the hairier chest, the bigger biceps. In the clubhouse, Rick gets wasted on whiskey and soda and expounds on intra-abdominal pressure and its effects on hemorrhoids. The kind of practical medical advice he’s expected to give the old man when he visits. After three stiff drinks, the ride back to the gated community is a pleasant blur. As they enter, Dad waves to the Haitian guy and Rick waves, too.
Contemplating the cacti and the shiny parked Mercedes and Chryslers within the complex, Rick thinks of his mom living alone in an overheated apartment building next to a Dunkin’ Donuts. She doesn’t drive anymore and uses a laundry cart as a walker on her way to the supermarket. She eats a lot of donuts, doesn’t have cable. Rick makes a point of visiting her once a month to partake of her lousy cooking.
Rick’s parents of today are nothing like the parents Rick knew growing up in Bergen County. That mom and dad of childhood past were not white-haired and feeble but volcanic and stubborn. They were spirited, hard-drinking people who prosecuted arguments with religious fervor, screaming and yelling and slamming doors so hard the little house shook. The place itself was just a kennel for mad dogs and Rick made a run for it as soon as he could get a driver’s permit.
He drove away to college and never came back. Years later, when he feels confused, he returns and lets the toxic fumes of his childhood osmotically infect his memory. Memories are known quantities, like old friends, familiar. He thinks to himself, yes, pain. But interesting pain. And mine. The one thing I really, really own.
When Rick was small, boys from down the street would come by and say, “Can Rick come out and play?” When they got him alone they would punch him in the head or kick him in the balls. When he’d complain to this mother, she’d say, “Tell your father.” When he told his father, the old man would lecture him to go back and hit them first before they could do their damage. One day, as he was being taunted, Rick jabbed a fist into the nose of one of the “bad boys.” While the kid cried and bled all over his jersey, an older brother slapped Rick in the face until he fell to the ground, then kicked his ribs and made him eat dirt.
In Rick’s old neighborhood, when it snowed, the plowed drifts by the side of the road turned gray within hours. In the spring the beetle-gnawed trees lining the streets would not bud and leggy weeds infected the lawns. No one cleaned up the dog shit. With its splintery telephone poles and patched asphalt, the neighborhood discouraged happy thoughts. Rick’s crappy little house with its torn window screens and blistered green trim was like a set in a movie about disadvantaged people.
The only respite was the sky blue ranch house across the street. The cheerful tint would buoy Rick up. It said to him, “Happy people exist, they live across the street in that blue house.” In fact, the people who lived in that house were Catholics and before Rick was five he had made the association between the sky blue of the house and the Vatican. He knew that inside that house, the air didn’t stink of canned air freshener and Winstons the way his mom’s did. He knew that their furniture was new and unbroken. He knew the parents were usually in good humor, always busy. And the little girl who lived there, Louise, was very appealing. Like her folks, she was always smiling. She had a scrubbed, clean look and she wore fresh clothes every single day.
Until Rick was six, before his neighborhood pals began to beat his ass regularly, Louise was his only playmate and the two children spent hours tripping around her neat patch of lawn or exploring the ancient railroad tracks that ran across a field behind the subdivision. They were equals, she and he, colleagues in their nascent world of lost teeth and scraped knees. Rick knew she was smart because she could tie her shoes months before he could. Rick was very happy when he was
Contemplating the cacti and the shiny parked Mercedes and Chryslers within the complex, Rick thinks of his mom living alone in an overheated apartment building next to a Dunkin’ Donuts. She doesn’t drive anymore and uses a laundry cart as a walker on her way to the supermarket. She eats a lot of donuts, doesn’t have cable. Rick makes a point of visiting her once a month to partake of her lousy cooking.
Rick’s parents of today are nothing like the parents Rick knew growing up in Bergen County. That mom and dad of childhood past were not white-haired and feeble but volcanic and stubborn. They were spirited, hard-drinking people who prosecuted arguments with religious fervor, screaming and yelling and slamming doors so hard the little house shook. The place itself was just a kennel for mad dogs and Rick made a run for it as soon as he could get a driver’s permit.
He drove away to college and never came back. Years later, when he feels confused, he returns and lets the toxic fumes of his childhood osmotically infect his memory. Memories are known quantities, like old friends, familiar. He thinks to himself, yes, pain. But interesting pain. And mine. The one thing I really, really own.
When Rick was small, boys from down the street would come by and say, “Can Rick come out and play?” When they got him alone they would punch him in the head or kick him in the balls. When he’d complain to this mother, she’d say, “Tell your father.” When he told his father, the old man would lecture him to go back and hit them first before they could do their damage. One day, as he was being taunted, Rick jabbed a fist into the nose of one of the “bad boys.” While the kid cried and bled all over his jersey, an older brother slapped Rick in the face until he fell to the ground, then kicked his ribs and made him eat dirt.
In Rick’s old neighborhood, when it snowed, the plowed drifts by the side of the road turned gray within hours. In the spring the beetle-gnawed trees lining the streets would not bud and leggy weeds infected the lawns. No one cleaned up the dog shit. With its splintery telephone poles and patched asphalt, the neighborhood discouraged happy thoughts. Rick’s crappy little house with its torn window screens and blistered green trim was like a set in a movie about disadvantaged people.
The only respite was the sky blue ranch house across the street. The cheerful tint would buoy Rick up. It said to him, “Happy people exist, they live across the street in that blue house.” In fact, the people who lived in that house were Catholics and before Rick was five he had made the association between the sky blue of the house and the Vatican. He knew that inside that house, the air didn’t stink of canned air freshener and Winstons the way his mom’s did. He knew that their furniture was new and unbroken. He knew the parents were usually in good humor, always busy. And the little girl who lived there, Louise, was very appealing. Like her folks, she was always smiling. She had a scrubbed, clean look and she wore fresh clothes every single day.
Until Rick was six, before his neighborhood pals began to beat his ass regularly, Louise was his only playmate and the two children spent hours tripping around her neat patch of lawn or exploring the ancient railroad tracks that ran across a field behind the subdivision. They were equals, she and he, colleagues in their nascent world of lost teeth and scraped knees. Rick knew she was smart because she could tie her shoes months before he could. Rick was very happy when he was
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