The Tower of Brahma. Chapter 63. Fire Over Water. (edit)

6/21/10

My parents had sex in the back of my dad's Mustang, necking after hours at the park around the corner from where they lived. My pops was 17, worked at the Dairy Barn, and tuned up his car after class. My mom was 15, had knee surgery that put her field hockey days behind her.

I was conceived.

For reasons unknown to me I was not aborted, but rather, I was born on September 21, 1976, a Tuesday at 2am. My parents wed four days before at City Hall. My mom started taking night classes to graduate a year early. My father enters the workforce as an auto-mechanic.

I say I don't know the reason these teenagers decided to keep this child, but I do have my suspicions. I think my father to have assumed the role out of a sense of martyrdom, quite possibly like his father. But thinking on it now, my widow grandmother on my mom's side, an Irish Catholic, was perhaps the deciding factor.

My dad showed me how to change the brakes on our car, got to really enjoy all the cool Star Wars toys, and have a small victim for his boyish pranks. It was all a joke, he was teasing, he didn't mean to scare me like that. I begin to see my father as an object of fear, of aggression, humiliation.

I cling to my mother, who reads to me at night, and smiles every time she looks at me. She loves me more than she realized was possible, quite literally shell-shocked from her nearly virgin birth. A child with a child, a girl who never knew her own father, an electrical engineer in World War II, dead of lung cancer before her third birthday.

The rift, the crack, begins to widen every day. My dad gets shitfaced and off-roads with his friends, who eventually have their own kids, and it becomes a ritual to go camping, drink, and laugh their asses off at their children's expense. Or at least for my dad that is.

My sister is born. I hear stories saying that I was sweet and tender towards her as a baby. I recall nothing but disdain and half-hearted bitterness, never fully realized jealousy. Something happens before I can really be aware of how I feel about having a younger sibling.

I die.

I choke to death on a piece of hot-dog. The thick-skinned kosher kind. I turned blue, passed out, and was rushed to the Emergency Room where they removed the chunk of wiener with tongs. How long I went without breath, I don't know. Did I subconsciously yearn for death, or perhaps attention, at so early an age?

Most of my memories from this time are vague, just as they were years before. I recall a scary Dracula in a house window, Vienna Fingers in my lunchbox, a Matchbox Car in my hand, as I walked besides my mom to pre-school. We raced cars along the floor, I came home with a bootleg, cheap ass orange truck.

They tell me there was a dog at that apartment, the landlord's dog, named Max. He was big and scary with a loud ass bark, but we were friends. As the story goes, I was sleeping in his pen area besides him. He awoke, startled from a dream, and clutched my face in his jaws. I still have the scars.

We move to a poor white/middle class black neighborhood. We have an apartment under a rockabilly couple that have a snake, rats, and a tarantula. In the driveway is an old 30's Ford (complete with painted flames and running boards) and an El Camino.

We live next to a wooded park, complete with amazing hills, a playground, and tons of inchworms and caterpillars. My best friend was the white trash kid across the street who lived with his old aunt. I piss through his window from outside, we ride bike trails we build in his backyard, and get stung by a hive of bees in the massive tree that sat in front of his property, hiding away the rundown house and overgrown yard.

I recall thinking, I'm afraid of heights, as I look up to a tree far back on his property that had been struck by lightning. It was charred and split at the top, a good thirty feet above us. Beyond the fence is the farmland where we would pick strawberries each year.

I get new sneakers, and two older boys force us into the back of their property down the street. They tell me to close my eyes, my friend yells to me not to. I am frightened by their demeanor so I comply. They tilt a wheelbarrow over, spilling gray mud all over my feet, covering every inch of my new sneakers. I walk home into the sunset with my friend and the sun dries the mud, it cracks off, and my shoes are still perfectly fine.

I watch TV with my parents, Darth Vader's helmet being lifted up, his pale, sick frame underneath. I say, "I guess Luke didn't get his looks from his dad." My parents erupt into laughter. We're a family, watching Star Search, a man singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow', the Muppet Show, and ALF.

My dad teaches me to ride my bike, I can't make left turns for some reason, and wasn't too good at stopping. I put my arm out reaching for this rusted car as my wrist drags along the metal. I still have a scar running just below my thumb and down across my wrist.

The power is out and the windows are shaking. We're huddled around candles as Hurricane Gloria rages outside. It nearly tosses a tree from the park into the house. During the eye of the storm, we step outside, basking in the eerie calm of the moment. Everything is ripped apart and smashed, tree branches scattered everywhere, entire bushes uprooted.

My friends get together to survey the damage. My black friends all have big houses, circular driveways, and built-in pools. I watch as one friend's sister falls into the pool, getting tangled in the sticker bushes that were deposited in there. She thrashes about and almost slips under the thorns and branches.

Awhile later, we camp out in that friend's backyard, which seems to go on for miles. We goof around, jump from tree to tree, armed only with our flashlights. We get in trouble and are made to come inside. From the bathroom window we spy the next door neighbor building something as his girlfriend comes out in only a nightshirt. I see her vagina as she bends over to kiss him.

When winter comes, we hit the park's hills with our sleds and fly down the slopes. My little sister jumps on the back of mine and we slip down the big drop. A kid comes soaring down on top of us in his wood and metal sled. My leg is crushed, and my sister's head is bashed. We need to keep her awake once we get home.

As a family we sit down to play Cabbage Patch Kids: the board-game, and when they remove the top I spy it instantly. A piece of construction paper with a crayon stick figure drawing. Crude cave etching of a naked man and woman, with word balloons proclaiming some sort of unknown sexuality. I am instantly mortified at this unexpected intrusion into this, my dawn of sexual discovery.

Everyone laughs as they can just barely make out what it says, what it means. They laugh again when I fill out the ID card in my G.I. Joe wallet as SEX: No. My sister comes out with a random statement, "Dad has too much sex." My sister runs around naked often. My dad spanks me once, but it is so terrifying that I see it as a freeze framed moment of panic.

I remember a story where I sat in the backseat of the car after a fair, a smile on my face as I held firmly to the string on my HULK mylar balloon. Suddenly, without any warning, my dad whips around, rips the balloon from me and tosses it out the window. It seems it was reverberating in the wind and it just had to go.

Did my dad pick on me, not knowing how to relate to boys (having two older and two younger sisters) and acting out his immature jealous rage against me, the male who was perhaps taking his wife from him? I can't imagine he loved her with any depth or passion, and most likely just wanted her physically, unable to show emotion beyond that.

Either way my father was done with me once we moved to Massapequa. I was almost done with elementary school, where I was the quiet kid who identified himself as a klutz, and began a new life among kids who'd known each other for years. When I was 11 my dad told me he wasn't going to be there for me going forward.

I made some friends here and there, lots of people were really friendly towards the new kid in the Yankees hat. My first friend slept in his tighty-whities when I stayed over and had Barbies in his room; he came out over a decade later. My next friends lived far away, and were bad kids, a weird mix. Then I met the four who would make me leave my comfort zone.

There was the charismatic leader (momma's boy), the hard luck kid (trouble magnet), the rebel (with daddy issues), and me, the mascot, the punchline, the scaredy cat. We stayed out past curfew, rode our bikes around, talked to girls selling friendship bracelets. I just wanted to return Blades of Steel, the NES game I rented from T&S Video (our acct.# was 1012).

But they wanted to talk to girls, so we hung out with girls, stood on their corners under amber streetlights, innocently flirted with childish flair. I stood back, embarrassed, scared, uncertain. I had a paper route, and video games to be played, maybe shoot another short film on my PXL2000 with action figures. I didn't want to talk to girls.

They threatened to throw a bike at my head if I didn't ask this girl out. After our first night we were paired off. I spent the last part of the summer before High School hanging out in basements, watching Road House, doing tricks on our BMXs to impress girls in oversized Champion sweatshirts and neon skids, while they ate Combos and drank Diet/Caffeine Free Coke.

They wore scrunches in their hair, Keds on their feet, two pairs of socks, one overflowing and colorful, and danced to BelBivDevoe. I wore net belly shirts, Bugle Boy jean shorts, and had a good sized pony tail with my overly grown out spiky hair. Eventually I put my arm around my "girlfriend" and kissed her. That was it. (A few years later she had a baby before finishing High School.)

Then I met her. My first real girlfriend. She was the object of everyone's desire. A girl two years younger than her friends, but two years of physical development ahead of her friends. She had boobies. And she was really hot. And she thought I was cute. Once again, they made me ask her out.

We all went to Adventureland right around our birthdays (hers just three days before mine), and rode the rides, played games, and enjoyed ourselves. We were kids, still innocent and playing at the adult concept of dating. But we never kissed. And due to an incident where I got taken off my friend's roof by the cops, I would be grounded for two months and our young romance was cut short.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thanking my parents almost, for this opportunity to get out of this crazy, complex world I had stumbled into. There were all sorts of games and twists, to everything that was said back and forth. It was overwhelming and I was glad to get back to my simple life in my bedroom. I was raised by television and embraced it once more.

But it wouldn't last. I would be free to roam once more after New Years Eve. On January 10th I had my first kiss outside the girl's house. From there it was a slippery slope. We began making out a lot, then heavy petting. Eventually her hand took ahold of my penis and she jerked me off. It was amazing.

I wanted her to do that all the time. We went for a record 13 times in one day. I was consumed by the feeling, addicted to her firm grip releasing this fluid from me daily. You see, I had never done this to myself, never explored my own sexuality, alone in my bedroom, before she showed me the power of another person doing it.

It lead to my abandoning my friends in the living room while we were in the bedroom. If we were at her house, when her parents made me leave, I'd take the raging hard-on I had and beat off in the bushes across the street to avoid blue balls. Our song was 'After the Rain' by Nelson, although should have been 'Don't Treat Me Bad' by Firehouse.

She couldn't stop thinking about my friend. The rebel who I had gotten very close to. It was his house the cops took me off the roof of. We shoplifted wine coolers, Doritos and cookie dough. We stole recycling from one supermarket and returned to the other to make money. We paid a guy to buy us survival knifes at the magic shoppe in the mall.

I set things on fire. Leaves, paper, cars, the siding of a house. I would carry a lighter, as I took to smoking now and then by this point, and light things as I went. No one had ever gotten hurt. I was lucky. I even got beat up by a cop for not smoking weed, him insisting I was the lookout. He took me to a back alley and roughed me up.

And it was this friend that I went through it all with, all part of his troublemaking schemes, that she now wanted. I slammed the door in her face as she tells me, then I convince him to date her, while fooling around with her on the swings on the side. I abandon them both. I see them together at one of our friend's brother's funeral, who had killed himself, hung himself, out in the backyard. He was feeling up her skirt at the wake.

If I had left my metamorphosis to chance in Junior High, I would actively reinvent myself for High School. I ignored the jocks when they asked me to play basketball as I finished my paper route. Instead I discovered the kids reading comic books and playing Dungeons & Dragons, and found my way in. I would play the thief, or assassin. The morally dubious rogue, often the punching bag for the others.

This group were introverted, self-conscious, and sadistic. They would mock, taunt, insult, all to get a rise out of you, and no one would react more than me. The fat kid beat on me, the lying kid would play with my emotions, the trickster would build me up and tear me down. But I loved it. It was a dynamic I could belong to. A band of brothers, all fighting evil in our basements with dice.

I was never anyone's best friend. We'd all take turns hanging out, the dynamic always in flux as one person was around and someone else was pissed at someone else. Eventually, the abuse became too much and I fought the fat kid. I wailed on him, I held him down and kneed him in the spine, I smacked him with fake fireplace logs. But then, I finished him off a few weeks later.

He had called up one of us, and while someone was trying to candy coat why we weren't hanging out with him, I let loose: "Nobody wants to hang out with you because no one likes you." I gave him the reasons. The weakest of them all stood up and said enough; I finally stood up to someone. He was docile ever after that (despite later head-butting my sternum during art class, shutting down my heart chakra), and years later credited me with helping him change.

I daydreamed all throughout high-school whether it was a short story about a hard boiled private dick and his motley crew of mystic misfits, or looking at the girl next to me in Social Studies' bra as it stuck out the side of her tank top. I would slip my hand into my jeans and invisibly masturbate during class. I became notorious among my friends for it.

I stayed away from girls, but became a chronic masturbator. I would wait until my parents were asleep and spend hours watching softcore porn and stroking myself. I think I may've permanently screwed up my neck and back from the way I would lie as I came into the top of a shoe box. I would wait for the hottest scene with a short haired brunette and then come.

By Senior year, a shift had happened. We were suddenly cool. The jocks became metal-heads and did drugs. They thought we knew martial arts. My dorky musician friends were suddenly hot as hair metal expanded into grunge. We wore flannels and black leather jackets, ripped jeans and construction boots untied. We hung out with head cheerleaders and prom queens on our first day of class.

As the year went by, we got involved. Went to dances, I wrote for the literary journal, played battle of the bands. We did whatever we wanted, from staging broken neck fights (cracked Tic-Tac boxes), and shooting up the hallways with disc-guns. I began getting attention from girls again, and my friends could see this. Suddenly, my friends who hated me, loved me.

And I had my first crush. She was tall, dorky, on track and the basketball team, and a smart kid. She was also beautiful. Freckles with a sweet smile. She never had a boyfriend, and so after a setup worthy of a High School coming-of-age rom-com at the Homecoming dance, we dated. We made out for most of The Bodyguard. She once whispers "You're driving me crazy..." in my ear as I kiss her neck.

A week or two later we're done as she becomes even more aloof than she had been before, flirting with my other friends. And considering my track record with friends and girlfriends, I reacted poorly. I tried to control her, she let me go. She wound up dating a friend of a friend of mine for awhile after High School who I no doubt took her virginity.

I was definitely into girls again, but aiming that high was scary, dangerous, devastating. It brought out a madness in me. Then I saw her. She was tiny, thin, with curly hair and an acoustic guitar in her hands. She seemed to sit outside her group of friends. A general dislike towards her. I was smitten.

A month before my prom (as she was two years younger) I lost my virginity to her. We were fooling around on my bed, down to underwear as I grinded on her. She whispers in my ear "Don't tease me." I spend a moment in shock, before grabbing the condom I had stashed in my CD rack, that my friends had stolen from this girl's older brother's room years before, the one that had committed suicide two years earlier.

A month later we're having sex in the back of the limo after prom, my friend having sex with his girlfriend on the other side, our jackets hanging between to section it off. The odd thing is I sort of 'dated' his girlfriend for a few weeks the semester before. Nothing happened, but when that friend years later turned psycho on a girl I was dating, saying that me and him hooked up, well, that's just odd.

What distorted memory could he have? Did we do something and I don't remember? I did wake up in just my boxers on the senior trip, where he and two other friends were all sleeping in the same room. He wore dresses and makeup, liking gothy new wave, and the Crow. I don't even know what to think other than a memory I have of me with him as I cried hysterical while Candlebox's 'Far Behind' played in the car.

Then there was Freddie. All through my senior year, Freddie would ask me things like "If in the future you met a girl and it turned out she used to be a guy, what would you do?", to which I would respond earnestly, that it depended on how I felt about the relationship. I failed to see the connection between that question and his insistence that he was a woman in a man's body. I was incredibly naive, dumb, or in obvious denial.

All year he would ask me things during Government class. I was eventually told that my picture graced the locket around his neck, that the poem he wrote in the journal was about me and my "flowing locks", and his position as editor is why it featured so many of my stories and poems. Then, one day, while at rehearsal for the Disney Revue (I did it for a girl) he told me he loved me.

I told one person, who told one person, who eventually got it back to him. He was pissed, and I got the diva cold shoulder for the rest of the year. My tiny girlfriend would be threatened as things got catty. Soon enough, we graduated, and I wouldn't hear about him again until the following Fall, on the day of my birthday as I'm about head into work, as a cashier at Waldbaums.

He was dead. The morning of my birthday, he had written a few notes to friends, swallowed sleeping pills, and pulled a plastic bag over his head. My friend's brother, a firefighter, found him and the word quickly spread. I don't think I went to the memorial, or the wake. I was numb to it. Indifferent. I thought I should feel something, but I didn't.

Three months later, and it's Christmas. Just finished my first semester of Nassau Community College and had driven away my girlfriend by sleeping with the girl who was with my friend in the limo during prom. I was working at K-Mart with my now ex and had to tell her that in order for her to leave me alone. I couldn't get rid of her and she would be back months later to have random sex with me in the stock room.

She had surrendered her identity to me, left all decisions to me, wanted to do whatever I did. I couldn't stand the power and control, and I lashed out her angrily time and time again. I had to be meaner and meaner, trying to make her hate me so I wouldn't have to be responsible for her.

She eventually went on medication after a breakdown, then went back to school and is a thriving academic of medieval history. She was adopted and found her real parents to be a genius physics professor and a schizophrenic drug addict.

But I was untouchable. Having fun with friends, driving places, hanging out at diners, smoking and drinking coffee. I couldn't think of anyone but myself. Certainly not a troubled youth with gender issues, or a fractured young girl with identity problems. And definitely not my grandmother who was wasting away from chemo as cancer destroyed her.

Three days after Christmas, she died. I vaguely remember her wake, hardly recall her funeral. She was the center of our family's universe, the lynch-pin that held us all together. A tiny spitfire of a woman who showed me NYC, took me to work with her on Queens Blvd, and made me pancakes whenever I wanted. Her huge house was always an adventure waiting to be explored.

And during Christmas dinner, I couldn't even look over at the couch and acknowledge that that bag of bones was my grandmother, the greatest, coolest, hippest, most selfless woman I had ever had the good fortune to meet in my life. She was everything to me while growing up, and somehow during my teen years, I forgot that. And then she was gone.

My family dissolved over the years after that. No more holiday dinners, just makeshift Thanksgivings, empty Christmas Days, joyless Easters. I couldn't feel anything and began just having sex with any girls who showed me attention. Cute, nice ones that I hurt, and hot, sexy ones that left my house crying afterward, back to their boyfriends that I never knew about.