Eight Finger eddie

MY RISE TO RELATIVE OBSCURITY - PART 1

EIGHT FINGER EDDIE
My Rise to Relative Obscurity
1924 - 1972


"Where do you think you're going?" Myrlene asks, as I head for the door.
"Home."
"Are you crazy? You can't go out there tonight. Haven't you been hearing what the radio's been reporting? This is the coldest night ever recorded in New England. You'll be turned into an ice statue before you reach your house."
"I live only three doors away; I'll make it all right."
"No, you never will. You'll just have to sleep here tonight."
"Look, I'm a Boy Scout, an honor student in school and I go to church every Sunday, and I'm going home. Good night."
I open the door Ð WHOOSH! - and shut it immediately, my hand almost frozen to the doorknob. There's a blinding blizzard out there.
"You see, smarty, just like I told you: no human being can possibly go out tonight. Come upstairs, and I'll show you where you're going to sleep."
I follow Myrlene upstairs and into a room.
"This is your bed for tonight." Myrlene indicates the double bed in the room.
I go in, sit on the bed and wait for Myrlene to leave, but, smiling down at me, she remains standing at the door. Moments pass before I dare ask, "And where are you going to sleep?"
"On this bed; it's large enough for two."
"Impossible! I'm a Boy Scout, an honor student in school and I go to church every Sunday. I can never allow myself to sleep in the same bed with you.Ó
"But, Eddie, there's nowhere else in this house where you can sleep. My mother is sleeping in the only other bed."
"Why don't you sleep with her?"
"Her bed is too small."
"Then why can't I sleep on the couch downstairs?"
"On a night as cold as this, my mother and I have to share every available blanket. What's wrong with you, Eddie? You're not shy, are you?"
I'm unable to raise my eyes to her.
"Oh, you are shy. In that case, I'll undress in the bathroom, behind that door, while you undress here. As soon as you're snug in bed, you call me."
Myrlene leaves, and I quickly undress and slip into bed. But I don't call her, hoping she'll forget about me, or that the morning will arrive to save me. The door opens and Myrlene stomps into the room.
"Are you so shy you canÕt to call me?" she says angrily, pulling back the bedcovers.
"Wait!" I warn, holding up my hand to stop her. ÒI'm a Boy Scout, an honor student in school and I go to church every Sunday, so I think it's best that you sleep on that side of the bed and I on this."
"Well, all right, if that's what you want.Ó
After lying for a few moments, Myrlene asks," Eddie, are you awake?"
"Uh-huh.Ó
"I'm freezing, aren't you?"
"Ye-yeah?"
"Eddie, I have an idea: if we both move a bit closer to the center of the bed, we'll be warmer."
"No! I'm a Boy Scout, an honor student in school and I go to church every Sunday."
"But we must do something, Eddie, or we won't be able to sleep a wink. Please be sensible.Ó
We move closer to the center of the bed. We donÕt lie there long before Myrlene again speaks out.
"Eddie, I'm still cold. I have another idea: if we both move smack into the center of the bed so that our bodies touch . . ."
"Never! I've told you already that I'm a Boy Scout, an honor . . ."
"Oh, Eddie, you've never been a Boy Scout - you can't even tie your shoelaces properly - and you've never been an honor student and youÕve never even been in a church. Look, my last suggestion was good, wasn't it? We were warmer when we moved closer to the center of the bed, weren't we? So why not do as I say now?"
We move to the center of the bed and allow our bodies to touch. Myrlene snuggles closer to me and lips approach my ear.
"Um, Eddie," she sighs. "And now I want you to put your hand where I pee."
In the morning, I find half my right hand frozen in the toilet bowl.
.
1924 - 1930
All is darkness. Gradually small spots of light appear in the darkness. The spots of light, becoming enlarged, increase in number. An indistinct white mass gradually emerges from the darkness and moves about, becoming brighter and more clearly defined. Black spots flutter upon the white form. A sound issues from it, a familiar sound, a sound associated with sucking - and with Mama. The white form moving about is Mama!
{I must have seen prior to this, but this was the first time I realized that I was seeing. My mind later pieced together that IÕd been sitting on the floor and watching my mother in a white dress as she walked about in an adjoining room. The fluttering dark spots upon her dress were occasioned by the shadows of the leaves interrupting the flow of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window.}
IÕm in PapaÕs arms as he and Mama stand with a group of people around a mat on the floor. A barebacked man pushes his way through the crowd and stands on the mat. Another barebacked man joins him on the mat. The people standing make a sound that makes me cry. Papa wants me to stop crying, but I canÕt stop, and he hands me to Mama. She carries me home and leaves me with the nurse who watches over baby George.
{I know how old I was at the time because my brother George was born a year and eleven months after me. My mind later pieced together that my parents were about to watch my motherÕs brother wrestle when some vibration in the atmosphere of the arena made me cry. I have no memory of Uncle George because he died just this time, but I do remember playing with the cups and belts he had won.}
Mama and Papa withdraw from the room, leaving me alone. I walk up and down the room contentedly. Suddenly, I see a dark form moving on the wall, and I scream. Mama and Papa rush in. Mama, behind me, inspects my diaper. She tells Papa happily that, yes, there is caca in my diaper.
{The sight of my shadow on the wall had literally scared the shit out of me.}
Mama puts a toy soldier in my hand while IÕm in a surly mood, then leaves the room. I squeeze the soldier until it hurts my hand. Furious, I throw the soldier against the wall, smashing it, the pieces raining down upon the floor. Good, let Mama come and hit me now. IÕm ready to be punished and not give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Mama returns to the room and, kneeling, humbly scoops up the remains of the toy soldier. ÒWhat a bad temper my boy has today,Ó she says and leaves.
What have I done? Mama has placed her love in my hand and IÕve cast it from me. I donÕt deserve to ever be given another gift. If anything should ever be given me, I will cherish it with all my being.
I awaken from a pleasant afternoon dream. In the dream, I once again had the lost book of trains IÕd been so fond of. I like to look at locomotives more than I do airplanes or boats.
Mama comes home from shopping. She hands me a packet. I reach in and pull out the train book I had been dreaming of. I am very happy to have it once again.
But how had Mama known that I wanted that book? I donÕt remember saying anything to her about that. And how was it that she had bought the book at the very time that I had been dreaming of having it again? Does Mama know my dreams? Or do my dreams see what Mama is doing? Do Mama and I have an unusual way of knowing each other?
From the back seat of the car, I look fondly at the back of PapaÕs head as he drives. He has bought a gift for Mama. I look forward to seeing the happiness on MamaÕs face when she gets PapaÕs gift. I want so much to lean forward and put my arms around PapaÕs head and hug it, but I donÕt dare.
Why doesnÕt Papa buy gifts for Mama more often? When I am big I will buy presents for her every day.
I stare at the nothingness between baby IsabelÕs legs as she lies on her back in her bed. What has happened to her thing? Where has it gone? Has it fallen off? How will she do peepee without it?
Mama sits on the floor to teach George and me how to draw. She lifts one knee from the floor, and I see that she, like baby Isabel, also has nothing between her legs, except that her nothing is covered with dark hair.
I walk into the bathroom and surprise Papa with his pants down. IÕm happy to see that he has something between his legs. But his something is big and dark and covered with veins, unlike my nice little pink one.
It seems that the ones with something between their legs wear pants, while those with nothing wear dresses.
Papa drives slowly along the road behind the beach. A man is pulling off his shirt beside a parked car, and to see his body covered with hair startles me. Why has such ugliness happened to him? I look at my smooth hairless arms and vow that I will never allow hair to appear on them.
I look down at George contemptuously, wondering how he can permit such a shameful thing to be done to him. I want to kick and punch him out of his docility. But I know that if I make so much as a menacing move toward him, heÕll cry out as though IÕve hit him, and Mama will come running to hit me.
Mama is so proud of GeorgeÕs lovely curls, praising them day and night and even putting ribbons on his head. That is bad enough but when she puts a girlÕs dress on him so that what he wears matches the ribbons on his head that is criminal. And naive George hasnÕt made the slightest protest. ThatÕs why I want to wake him up by kicking him. If Mama should ever put a dress on me, IÕd tear it off, drop it on dogshit and stamp on it.
Papa walks by me with a boy I donÕt know, and I return to my drawing. Mama screams, frightening me. I go to the kitchen to see what is happening. Mama is crying and cursing Papa and pointing at the boyÕs head. Now, I see that the boy is George without his curls. Papa must have taken him to a barber. Mama continues to shout at Papa, using words IÕve not heard before. I wish Papa would tell her to be quiet, but all he does is mutter something under his breath and leave the house to go for a drive. IÕm sure that for days and days MamaÕs going to cry and curse every time she sees GeorgeÕs head.
IÕm awakened from my afternoon nap by MamaÕs shouting at a lady visitor. How can Mama do this? DoesnÕt she care that her words hurt the womanÕs feelings? DoesnÕt she see how difficult she is making it for the woman to like her? Why canÕt she be like Papa who always talks pleasantly to people? It makes me feel so good when I hear Papa exchanging Merry Christmases and Happy New Years with his friends.
Papa doesnÕt shout, but he is often unjust to me. This evening, Mama gathered up all the drawings George and I have made and handed them to him. He looked through one pile, then the other and asked, ÒWhose are these?Ó ÔÔThose are GeorgeÕs,Ó Mama told him.
I waited to hear Papa praise my work, but he handed the drawings back to Mama and said, ÒI like GeorgeÕs drawings best.Ó
I couldnÕt believe what I heard. Was Papa blind? How could he not see how superior my drawings were to GeorgeÕs mere scribbles? How could George, two years younger than me, possibly draw better than me? Papa was being deliberately unfair. Or was he teaching me how to bear injustice?
ÒLetÕs not look to the older one to amount to much,Ó Papa once told Mama while I was sitting beside him in the car. ÒLetÕs place all our hopes on George.Ó
I vowed then to surpass George in everything we should ever do. Let Papa build his sandcastles on the seashore; I would be the angry wave that crashes down to demolishes all that he builds.
Perhaps Papa dislikes me because I always tell him when heÕs made a wrong turn when weÕre driving somewhere.
ÒListen to Eddie; he never forgets the way,Ó Mama will say from the back seat.
In the back seat of the car with George beside me, I wait to see Papa disappear from view. As soon as heÕs gone, I strike out at George and knock off his eyeglasses. He cries even before IÕve really hit him hard. Now, I begin to punch and kick him, and wrestle him to the floor of the car.
Why doesnÕt he fight back? Why doesnÕt he try to use all his strength to resist me? Why doesnÕt he make an effort to see instead of relying on those glasses he wears?
I beat George until I see Papa coming. Quickly, I wipe away his tears, put his glasses back on and speak nicely to him, hoping to make him forget what IÕve done to him. But heÕs also seen Papa coming, and heÕs not going to stop crying. As soon as Papa enters the car, George blurts out all IÕve done to him, while I cower in the back seat, waiting to be struck by PapaÕs hand. But, luckily, Papa seems too preoccupied to hear what George is trying to tell him.
1930 - 1937
Our first day in school, George and I sit next to each other in the front row. Mama has kept me at home until George is old enough to go to school with me because she doesnÕt want us to become lonely away from home.
The teacher, standing before the class, says something which George and I don't understand. The only English we know are phrases such as ÒGood morning," "Good night" or "Merry Christmas". WeÕve never played with any children other than our younger brothers and sister. Whenever weÕve gone from the house it has been in PapaÕs car. We speak only Armenian, some Turkish and understand a little Greek.
Looking over my shoulder, I see that some of the children have raised their hands. I nudge George and signal to him that he should raise his hand as I am doing.
The teacher is going from desk to desk and looking at what is on each of them. Now she looks at George's desk and frowns. She frowns, too, when she looks at mine. Pursing her lips and nodding her head, she opens our boxes and empties them onto our desks. She picks up two irregular shaped pieces and shows us how they fit together. George and I have never seen such a game.
"What shall we sing, children?" the first grade teacher asks the class sitting around her in a semi-circle. ÒDoes anyone wish to make a request? Yes, Angelo."
The children snicker, knowing what he's going to say.
" 'Silent Night'.Ó Angelo calls for his favorite song, and the children laugh to be singing ÒSilent NightÓ in the month of June.
As I sing, I feel a sudden sharp pain on my arm. Too shy to look at Patricia who sits beside me, I continue to sing. There's another sharp pain, this time on my side. Why is Patricia pinching me? I've never done anything to her, hardly even looked at her. Another pinch almost sends my voice up to a much higher note. Still afraid to look at her, I pretend to be singing. Again she pinches me. It seems she's not going to stop tormenting me. She pinches me so hard that it forces me look at her. My eyes beg her for mercy. Continuing to stare menacingly into my eyes and screwing up her face, Patricia pinches my arm.
Seeing all the books along the walls of the public library, I am encouraged to go to the woman sitting behind the counter.
"Yes, dear, may I help you?"
"Is it true I can take books home with me?"
"Yes, you may take any two books for two weeks. If you'll tell me your name, I'll prepare a borrower's card for you."
I can't believe my luck. What a wonderful discovery! Now I'll have something to do during my summer vacation when I'm not running to department stores to return things that Mama has bought or to pay the monthly bills. "Your mother trusts a little boy like you with all this money!" the cashiers often say.
"You not fool-it me!" Mama shouts at the young girl waiting on her in the large department store. "Dis not silk!"
"The label says it is."
"Label-bable, I don' believe-it label. I not pay-it dis price. How much you take-it?" Mama thinks she's bargaining in Istanbul.
"The price is marked on the item, madam."
"Shut up. I tol-it you I not pay-it dis price.Ó
I feel sorry for the girl. Even I know that sheÕs only a worker here. With my eyes alone, I try to convey to the girl that IÕm sympathizing with her.
"So, wat is-it best price?"
"I'll call the manger."
"Yes, call-it manager."
The girl doesn't have to call the manager because he has already arrived.
"What seems to be the problem, madam?"
"I not pay-it dis price dis material. Dis not silk. Look, feel."
"It feels like silk to me."
"No, don' try cheat-it poor mother."
All activity in the store has stopped, as the shoppers gather closer to see what is going on.
"All right, madam, pay what you wish," the manager tells Mama.
Mama will probably ask me to return this item to the store in a day or two.
"The Lord is my shepherd . . ." the second grade teacher reads.
I look with disgust at the children bowing their heads.
" . . . down in green pastures . . ."
Why do they lower their heads so humbly?
" . . . the still waters . . ."
I would never bow my head to anyone.
" . . . though I walk through . . ."
"Hey, Ralph, Annie, Jack," I whisper to the children closest to me. "Look out the window. It's snowing!"
" . . . fear no evil . . ."
"Do you know what snowing is? It's God shitting on the world!"
" . . .comfort me . . ."
"And God's shit is white because he's so pure."
" . . .anointed my head with . . ."
"And when it rains, we know what God is doing, donÕt we."
"Who's talking back there?" the teacher asks, looking up from her book. ÒIs that you again, Edward? I will see you after school."
ÒCome, Eddie, weÕre going out for a picnic,Ó Mama says.
ÒI donÕt want to go.ÕÕ
ÒYou want to stay home alone?Ó
ÒYes.Ó
I like to be alone and fantasize that I am a hero of one kind or another: a fireman, a cowboy, a leader of a gang who fight against evildoers. My gang is made up of the children that I often see passing by my window. I donÕt know many of them, but IÕve imagined a life for some of them. Of course, they all admire me very much. If I should become wounded in battle, all the boys will be very worried and crowd around the girls bending over me to treat my wound. And when I rise to my feet finally everyone cheers.
Or I imagine I'm the owner of the newest and largest movie house in town. It presents three feature films each day, has private viewing booths and charges the very lowest entrance price. The people are so grateful to have such a theater, that when they see my car coming they line the streets and cheer me as IÕm driven past.
"What's in the bag?" asks the only other boy in the playground.
"Marbles."
"Can I have a look?"
I open the top of the bag to allow him to look in.
"Hey, you got some real beauties, you know it.Ó
Hearing him praise my collection makes me feel proud..
"Let me hold the bag so I can see better."
I hand the bag to the boy. He looks into it, juggles the marbles about, takes a deep breath and begins to run, carrying my bag of marbles with him. Surely, he will turn back and return the marbles to me. But he doesn't seem to be coming back. He couldn't possibly be running away with the marbles, could he? But whatÕs to stop him, except his knowing that the marbles belong to me and that I will be very unhappy to lose them? I never imagined that anyone could do what that boy is doing.
Now, if I want my marbles back, I'll have to chase the boy, catch him, knock him to the ground and wrest the bag out of his hands. But, then, I will be the aggressor, while he will be the defender of the bag of marbles.
Myrlene and I go about town to see what's playing at all the movie theaters. Seeing the poster, I imagine what the movie is going to be, but when I see the it it's never as good as what I had thought it would be..
"Wanna bite, kids?" An old man, wearing dirty clothes, leans out of a doorway and holds out an apple.
"Run, Eddie!" Myrlene shouts, dashing away.
I run to catch up with her, and we go some distance before stopping.
"Why did you say to run, Myrlene?"
"Because that was the kind of bad man that my mother has told me to run away from.Ó
"Why?"
"Because they do terrible things to children when they catch them."
"What kind of terrible things?"
"Whatever you can think of.Ó
Watching a very funny movie Laurel and Hardy movie, I become aware of a weight on my thigh. The hand of the man sitting beside me is lying on my leg. I wait for him to remove it, but his hand inches toward the center of my lap instead. ItÕs impossible for me to pay attention to the movie now. His fingers begin to undo the buttons of my pants. Without turning my head, I glance at the man. HeÕs watching the movie and laughing quietly. He doesnÕt seem to be aware of what his hand is doing. How insensitive older people are. His fingers are reaching into my pants and touching my underwear. Now, they are trying to touch my thing! Why do they want to touch that dirty thing I pee with?
I move in my seat as far from the man as possible his hand falls into the space I have made. Quickly, I button my pants and try to become interested again in the movie. But his hand is on me once more! And, again, itÕs working its way toward my fly. I fold my hands together in my lap to block his hand, but his fingers try to creep under them.
I become brave enough to pick up his hand and drop it into his lap. There, now he knows that I don't want him to touch me.
But, again, his hand is on me! What's wrong with this man? He knows I don't want him to touch me, yet he continues to do so. He doesn't care at all about what I want.
The movie has ended. Many people are leaving. Good. I get up to look for a seat away from this man and find a nice safe place between two fat ladies eating popcorn.
I am the good guy, riding my horse.
I am the bad guy, hiding in wait.
I am the good guy, halting and raising my hand over my eyes to look into the distance.
I am the bad guy about to strike.
I am the good guy . . .
"Look out!" shout the children, warning the good guy.
I want to laugh when I see that my audience is taking the characters IÕm portraying to be real, but I suppress my laughter so they will continue to believe in these characters. The audience is made up of my brothers George, Albert, Arthur and my sister Isabel, each of whom pay five cents every evening to watch me perform at The Roundup Theater located in my bedroom. Neighborhood children also come to watch the shows. I usually make up a comedy, a serial and a feature each evening and end by showing one reel of film. The audience prefers to watch me perform rather than watch a film.
The Roundup Theater came to be when my parents realized that the movie projector I had been begging them to buy me could actually be a godsend to them. Every evening, after feeding all the children except the latest baby, they would give each child five cents to give to me to enter my theater, then they would sit back and have a quiet dinner.
ÒLeave-it him Ôlone,Ó Mama calls out to the actress on the screen who is interested in a married man. ÒYou know he has-it good wife his home.Ó
I shrink in my seat, no longer proud to be at the movies with Mama while George has to stay at home with Papa.
ÒDonÕ listen-it her,Ó Mama advises the husband on the screen. ÒLeave-it dat cheap bum. Go home your wife.Ó
Members of the audience shush Mama.
ÒOh, poo, I spit your painted face ugly like night is long.Ó
ÒQuiet for GodÕs sake, lady,Ó a man calls out.
ÒMama, be quiet. YouÕre disturbing people.Ó
She glances at me blankly, then looks back at the screen.
ÒYou, ugly as night is long.Ó
People in the audience move away from us.
I remember waking up in the back seat of PapaÕs car one afternoon when I was too young to go to school and not finding him there. Looking out the window, I saw him talking with a young woman who was watching over children in the playground. When I saw Papa reach out to push back hair from the girlÕs eyes I felt a slight twinge within me.
ÒOh, good, cry, dirty woman. I so happy you sad,Ó Mama exults when the vampÕs fails to lure the husband.
On the screen, a man in a ramshackle house shoots a rifle out the window at the police, while a woman reloads a second rifle and hands it to him. The man is hit, but only stunned. The woman looks at his wound and, backing from him, she tears off the sleeve of her blouse to reveal a fleshy upper arm. The sight of that arm makes me want the couple to overcome the police so IÕll be able to see what they will do when they are left alone.
Sadly, they are defeated by the police.
Having a motion picture projector and knowing that a film will show the same scenes each time it is played, I remain in the theater to watch the film again, hoping against hope that the man and the woman will fend off the police this time.
"I saw Mrs. Mardikian this afternoon, and she told me that she met you in the street a few days ago," Mama tells me in Armenian.
"If I'd seen her, I wouldÕve crossed the street to avoid her," I say in English. Although my parents speak to me in Armenian, I always speak to them in English. Since being sent to school with barely any knowledge, IÕve come to dislike almost everything Armenian except my motherÕs cooking. "I don't like to run into grownups. I look at their feet until they let me go off."
"Mrs. Mardikian thinks you are somewhat slow in the mind."
"She asked me where I was going, and I told her that I wasnÕt going anywhere. 'How is your father?' she asked me next. ÔI donÕt know, Õ I answered. ÔAnd your mother, how is she?Õ ÔI donÕt know.Õ ÔIs your mother at home now?Õ ÔI donÕt know.Õ Ó
"Good boy, don't tell them anything. They just want to stick their noses in our business. Eddie, always tell your friends that we are poor. And never take anything that their parents try to give you.Ó
Annie is dead, hit by a car. Annie, who used to whisper the correct answers in arithmetic to me; Annie who would huddle against the school during recess on cold days, her thin arms wrapped around her trembling body, is dead. How often IÕd wanted to go and put my arms around her to make her warm, but didnÕt dare to. She looked so beautiful and peaceful at the funeral parlor.
Maybe it would be nice to die and be with Annie and with God in heaven where itÕs always sunny and never dark. Then, all my friends will feel sorry for me. But for how long?
I shrink when I see Mama walk into the classroom on parents' visiting day. I'm ashamed of the way she looks. SheÕs not dressed smartly and pretty like the mothers of the other children.
"Oh, Eddie, is that your mother?" asks Mildred.
"Yes," I answer weakly, unhappy that Mildred has guessed.
I donÕt like to look at Mama do I like to see my own face with its sallow complexion and dark circles under the eyes. I want to have round rosy cheeks like most of the other boys.
Having been kept me after school for an hour, I walk alone through the schoolyard and suddenly see five or six boys from St. MaryÕs school pass on the sidewalk before me. I stand still, hoping that they wonÕt notice me. But they do and, whooping wildly, they charge up to me and push me back against a wire fence.
"We gotcha, you rat.Ó
"We're gonna give you two black eyes, bastad.Ó
"And we're gonna bash in your nose.Ó
"Then we'll knock out all your teeth.Ó
I think of something I could do and instantly reject it, afraid that if I do it, theyÕll really give it to me.
ÒAfter that weÕre gonna rub your face in dog shit.Ó
Screwing up their faces and raising their fists, they move in on me.
Seeing that I have little to lose, I decide to do what IÕd thought of doing.
"Stop!Õ I command, holding up my right hand before their eyes. ÒIf I touch you with this hand, you die!Ó
They stop and stare at my hand.
ÒYeow!Ó they screech and dash away.
I'm amazed. They actually believed they would die if I touched them with this hand. They must have wanted to believe it. As I walk home, I regard my hand with a new fondness.
Not bad, I think, not bad at all.
While weÕre having breakfast, the son of one of PapaÕs tenants asks Papa to step outside. Soon, we hear crashing sounds coming from the back porch. I put my head out the back door to see what is happening. The man is hitting Papa again and again. I shut the door quickly.
ÒMama, heÕs beating Papa!Ó
"Help! He's killing my husband! Help!"
I donÕt know what to do. IÕve never been so afraid.
Mama opens a windows and screams, ÒSomebody, help!"
"Open up! Open the door!" a manÕs voice orders
"No! No!" Mama shrieks. "He wants to come in and kill the children and me."
"Open the door! Police.Ó
ÒDon believe him,Ó Mama shouts.
There is a very loud thump on the door. The wood begins to crack. Two more thumps and the tip of an axe blade appears through the crack.
Mama, holding her head with both her hands, screams.
"Stand back in there!"
The door falls apart. A number of men come in with Papa, his face swollen and bloody.
"Oh, my husband, what has he done to you? Why, why, why?"
"He'll be all right, Mrs. Been beat up bad is all.Ó
"Where is man beat-it mine husband?"
"Don't worry, heÕs not going to bother you again. We're holding him and heÕll probably be sent to the mental hospital."
George, Albert, Arthur and Isabel all rush in together, carrying the shopping bags I've provided them with.
"Look, Eddie," they say, emptying their bags.
"You did real good," I say, inspecting the loot on the floor. "Did any of you have any trouble?"
"No, we did like you told us. We each went to a different store. The films were lying on top of the counters in the toy sections, like you said. And when no one was looking we scooped the films into our bags."
"Perfect. Now what I want you to do is to tell the kids in your classrooms that there's going to be a film festival in our cellar playroom next Friday after school. Only five cents to get in."
When I started The Roundup Theater my plan was to buy a new film as soon as I had saved enough from the money I collected at the door. But when I had that amount of money I thought that if I saved twice as much, IÕd have both the film and the money. In the end, I found I could acquire the film without spending any money at all.
When Mama listens to the Saturday afternoon opera on the radio Papa has bought I go from room to room, upstairs and down, but find no escape from those dreadful sounds. But I donÕt complain, because the radio has introduced me to popular songs, to adventure dramas and to baseball games.
A new baby is coming to our house. The doctor is already in MamaÕs bedroom. I donÕt know why he always comes when a baby arrives. Maybe, to accept the baby from the stork. Usually, we donÕt see Mama for a few days after a baby has come, giving George and me a chance to fool around.
"Stop making such a racket, you two." Mama stands at our door, surprising us. Never before have we seen her on the day a baby has been born. "Do you want to kill Papa? I'm warning you, if he should die, I won't be able to support you. I'll have to put you all in an orphan home."
"Which movie are we going to?" George asks, walking along with me.
"I'm going to the Paramount; which one are you going to?"
"I'm going to the Paramount."
"The movies they show at the Paramount are too grownup for you. You should go to the Auditorium, where they show cowboy and adventure movies."
"No, I want to go to the Paramount."
"Okay, then, I'm going to the Warner."
"I think I'll go to the Warner, too."
"I thought you said you were going to the Paramount."
"But now I want to go to the Warner."
"Are you sure you want to go to the Warner?"
"Yes."
"Good, go there. I'm going to the Paramount."
"Me too, I'm going to the Paramount."
"Look," I say, stopping and looking at George with exasperation, "I don't want you always following me around. Make up your own mind for a change. Which movie are you going to?"
" I said the Paramount."
"Then go to the Paramount. I'm going to the Warner."
"I'm going where you go."
"No, you're not!"
"Mama said you should take me with you."
Mama said! Furious with him, I push George down onto his back, tear off his shoes, throw them into the bushes and run off to the Paramount.
George and I, in our beds, hear the doorbell ring downstairs and the sound of the front door being opened, then MamaÕs scream.
"Papa's dead," I tell George, and he begins to cry.
But it's too late for me to cry; Papa is gone and no amount of crying is going to bring him back. I did all my crying and praying in the afternoon while Papa was unconscious and gasping for air in the room next to mine. I prayed until I felt my head was about to burst. I could not believe that Papa was dying. I had never thought of such a terrible thing happening to us. How could our family go on without him?
But all that crying and praying had not saved Papa. Exhausted, I lie back in my bed and wonder what will happen to us.
"Aieeeh!" Startled by MamaÕs scream, I see her, rushing like a madwoman rush out of her bedroom to Papa's coffin in the living room. ÒYouÕre happy youÕve gotten away, yes. You couldn't wait to go. No more worries, no more responsibilities, for you now, yes. Going and leaving me with seven children. How do you expect me to take care of them? Oh, why did I ever marry and have children? I must have been mad. So, tell me, what I am to do now? Speak, God damn you, speak.
"And you, what kind of God are you to take him before you have taken me? I am the one who wanted always to die. So, why haven't you taken me? I curse you. You are no longer a God to me. How am I, with so little English, to manage in this country of Irishmen? Ah, what a lovely life you have given me: twelve years of washing dirty diapers and now this. Oh, thank you, thank you so much, cruel God."
Mama is so distraught that she can no longer take care of us. Our next door tenant makes all our meals.
Before leaving for school each day, I stop before the coffin and stare at Papa's face. Sometimes, it seems to move.
The Armenian priest finally brings to a close the funeral ceremony in our crowded living room. The people begin to file out. Mama takes my arm to walk out with me. As we are about to step over the threshold, she holds me back.
"Now you are the father of this family," she tells me, kissing my cheek.
Hooray! WeÕre not going to be sent to an orphanage!
Returned home from the burial, Mama and I sit at our table laden with food that the women who've stayed behind have prepared. ItÕs good to see Mama eating and drinking again, but IÕm surprised to see her laughing and joking with the women. I never thought IÕd see her happy again.
ÒFor one year, there will be no holidays, no going to the movies, no listening to the radio,Ó Mama, wearing black, tells us.
That doesnÕt bother me much because she has stored the radio in the closet behind the bureau in my bedroom, and IÕll be able to take it out at night and listen to it quietly.
Now that Papa is dead, I must be mindful of all that I do because he, along with God, can see and know everything about me.
ItÕs too bad Papa doesnÕt like baseball, because he could be at all the big league games.
ÒYou wanna ride, kid?Ó
I look up to see the milkman sitting in his wagon.
ÒWhere you goinÕ?Ó
ÒBack to school.Ó
ÒClimb up.Ó
I hop up and sit beside the milkman.
ÒWhat grade you in?Ó
ÒFifth.Ó
Suddenly, IÕm aware of the horseÕs bobbing backside before me, so close that I can touch it if I lean forward. Fascinated, I canÕt look at anything else. I remember how aroused I would become when I saw the behind of a horse standing in a barnyard when Papa would drive us through the countryside. I was usually ashamed to be seen in our car, ducking from view whenever a faster car overtook us. But when there was a horsesÕ backside to be seen IÕd want him to drive even slower or, better, to stop to allow me to have my fill of the sight of those rounded haunches, of those thighs tapering to thin ankles.
Today, IÕm having my fill as never before.
The horseÕs tail rises, revealing a black orifice. The opening spreads wide and allows brown stuff to emerge from within the horse and fall onto the street.
How lucky this milkman is to be able to sit all day behind this horse. Maybe IÕll become a milkman when I grow up.
ÒHey, Eddie, youÕre shoelace is undone,Ó Calvin informs me as we walk to school.
ÒIs it?Ó
ÒWell, aincha gonna tie it?Ó
ÒNo, weÕll be late for school.Ó
ÒShit, it only takes a minute to tie Ôem.Ó
ÒI know.Ó
ÒSo, tie Ôem.Ó
ÒI donÕt feel like it.Ó
ÒWhy not?Ó
ÒOkay, because I donÕt know how to.Ó
ÒYOU DONÓT KNOW HOW TO TIE YOUR SHOELACES!Ó As I hÕd expected, Calvin broadcasts my ineptness to the other children on their way to school. ÒSo, who ties Ôem for you?Ó
ÒMy mother. And when sheÕs not around, any friendly-looking person I see.Ó
ÒThatÕs a real shame, you know it, Eddie? How come you never learned to tie Ôem?Ó
ÒI never tried to.Ó
ÒStop, IÕm gonna show you how to do Ôem.Ó Calvin kneels, and I lean forward to pretend IÕm watching him. ÒFirst, you do like this, now like this, then like that and finished. Easy, huh?Ó
ÒYeah, thanks for showing me.Ó
ÒGood, now you do Ôem,Ó he says, undoing the laces.
ÒOh, Calvin, IÕll never learn how.Ó
ÒEddie, youÕre not gonna believe what IÕm gonna tell you,Ó Calvin says. ÒItÕs the craziest thing I ever heard of. You know that sissy Ronnie lives downstairs from me? Well, his mother - Haw-haw-haw.Ó
ÒHis mother what?Ó
ÒHis mother gives . . . No, I canÕt stop laughing.Ó
I wait patiently for Calvin to pull himself together.
ÒHis mother . . . she gives him . . . Haw-haw-haw.Ó
Calvin laughs so hard he falls back onto the lawn behind him.
ÒIs it really that funny?Ó
ÒWait till you hear. His mother, that sissyÕs mother, gives him his baths.Ó
ÒNo!Ó I exclaim, holding onto my stomach and falling down beside Calvin to laugh. I donÕt want him to find out that my mother gives me my baths.
How can she do to me what the whole world thinks is outrageous? Lucky I found out about this before anyone else did. The next time I have to take a bath, IÕm going to tell my mother that IÕm bathing myself..
ÒWhere you go?Ó my mother asks, blocking the doorway.
ÒOut to play ball,Ó I tell her, ready to push her aside if she doesnÕt get out of my way.
She pauses, looks into my eyes, then steps aside.
Now that my father is dead, I want more freedom for myself.
ÒEddie, donÕ believe they tell you in school about say-it what you believe,Ó my mother tells me. ÒThey just want-it you open your mouth so they can know-it what you think. If you meet-it government big shot, keep-it your mouth shut, smile-it and go away.Ó
"Today, I'm going to sing," I announce, standing before my sixth grade class during the entertainment portion of the Friday afternoon Club Hour.
My classmates laugh. They think I'm joking. They know me as the one who performs one-man comedies, not as a singer.
But I've finally decided to find out if my voice sounds as good in school as it does in my room. When I sing at home it seems to me that I sound far better than any of my classmates who sing in school. But IÕve not dared to sing in school for many weeks, telling myself that I can't truly hear myself sing, that the acoustics in my room may be better than those in the schoolroom.
"Come on, Eddie, stop foolin' around and tell us a story."
"No, I'm going to sing."
ÒAw, bull.Ó
"Quiet, children, and let Edward sing,Ó Mrs. Howe tells the class.
I begin to sing "A Stairway to the Stars" and my voice sounds as flawless as it does in my room. I sing with my eyes shut, and they are still shut when the song has ended.
The room is completely silent. There is no applause. I have failed.
"Do that again, Edward," I hear Mrs. Howe say.
From that moment on, I know I have become the star performer of the class.
"Well, Eddie."
"Well what, Mildred?" I ask, sitting before the class as vice-president of Club Time.
"Get up and sing."
"You sing, Mildred." I resent her expecting me to entertain.
"But you sing better than me, Eddie."
"I don't have any new songs to sing this week.Ó
"Sing some of the ones you've sung before."
"I never sing a song twice. Let someone else do something."
Although I had wished to be the best entertainer in the class, I, now that I have become the only entertainer, dislike being taken for granted by my classmates.
"If there is not going to be any entertainment, we will adjourn Club Time and finish the day with arithmetic," announces Mrs. Howe.
"Come on, Eddie, save us.Ó My classmates plead with me, but I ignore them.
"Stop begging him, children. Someone please make a motion to adjourn Club Time."
"Phooey on you, Eddie."
Having had my way, I know I'll be doing all the entertaining every Friday from now on. I love to sing for my classmates and for the high school students from upstairs who, their school day ending an hour before ours, crowd outside our classroom door on Friday afternoons to listen to me.
How I enjoy being the hero of the class.
ÒEddie, all the girls are in love with you,Ó Calvin tells me. ÒYou can have any one of them.Ó
ÒI donÕt want any one of them. I want them all.Ó

1937 - 1940
I walk dispiritedly through the corridor of my junior high school which is in another part of town than my old elementary school. My former sixth grade companions are dispersed in various rooms in this school and in other junior highs in the city. IÕm no longer the hero of my classroom; my voice has become deeper and darker, and thereÕs little hope of my becoming a singing star again. I have learned the bitter sadness of having lost the fame I had once enjoyed
As I beat George for not obeying me, I become aware that IÕm deliberately building up my rage against him. My head is hot, and my skull seems to be closing in on my brain. All the anger IÕm directing against George is actually hurting me, possibly permanently damaging my body. I stop hitting George, deciding not beat him, nor my other brothers and sisters, again.
"Eddie, someday you will marry a nice Armenian girl,Ó my mother tells me.
I resent her telling me what IÕm going to do with my life.
"I'll marry anyone I want," I say, even though I'm sure IÕm never going to marry.
"What!" she shouts. "You're going to marry some Irish bum, some English bum, some French bum, some American bum? No, you will marry a good Armenian girl who will stay with you when you're sick or having bad luck."
I recall a painting I had been very fond of. It was of Christ sitting in a chair and encircled by children, each wearing a different costume and with a different color of skin. And here is my mother contradicting all that the painting had conveyed.
"I'll marry anyone but an Armenian girl!"
"What! You donÕt even know how to wipe your ass yet, and you're telling me what you're going to do? Get out of my sight! I don't want to see your stupid face."
This is the first time my mother and I have argued.
"Eddie, get ready go cemetery," my mother says. "Today is day Papa die two years ago."
"I'm not going."
"Why you not want go?"
"I went last year, and I didn't see much point in staring at a mound of grass."
"You donÕ want remember Papa?"
"I can remember him here."
"Same you say when you stop going church: you can pray God anywhere."
"God is everywhere, not only in churches.Ó
ÒBut when woman come our house and ask-it you if you go church you tell-it her you go..Ó
ÒI was too young and shy and afraid of disappointing her. She was from a Baptist church, and you didnÕt prevent me from going, even though youÕre an Armenian Orthodox Christian.Ó
ÒIt was Christian church.Ó
ÒI liked going to church in the beginning. Hearing stories about the saints truly inspired me. And it was good to feel that everyone else there was feeling just as inspired as I was. I felt like embracing the whole congregation. But, later, when I saw them laughing behind each othersÕ backs or arguing with one another I became discouraged and continued to go to church only to hear my friend Phillip tell me what happened in that SundayÕs comics. Papa didnÕt buy newspapers, so I didnÕt get to see the Sunday papers until our tenants gave them to us on the following Friday. When I lost interest in the comics I stopped going to church. I knew that God wouldn't mind. I'd been taught that God was more forgiving than anyone could imagine, and I could imagine Him forgiving me for not going to church.Ó
"So, wat important business you have-it dis afternoon you canÕt go cemetery?"
"I want to play baseball."
"Baseball, baseball! Wat baseball do for you? Baseball put-it money your pocket, clothes your back, food your belly? No, only hole your pants. I am not rich woman I can afford-it buy pants for you every week."
"You couldÕve bought me those baseball shoes I've been begging you for with all the money youÕve lost gambling."
ÒYou shoul' be careful how you speak-it me. If you be bad on me, your children be bad on you."
"Am I bad to you?"
"Yes, very bad."
"Then, you must have been very bad to your parents."
"You shut up your mouth."
"Anyway, I'm never going to have children."
"No, you too selfish, black heart you."
.
"What does fuck mean?" I ask Calvin, even though I know heÕs going to laugh at me.
"You must know what it means; you're running around shouting it all the time."
"Yeah, but I don't know what it is."
"Boy, are you dumb."
That, I expected.
"Fuck is when a guy sticks his dong into a girl's hole."
"Do you expect me to believe that? No one would ever do that."
"How you think you got born, then?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your father had to put his thing in your mother's hole and pump away or you wouldn't be here."
"My mother and father would never have done such a dirty thing. Never."
"So, you don't even know where babies come from."
"A doctor used to go into my mother's bedroom, and when he came out thereÕd be a new baby brother or sister. Then, my mother would stay in bed for a few days. But when I asked her where babies came from she'd always tell me the stork brought them."
"The stork!" Calvin spits. "And you believed her? I suppose you still believe in Santa Claus."
"Where do babies come from, then?"
"Right out of their mother's holes."
"Out of that dirty place! No, I canÕt believe that. You're just handing me a lot of bullshit."
"Haven't you ever seen women with their bellies stickin' way out in front of them?"
"No."
"Well, that's where babies are before theyÕre born. Your mother had six kids after you, and you never once noticed her big belly? Where you been living all this time?"
"So, you want me to believe that I came out of the hole my mother pisses out of and that my father had to put his pisser into her hole before I could be born?"
"Exactly."
"But why did my father have to put his thing in my mother?"
"So he could shoot jizz into her."
"Jizz? WhatÕs that?"
"The stuff that comes out of a cock that makes babies."
"You sure are the biggest bullshit artist, Calvin."
"If you don't believe me, ask your mother."
"I will."
About to return to school after having had lunch, I decide that today is the day that I will ask my mother. Day after day for weeks, IÕve asked myself what Mama could possibly do if I should ask her. She could be disappointed with me for speaking of such things with her. I could take that. She could become very angry with me. That I could also take. She could slap me. I would be prepared for that, too. So good, I would ask her - tomorrow. But I would lose my resolve by the following morning. Today, however, I am determined.
I go downstairs, walk into the kitchen and find Mama standing on a chair to wash a window.
"Mama," I say, looking up at her.
"Yes."
"Ah, I'm going back to school."
"All right, go."
I leave the kitchen, go to the front door and stop.
You miserable coward, you've failed again. What are you afraid of? You've thought of all the things she could possibly do to you. Go back and get it over with.
I return to the kitchen.
"Mama, is it true that Papa had to put his pee-pee into your wee-wee and shake it before I could be born?"
There's not the slightest change in her expression as she looks down at me.
"Who tol'-it you that?"
"The boys at school."
"Don' play dose boys."
"But is it true what they say?"
"No is true."
"Please, Mama, don't be afraid to tell me if it's true."
"No, no is true."
I believe what Mama tells me. Like a knight bearing Mama's banner, I go to do battle with Calvin and with those who agree with him, even though some of those others don't even know Calvin. Could there be some great conspiracy in town to make a fool of me? Everyone I meet seems to agree with Calvin and no one with Mama, yet I still believe in Mama. Until I see two dogs doing what Calvin had said my father and mother had done. Later, I see kittens issuing from within a larger cat, and I know that Mama has betrayed me made a fool of me in the eyes of my playmates.
I will never trust her again.
ÒSo, people get married and then they have children, right,Ó I say to Philip.
ÒYeah, thatÕs right.Ó
ÒBut how do their bodies know theyÕre married?Ó
ÒThey donÕt.Ó
ÒSo, how come they only have babies when theyÕre married?
ÒThey donÕt. They can have babies even if theyÕre not married. Those babies are called bastards.Ó
ÒOh, that makes everything simple, doesnÕt it.Ó
"Mae West goes to the dentist to get a cavity filled," Tykie tells me. "The dentist looks in her mouth and decides to give her gas. When she's knocked out, she starts to moan and groan and squirm in her seat, saying all kinds of horny things. Soon she spreads her legs and lifts them until her skirt slides up to her hips. Seeing this, the dentist gets so horny that he fills the wrong cavity."
Tykie stops and looks at me.
"Did that story give you a bone on, Eddie?"
"What's that?"
"It's when your prick gets hard. Haven't you noticed at the movies, when the guy and the girl start kissing you have to move around in your seat?"
"No . . .oh, yeah, why is that?"
"It's because your prick gets hard when you see the actors kissing. It means youÕre ready to fuck, and youÕve got a bone on, like this." Tykie presses the front of his pants against his body.
"That's not your dong. You've got a pipe or something inside your pants."
"No, it's my prick. I'll show you. Look."
"Jesus, how did it get so big?" I ask, wondering how something so huge could possibly fit into a slim little girl. Such pain girls must experience when theyÕre fucked.
"Your prick gets big when you jerk off. Do you jerk off?"
"What's that?"
"You take your prick in your hand and pull on it. You do that until you get a thrill."
"What's a thrill?"
"One of the best feelings in life. That's why everyone loves to fuck."
"Really?"
"Sure. Now, show me your prick."
Shyly, I undo my fly and take out my tiny thing.
"Oh, you've got a nice little one." Tykie takes it between his fingers. "I wish mine were small like this again, so I wouldn't have to worry about it dipping into the water when I'm sitting on the crapper."
"If I pull on this, will it grow big like yours?"
"Sure, maybe even bigger?"
I pull on my thing almost every night and, though my thing has grown longer, I never feel a thrill. Perhaps I've been gripping it too tightly. IÕll hold it more gently and see what happens. Yes, that does feel better. ThereÕs a new sensation in my throat, a new taste in my mouth, a buildup of tension, and then the release, the thrill, my thing spurting creamy stuff onto the floor.
I run downstairs to announce the news to George and to Vartan.
"Eddie, pick dogs for tonight," my mother says, tossing the sports page on the checkerboard between Vartan and me. "I go get dressed."
"Your mother's going to the track again tonight?" asks Vartan.
"She goes almost every night." I begin to mark the names of the greyhounds I hope will be winners. "If she wins money during the week on the dogs I pick, she gives me money to go to the Braves or the Red Sox games on Sunday."
ÒYou must be doing good; youÕre going to Boston every weekend.Ó
"Once I picked eight winners out of ten races."
"How do you know which dogs to pick?"
"I know the dogs by their names, and I try to guess what they're going to do."
"Does your mother always bet on your dogs?"
"No. I used to look in her purse first thing in the morning to see how much money was in it. Then, IÕd stop at the corner store to check the race results in the newspaper to see how many of my dogs had won. And often IÕd find less money in her purse than would have been there if sheÕd bet on my dogs. And One night she took me to the track, and on the first race she bet on a tip some guy gave her instead of on the dog IÕd selected, and my dog won. She did the very same thing in the second race, betting on someoneÕs tip instead of on my winning dog. I asked her how I could go to the game on Sundays, if she didnÕt bet on my winning dogs. Now I can go to the games as long as I choose winners.Ó
"Would you like to have a new father?" my mother asks me.
"No! Never!"
Why do we need a new father? Some stranger to come into our house to tell us what to do. No, I canÕt accept that. I donÕt want to be arguing constantly with someone I donÕt know.
Okay, let her bring a new father into the family. I almost look forward to arguing with him. If he tries to tell me what to do, IÕll jump on him. "Who are you to give me orders?Ó IÕll ask. ÒYou're not a blood member of this family. You're just an outsider, a stranger who's been brought into it. So, just mind your place."
"I'm not staying in this small town after I finish school," I tell my mother. "IÕm going to live in a big city."
"What! You want to leave after I washed your diapers, wiped your ass and fed you all these years?Ó my mother says in Armenian. ÒIf I had known this the day you were born, I would have dropped you in the toilet and flushed you out of my life. Oh, why did I ever have children? With no children, I could be having good times in nightclubs and beautiful beaches. This is the thanks I get after IÕve given you the best years my life.Ó
"And now you want me to give you the best years of mine.Ó
ÒYou should remember that you can have many women in your life, but you can have only one mother.Ó
ÒYes, but at least I can choose the women I haveÓ.
ÒShut your mouth.Ó
ÒDonÕt worry, when I leave here and make a lot of money playing baseball IÕll build a nice house for you.Ó
"YouÕll never be a baseball player. YouÕre not a Mason."
"Eddie, come down," I hear my mother call.
I go downstairs and into the living room where sheÕs waiting for me with Councilman O'Leary.
"You probably know why I am here, Eddie," the Councilman says. "Arthur Kelly has just told me that, after I had given him the money to pay you and Vartan for shoveling the snow from around my house, you boys snatched the money from his hand, shoved him back into a snow bank and ran off. Is that true?"
"Yeah, it's true."
"Why did you and Vartan do that to Arthur?"
"Because he promised us a dollar each to shovel snow from your sidewalk and driveway but, after we'd finished shoveling he said youÕd given him only a dollar to share between the three of us. Vartan and I reminded him that he had promised us a dollar each, and he said that that was what he thought we were going to get. So, we told him to go back and ask you for the other two dollars, but he didn't want to do it. We told him that it was his duty to see you, but he acted like he was afraid to go to you. We begged and begged him but he wouldn't budge. So, we got fed up and snatched the dollar from his hand and divided it between the two of us."
"Why didn't you boys come to me with your grievances?"
"Why didn't you pay us what we were promised?"
"Shut-it your mouth!" Mama shouts. "This is gentleman you're speaking."
"That's all right, madam. These are difficult times in which to bring up children. Life has become fast, so fast. Now, Eddie, to shed new light on this matter, I wish to inform you that I had not offered Arthur more than one dollar to have snow shoveled from around my house."
"Only a lousy dollar to shovel all that snow?"
"I tol' you shut up! Please, gentleman, don' be angry on him."
"I'm not angry with him. I can understand his being upset over Arthur's having mislead him."
"So, are you here to collect Arthur's share of the dollar?"
Mama slaps my face.
"Please, madam, you needn't do that. I only wished to point out to Eddie that his and Vartan's treatment of Arthur Kelly had been unjustifiable. Please excuse me for taking up your time. Good afternoon."
"Shit mouth, don' you know he's big shot city hall who can raise taxes mine property?"
"Hey, Eddie!" Art Athens and Joe Costa approach me between our ninth grade classes.
"Joe and I know this older girl called May who's built like a brick shithouse and, boy, is she horny."
"Yeah, and does she know how to fuck!" Costa says. "There's nothin' she loves as much as gettinÕ laid."
"She's always glad to see us when we come around."
"Yeah, especially when we bring someone new to meet her."
"So, you wanna get laid tonight, Eddie?" Art Athens asks.
"Yeah, sure!" I answer without hesitation, trying to conceal my fear with a display of manliness.
"Good, weÕll come by your place at seven, okay?Ó
"Yeah, sure."
"May's really gonna be happy to see you," Costa predicts. "And she'll think you're something special if you bring her a box of chocolates."
"I don't have money to buy chocolates," I say, hoping that this will disqualify me as a possible candidate for May's favors.
"That's all right, sheÕll like you anyhow,Ó Athens says, dashing my hopes.
Seven oÕclock and Athens and Costa havenÕt come, and I hope they wonÕt. After seeing them this afternoon, I was so worried about what was going to happen in the evening that I was unable to focus my mind on my studies. An inexperienced me was going to be thrown into bed with a girl who knew all about sex. SheÕd quickly discover that I didnÕt know the first thing about fucking and push me away and laugh in my face. Also, Athens and Costa would be there to see how inept I was. Why hadnÕt I simply told them that I didnÕt want to meet this May? Why donÕt I have the balls to leave the house before they arrive?
"Hi, Eddie, you ready?" Shit, itÕs them.
"Yeah," I say, stepping out to join Athens and Costa.
"Bet you were afraid we weren't gonna come," Athens says.
"Did you get chocolates?" asks Costa.
"I told you before that I don't have money to buy chocolates. If May must have chocolate, let's drop the whole thing."
"No, it's okay, Eddie, she'll be happy with the way you look and the way you make love. Art and I can tell you're a good fucker because youÕre always quiet while the guys who arenÕt gettingÕ any are bullshittinÕ forever about broads and fuckin'.Ó
Wait till they learn the truth about me.
"Oh, there's something we forgot to tell you, Eddie," Athens says. "May's married to this big bruiser who weighs over two hundred and fifty pounds. If he gets a hold of you, he'll break you in two like a matchstick."
Oh, shit, to be killed for something I don't even want to do!
"But you don't have to worry, Eddie," Costa says. "Her husband's never home when we go to see her; he works the night shift at the GE."
I have a strong desire to break away from Athens and Costa and run for home. But they'll laugh at me if I do that. I could let a very slow-moving car bump me while weÕre crossing the street and pretend that I'm too hurt to go on. But I donÕt even have the guts to do that.
"This is May's place," Athens says, turning into a driveway beside a tenement with three stories.
We walk midway down the driveway, then stop to look up at the upper windows of the building.
"Call her, Athens."
"May! Yoo-hoo, May!" Athens calls, hands cupped about his mouth.
Nothing happens.
"Looks like she's not in," I say, anxious to leave.
"Oh, May!" Costa calls now. "Yoo-hoo, May."
ThereÕs still no response. Suddenly, someone shouts! A door slams shut! There is the clamor of footsteps descending a staircase!
"Run for it!" Costa shouts. "It's her old man!"
We streak out of the driveway, Athens turning right, Costa turning left and I running straight up the street before me. Someone shouts behind me. I look back over my shoulder as I run and see a man with a big stick in his hand coming after me. I lower my head and run as fast as I can, confident that heÕll never be able to catch me.
"Eddie, stop!" The man calls. "Stop! Come back!"
He knows my name. I stop to look back. The man with the stick is Tykie! He's laughing and waving to me to come to him. Oh no, he's not going to trick me into coming to him. He knows he can't outrun me, so heÕs trying another tactic. He must be pissed off because we interrupted his fuck with May.
I run to the end of the street, turn left, then right, into a backyard and crouch behind bushes. I hope there's no angry dog guarding this house. Otherwise, it seems a safe enough place to hide. My heart pounds, as I try to catch my breath.
"Eddie, hey, Eddie, where are you?" ItÕs Athens and Costa calling out. TheyÕre laughing and giggling as they pass my hiding place. "Come on out, Eddie. Everything's okay."
They want me to fall into Tykie's hands! They want to watch him beat me! What a world this is with such monstrous beings in it.
Athens and Costa have gone down the street, so IÕll go up. I move out onto the sidewalk and head for home. On the steps of the public library across the street I see Tykie, waving his stick and laughing with a number of boys. I hunch down and hurry home.
"Tykie was here looking for you," my brother Albert informs me as soon as I come in.
TykieÕs come to my house to beat me! There's no getting away from him. He'll be waiting in some doorway to pounce on me when I go to school in the morning. What should I do? Leave town and live in Boston? But how do that when I have no money? Shit, why did I agree to go with Athens and Costa when I didnÕt even want to?
Walking warily on the way to school in the morning, I whirl about every few steps to see if Tykie is suddenly behind me. I breathe easy when I reach the school safely.
Athens and Costa are waiting for me with big smiles.
"Hey, Eddie, we've never seen anyone run as fast as you did last night," laughs Costa.
"How can you laugh when you knew that Tykie was out to kill me?"
"You knew it was Tykie, and you still kept on running?" Athens asks.
"Sure, I thought he was angry because we had arrived while he was fucking May."
"You're such a dumb ass, Eddie," Costa says. "There's no girl called May. ÔYoo-hoo, May is a game we play to scare the shit out of guys so theyÕll drop their box of chocolates when they take off.Ó
"Eddie, I need-it money pay mine taxes. I not pay, we lose-it this house and have to go other side train tracks,Ó my mother says. ÒMr. Miller need-it boy work-it his ice cream parlor dis summer. Seven days week, nine o'clock morning to nine o'clock night, ten dollars week and all ice cream you can eat. You seventeen now and . . ."
"Sixteen," I correct her. Whenever she asks me to do something she adds a year to my age, but whenever I ask to do some fun thing she subtracts a year.
ÒYou help-it me?"
This is a very difficult moment for me. Here's my tiny mother asking me to help her. It's not easy for me to deny her. But out the window over her head, I see a beautiful sunny day with flowers and butterflies, an ideal day for baseball. And I recall what the man who delivered Coca-Cola and whoÕd once been a semi-pro ball player, told me one afternoon at the corner grocery store.
"Listen, kid, your youth is the most important time of your life, so don't ever let anyone talk you into giving it up to go to work before you're twenty-one years old. No one can force you to work before that age in Massachusetts."
I recall, too, what the two carpenters, who were looking out the window at my friends playing basketball in the yard of the BoysÕ Club, had said.
"Look at those lucky kids, nothing to worry about except putting that ball through the hoop. What fools we were to quit school to go to work?"
"So, you help-it me?"
"I don't want to work."
"Why no?Ó
"I want to play baseball."
"Oh, baseball. You have-it all your life play baseball."
"No, Mama, I have all my life to work."
Every time I sit at the table to eat, my mother sits opposite me and studies me with eyes that accuse.
ÒHow you can sit and eat with no shame, no guilt, the food your brother, two years younger than you, work-it with the sweat his face from nine oÕclock morning to nine oÕclock night everyday to bring home, so you, big shot can eat?
I look at her and calmly continue to eat. When I overheard her asking George if he would work at Mr. MillerÕs place I prayed for him to refuse her even though I suspected he was too weak to do it. Not only did he agree to work, but he also handed his entire weekly paycheck to her and let her decide how much of the money he should have! Something I would never have done.
"Why you not say-it something?"
I continue to eat.
"Speak! Say something!"
"You sent George to work; I didn't."
"Get out! Go up your room! I don' want look-it your face."