have other gods before you. There should be an Eleventh Commandment. Thou shalt not be a schmucky god . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I turn to leave, but I can’t . . . “Would you do me one favor, please? When you see him, would you tell him that I passed the chemistry test?”
Getting back to school was so hard because I had this boulder to take with me everyplace. But then I developed something else. The best way I can describe it is by what I called it. I called it the “otherness” because that’s how I felt. I wasn’t here. I wasn’t there. I was in an other place. A place where you look, but you don’t really see, a place where you hear but you don’t really listen. It was “the otherness” of it all.
I pushed the boulder up the hallway in school. Friends flying by me having a great old time. Some of them staring at that stupid black mourning ribbon I was wearing. I looked like I had won a contest for making the very worst pie. People either avoided me, or they looked at me in a strange way.
I thought I knew what they were thinking: “There’s the kid whose father died in a FUCKING BOWLING ALLEY!” I would feel angry at Dad, embarrassed, because he died there. This isn’t how it should be. You should die in bed with all your family around you, smiling at each of your loved ones, telling them you love them, and that it’s okay. You’re ready, and not afraid, and don’t be sad, didn’t we have a great life? And with them almost rooting you on to the next place, you leave this earth—that’s how it should be, not dying on the floor of a bowling alley surrounded by people wearing rented, multicolored shoes. I was seething . . . at my life, and that I felt that way.
And then I’d see The Girl with The New Boyfriend. Blond-haired, blue-eyed football player, Impala-driving, Nazi bastard. And I’d get confused. I’d get so confused sometimes. I didn’t know what I felt worse about, the fact that my father was gone or that I didn’t get The Girl. I’d feel so guilty. I’d feel so torn apart. I mean, who was I grieving for? Was I grieving for him, or was I grieving for me?
Basketball tryouts. The sign was posted in the hallway. I wanted to be on the varsity basketball team. That was the glamour team. The whole town would come out for the Friday night games. I played three years of varsity baseball in high school and the only people who came to the games were the players. I had made
junior
varsity basketball the year before, but I had to make the varsity team because my brother Rip had been on the varsity, and I wanted to do whatever he did because I thought he was the coolest (except for the kicking leg). I also had to do something just to get out of the house.
It was probably too soon for me because the first day of tryouts, somebody threw me the ball, and it bounced right past me. I just couldn’t see it. I would dribble the ball off my foot because I was in some other place. The otherness was blinding me. The ball kept going places I didn’t want it to go. I couldn’t guard anybody. I couldn’t keep up because I had this boulder to take with me everyplace I went. Three days of trying out for the team, total disaster, total. Embarrassing play.
After the third day of this, the coach, Gene Farry, called me into his office after practice, I thought to cut me. Instead, he
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