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| Grinders |
| 04.18.04 (11:03 am) [edit] |
I was certain that Chad would eventually kill me. And I figured he’d do it late at night because, well, he was too busy during the day. So when I was ten, I started saying my prayers before falling asleep. I asked god to forgive me, and to help me, and if not me, then at least them.
I knew that I didn’t [i]really[/i] need God’s help. I could have helped myself. For instance, I could have apologized and promised not to do it again (whatever it was)… or I could have even eaten the steak. But for me, there wasn’t ever really a choice. I had to protect them and I had to protect myself. And that meant I had to fight. Dad taught me to fight, I think.
He didn’t believe in violent or capricious authority. He imagined, even before he knew about Chad’s abusive tendencies, that all human beings were smothered against their will by illegitimate power of one kind or another. “That’s why you have to fight,” he’d say. “Because if you don’t stand for what you believe in, nobody else will.”
I understood. If I hid from Chad, listened to the names he called me, or lowered my head when he hit me, I would forever be afraid of him and the world. And I didn’t want to be afraid. Anything was better than fear. I was sure of that. So I took Dad’s advice. “"Confront, outwit, and ridicule people like him whenever possible,” he’d say.
David didn’t see it that way. He lowered his head when Chad screamed. He looked into Chad’s eyes when Chad told him not to lower his head. He went to his room when it was over. And he cried. “But at least he doesn’t hit me,” he used to tell me.
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After Dad and Caron separated, we moved into a small ranch-style house just outside of Santa Monica. The ‘good’ neighborhood was just up the street, and the ‘bad’ neighborhood was just down the street. We lived somewhere in between. I usually felt safe and scared simultaneously… and I had good reason.
Two gang-members accosted me when I was nine. They shoved me against a wall and took two dollars and thirty-seven cents from my pocket. Soon after that, our house was robbed for the first time. Over the next ten months, we suffered five more break-ins. They stopped soon after the riots… when the National Guard stationed itself just a down the street.
Yet though danger always seemed to be lurking, I felt safe. I even felt… at home. “It makes sense,” Dad says now. “[i]He[/i] couldn’t get to you.” But I don’t think that was it. In my eyes, it had more to do with our regular dinners at the family restaurant just down street.
We started going there because it was easy. Dad didn’t have to cook food and David and I didn’t have to starve because we refused to eat it. We continued going there because Dad liked the tuna sandwiches, and because he likes to stick with things that work.
So Grinders (the name of the restaurant) became my home away from home. I looked forward to sitting with David and Dad at the corner table with wobbly legs. There was something magical about that table, I used to think, that pushed Dad and I to imagine even the most unimaginable possibilities for my life.
Our heads were always stuck in the clouds there. On some nights, I was the best president ever, on other nights I was the best dancer, and on still other nights, I was the best rabbi. And Dad and I couldn’t figure out why David didn’t want the same things. And as we continued to drift upwards and past the clouds, David’s feet remained firmly attached to the ground. He just didn’t seem to care about the same things we did.
When it became apparent that David refused to enter our world, Dad stopped trying. He wondered if David was stupid. He still wonders that. “What a waste,” he says.
So I no longer think of my memories at Grinders as treasures because, well, they came at the expense of my brother’s happiness. And I still don’t understand how I could have overlooked something so important. I was willing to sacrifice myself physically and perhaps emotionally to save David from Chad, but I wasn’t willing to let go of my hopes, dreams and ambitions to save him from Dad because I was too wrapped up in my plans. And recognizing David’s needs wasn’t a part of those plans.
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“Dan, you’re ten years old. It’s about time you made your mark,” Dad said to me between bites of a tuna sandwich one day. I listened attentively. David twiddled his fork. President of the United States, I thought, here it comes. “Treasurer of your school,” he said. I frowned. That was a different story.
Elections were two weeks away, and Jason, the boy with the purple pants, had already put up posters and handed out stickers and buttons. I tried to reason with Dad. “Everybody loves his pants… I’ll never win.” I said. He smiled. “None of that matters. You don’t need posters or campaign materials; you just need a great speech. Remember, rhetoric is the drug of the masses...” he said. I remembered. I had heard him say that many times before.
He and I mapped out the winning speech over the next few dinners at Grinders. We polished the final draft the night before the elections. “This is spectacular,” I said. “I’ll never lose.” Dad laughed. “You’ll be the next Eisenhower,” he said. I smiled. “The buck will stop right here,” I said. And as we left Grinders late that night, David sleepily rubbed his eyes and said, “You’ll win it Greg. I know you will.”
I left the winning speech—bells, whistles, and all—on my bedroom floor. I realized my mishap as Dad drove his car out of the elementary school parking lot. I chased after him. But he couldn’t see me, and I wasn’t fast enough to catch up. The election speeches were in thirty minutes and I was out of breath and in tears. I had failed him, I knew.
The school bell rang. I needed to be in class. But I ran to a payphone instead. Dad wouldn’t be at work, I knew, but Mom would be home. And she always understood what to do in situations like these.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It happens to the best of us. It even happened to me once. I was running for seventh grade class representative and I lost my speech… I just couldn’t find it anywhere. So I called my father just like you’re calling me now, and he helped me scribble a few words down. I didn’t win… but at least my speech was unforgettable.” I asked her what she had said.
About thirty minutes later, I stood on a podium and stared out at a packed elementary school crowd. I wasn’t at all nervous. “Hello, my name is Greg and I am running for treasurer. I’m not just going to ask you to vote for me because I’m funny and cool and smart. There are lots of other reasons, like… for one thing…um.” I stalled. “Really, there [i]are[/i] lots of reasons … or at least, some reasons.” I wiped the sweat from my forehead and pretended to look flustered. It was part of the plan, and the students were buying it. They were on the edges of their seats. They wondered if I would crack. And I did, purposefully, because there was nothing left to do. “Well…um… I guess I’m just going to ask you to vote for me because I’m funny and cool and smart.” I smiled and walked off the stage. Many of the students laughed. Some cheered. A few of the girls giggled, I think. And as I walked backstage and felt strangely pleased with my performance.
I didn’t win the election. But surprisingly it was closer than many thought it should have been. “You scared the purple out of his pants,” a friend said in reference to Jason, the winner. I knew that most of the votes for me were pity votes. But I didn’t care; votes were votes. And though I came away from that day feeling okay about my performance, I was sad that I had let Dad down. But, the next day, when I saw him again, he looked in my eyes and said, “You lost the battle, not the war. Don’t forget that.”
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posted by: Heather (reply)
post date: 04.18.04 (2:37 pm)
Beautiful. Accosted me--that irked me. It felt like you were trying to hard. Shrug.
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