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| Demonstrable Love |
| 04.03.04 (4:12 pm) [edit] |
When David was thirteen, he ate Miracle Grow and grew eight inches. No really, he ate miracle grow and grew eight inches. And though I knew the fertilizer had worked wonders for him, I still couldn’t bring myself to swallow the stuff. And I suffered the consequences: I didn’t grow eight inches. Actually, I barely grew at all.
And though people have trouble imagining it now, we were once almost the same height and our penises once hung almost the same length. We even had similar dreams for the future: David would build Lincoln Log forts around me, and I would knock them down… until the end of time.
Back then, words like success, expectation, and damn-those-breasts-are-bi g were rarely on our minds. We thought mostly about… well, each other. We were so enchanted with ourselves that we neglected to learn any discernible language. Well, that isn’t entirely true. We developed our own language and preferred it to the more ordinary and complicated grown-up ones.
Unfortunately, when David and I finally learned traditional language etiquette—albeit a little behind schedule—our own lexicon faded away, and a piece of our childhood innocence faded with it.
But we weren’t ever [i]really[/i] innocent. Don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise. We were two babies on the prowl. We weren’t old enough to care about girls, but we knew about trouble… and we looked for it.
When I was a year old, I chased David into his crib. He hit at full speed and cracked his head open. Then he laughed all the way to the hospital. I did to… even as a doctor sewed up his forehead. Mom didn’t think it was so funny though.
Two years later, David watched as I climbed to the top of a refrigerator and jumped off. Mom was cooking spaghetti. She didn’t see me coming. Boy did I get her… and the spaghetti. She screamed. David was rolling in the noodles before she could get to him. I followed suit. Partners in crime, an early rapport; it would only last a little longer.
On his fifth birthday, David received a set of twenty-two magic markers from Mom. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she would later say. The next morning he and I woke up early and drew zoo animals all over his bedroom wall. As we worked, I saw a distinct resemblance between him and the elephant he was drawing. If only he had some... tusks.
I stuck two bright red crayons so far up his nostrils that we took a trip to the emergency room to get them removed. We laughed. Mom did too. “He did sort of look like an elephant,” she admitted.
Soon after the elephant incident, Mom bought us a case of chalk to replace the magic markers. “If you two want to draw,” she said. “You can draw on the sidewalk. But that’s it.” We were ecstatic. David grabbed the weaponry and we ran outside. “Let’s draw zoo animals,” he said.
I started drawing a monkey. (Admittedly, even at an early age I felt an affinity for my banana loving friends. We’re both flexible, we’re both funny, and we both like to swing on trees. What more could we need?) As I drew the monkey’s ears, he picked out a banana colored piece of chalk and twirled it in his fingers. Before I knew what was happening, he had pile-driven the chalk into my left ear. I screamed. He pointed and shouted, “A monkey, a monkey.”
He clearly wasn't very creative. I didn’t look like at all like a monkey. "It was the best I could do," he says now. “But you permanently damaged my hearing," I remind him.
David accompanied me to a year's worth of speech aftewards. But I had forgiven him long before those sessions ended. He was my big brother and I needed him to back me up, beat me up, and do the things that big brothers normally do. And that’s what he did back then… before life got hard for both of us.
When we were six, we still took baths together. I don’t know why Mom let us do it, because it wasn’t uncharacteristic of us to try to drown each other in four inches of water, or at least force inadvertent tidal waves to the floor. Yet Mom persisted. “It saved time and water,” she now argues.
Maybe it did, but it also gave David the opportunity to attack me in a way that no man should ever attack another. “Luckily, we were still boys,” he says now.
During an otherwise normal bathtub experience, David stood up, shook water from his body, and grabbed his weiner.
Before I had time to react, he pointed the doodle at me and opened fire. My jaw dropped. I watched the pee arch in the air and fall into my mouth. I couldn’t move… or even close my mouth.
But it was filling up and I didn’t know what to do. So I swallowed hard. It tasted foul, it made me shiver, and it came right back up .
I spit it back at him. Then I stood up, aimed my own pee-pee at him, and fired away. Unfortunately I wasn’t as practiced as he seemed to be. It flew in all directions. Today I tell myself that at least a few drops landed in his mouth.
But he denies it. "No way," he says. "It never happened."
"Like the rest of our childhood?" I ask him.
"Like that." And he looks away.
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