Welcome, O Street Neighbors!

So I noticed that my article on the Detroit Free Press website, "I'm an atheist, so what?", is drawing a little attention to this website of mine.

I just wanted to take the time thank you all for checking this out and extend a more personal thanks for your interest in my article. I hope you all enjoy what you've read so far and are about to read here!

TWOH Update

"Typing With One Hand" is about 280 pages and there are 33 chapters all together. They document the course of my life going to a strict private Catholic school, transitioning into a public school and eventually into college in Detroit where I moved into an apartment and studied Theatre. All the while, dealing with my unique disability.

This site contains chapters 1 through 4 and Chapter 12 -- my first day of high school.

Major themes in the book are: self-actualization; family dysfunction; religious bigotry; sexual confusion; sustaining relationships; and brain tumors.

For more information on the book, please see the side bar to the right.

Also worth noting: When you order a copy of "Typing With One Hand" from the Lulu storefront to your right, the book now comes with a sample chapter from my current project, "Amsterdam" [working title] -- a novel about the prison system, education, City Councils and the auto industry in Southeast Michigan. Next semester, I have a Directed Study at Wayne State for which I will be doing research for the novel.

Chapter 1

I hope you like this sentence.

At 21-years-old, I decided to try my hand at softball, never picking up so much as a mitt since I was three. I was nervous, but the tall brooding and bald man organizing the game eased my discomfort a little. “Hey, I’m Keith,” he said gruffly, extending a sweaty hand at me. “What’s your name?”

I shook his hand. “Peter,” I said. “How ya doin?”

Keith began sizing me up, trying to figure out what use I might be to his team of young college students. He ignored my question and instead asked his own. “So how long you been playing?”

“Eh, it’s been a few years,” I lied. “Sorry if I’m kind of rusty.”

“That’s OK, man,” he assured me with a hint of smile. “We’re all just playing for fun, right?”

Keith, a thirty-something with a gold stud in his ear, strode away to lay down the bases on the field as I sat with my friends in the bleachers waiting to get started. I was very close with most of the ten or so guys we had playing, so I felt fairly confident and unworried of the embarrassment I’d no doubt face. Once the game started, however, it became clear to me that Keith was not, as he said, playing for fun.

“COULD I HAVE THROWN THAT TO YOU ANY BETTER?” he yelled at me from shortstop when I missed a very easy catch on second base, which allowed the runner on first to advance. “C’MON!”

I let that comment slide and assured the large man that, no, he really could not have thrown it any better, and that it was entirely my fault. But even in the best of my politeness, he still continued to badger me. After I had successfully caught a ball, I hesitated in deciding which base to throw it to. In this instance, Keith loudly asked the entire field, “Would someone teach this kid the rules? C’mon!”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Keith had something to prove by consistently making fun of me in front of my friends. Was he even curious as to why I might not play softball as well as the others? Did he understand that not everybody grows up with a desire, let alone an ability, to play sports?

I wondered if he would understand; if there was a way to explain everything to him. I could tell him that my mother was an awesome softball pitcher back when she was in high school. Foreseeing the same future for me, she enrolled me in tee ball when I was just a toddler and I loved every minute of it, showing an impressive amount of sportsmanship and talent for the game. I could tell him how much fun it was being that carefree, spending Sunday afternoons on a team with matching turquoise shirts, being coached by our fathers while the sun shone brightly overhead. Would he understand?

Of course he’d understand! But what he would not understand is the one morning before kindergarten when I had finished my cereal. As I carried my bowl into the kitchen, my left hand started to shake.

“Mom,” I said curiously. “Look.” Mom and I both stared ominously at my shaking hand -- the hand I would catch tee balls with. Mom assured me that it was nothing and walked me to school, but only because she didn’t want to worry me.

Could Keith have imagined Mom running back home out of breath, scared out of her mind and checking her medical book? There definitely wasn’t enough time between innings to explain this to him, but if he asked, I’d have gladly obliged. After calling my doctor, Mom rushed me down to Children’s Hospital in Detroit where it was discovered that I was having my second stroke, a year after my first.

I wondered if Keith has ever had an MRI; if he’s ever stayed overnight in a hospital; if he’s ever had tubes fed into his body where tubes aren’t supposed to go; if he’s ever had a stroke. It probably would’ve angered the other players if I delayed the game, took Keith to the side and said, “Listen, I know you expect every young man in college to know how to play sports, but hear me out for a minute.”

The doctors at Children’s Hospital had found it a little coincidental that I should have two strokes exactly one year apart from each other. After doing some tests, they discovered that the bleeds in my brain were caused by the growth of not one, but three, very unwelcome brain tumors. “The tumors are located on the frontal lobe, the cerebellum, and deep in the ganglia,” they explained, “Because they reside in the right side of Peter’s brain, they are affecting the left side of his body.” This is because the two cerebral hemispheres that make up the brain are separated by a thick center group of fibers called the corpus callosum, which crosses information over.

Which brings us to the Shaky Left Hand.

Shaky has been with me for as long as I can remember and it’s annoying as hell. Removing the tumors involved the risk of minor brain damage and so, after my third and final brain surgery and a good portion of the year before, I was a vegetable: The left side of my body was completely collapsed, I had no feeling or control, and I was couch-bound. For reasons known only to the doctors, I had to wear an eye patch (which isn’t really as cool as it sounds no matter how much you like pirates.) The only comfort I found in my life was replaying Tiny Toon Adventures: How I Spent My Summer Vacation over and over and over again. Everyday.

Mom was wheeling me down to Oakwood Hospital in Dearborn three days a week for physical and occupational therapy. I eventually got better, but not one-hundred percent. My left leg swung to the side when I walked, and I still had a shaky left hand that, over the years, we appropriately dubbed ‘the Shaky Left Hand.’

Shaky Left Hands will get you in trouble. They will touch things that aren’t yours, spill things that stain, and they shake. People can and will ask questions.

But in the case of Keith the disgruntled softball man, Shaky Left Hands will prevent you from playing sports as a boy, submitting you to humiliation as a young adult.

But Keith would never understand.

Chapter 2

Allow me to give you a brief history lesson.

See, Mom had been planning her divorce ever since her wedding day when Dad got really drunk and mooned all of the friends and family. She didn’t feel that a full view of Donald’s ass was a very appropriate way of saying, “Thanks for coming!”

Later, in an unofficial interview (meaning she did not know she was being interviewed), Mom told me, “You know, Peter, one of my biggest regrets is marrying your father.”

It wasn’t her fault that she married him. It was the end of the seventies, and everybody was doing it. Not only was there pressure from her family, but also she and Dad were both wild socialites who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together looking for the next party.

Then again, marriage changed Mom. It took saying those eternal vows to make her understand that the life ahead would be full of hardship and woe if she didn’t buckle down, go back to school, and find a steady part-time job to support her family-to-be.

And Dad? Well… Marriage changed Mom; that’s still pretty important.

It was the honeymoon that really finalized Mom’s decision for divorce. Mom and Dad spent their honeymoon at Dad’s parents’ house in Florida. It was the most miserable time of her life, she said. To elaborate with an example, she was out in their backyard sunbathing one day when there was an eruption of noise from the house:

“Dad! I said get out of the kitchen while I’m making dinner!”

“It’s my kitchen, you son of a bitch!”

“Al, don’t talk to your son like that!”

“Stay out of this, Linda!”

“Seriously, Ma! Shut the hell up!”

“Don’t tell you’re mother to shut up, you little shit!”

The argument dragged on along with Mom’s regret.

Despite Mom’s unhappiness, all rejoiced the union. My grandmother on my Mom’s side couldn’t have been happier, and Dad’s side of the family celebrated in their own unique way: They drank a lot, had an argument or three, and called it a night. Dad was now content though. Before marriage, he had a wonderful city job and drinking buddies. But then his drinking buddies all went and got wives, so he figured he had to go and get one of those things too.

Still, divorce was always not too far from Mom’s thoughts, and would’ve been a go if not for the realization that, albeit Dad’s very obvious faults, Mom wanted to have a baby very badly, and therefore stuck it out. The next few years were difficult, yes, but who was she to know she’d spend them in the corner of people’s living rooms while her husband wittily entertained the fellow guests. “Yeah, so I fucked the Pollock last night,” he’d say. “Might as well been doin’ the wall!” And would everyone laugh at the charm! The grace! Have another beer, Donald! Goodness Donny, tell another one about your dumb Pollock wife crying in the corner!”

After some time, my parents had my brother, Alex. Mom now had her baby and was ready to leave the man she married.

But there was trouble again when Dr. Stern, who had delivered Alex, had made it his business to tell already stressed-out mothers how many children to have.

“You gotta have two kids,” he persisted.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“‘Why?’ You just gotta!”

“No, Dr. Stern. I’m very sure I don’t want and can't handle a second child.”

Nine months later, I was born. In my first breaths of life, I was named after a Catholic Saint, a Jewish doctor, Dad’s alcoholic buddy and a famous newscaster. In my second motion, I proceeded to sterilize my poor mother; after fifteen long and painful hours in labor with me, she had decided on no more kids and had her tubes tied. She wanted this done immediately, for Dr. Stern might walk in and say, “Only two kids?! Aww c’mon, Cathy!” I was supposed to be Elizabeth Marie, but Mother Nature switched gears on us, and Peter Joseph was deposited into the world.

In my first days, I had jet-black hair and dark skin (much like the chipper Dr. Stern who took offense to any implications to who the real father was). But over time, I developed into a healthy bouncing baby boy with two different-colored eyes.

“Alex was easy to raise!” Mom will tell you today. “All I had to do was tell him to sit in front of the TV and be quiet. If I came back a week later, he’d still be there quiet as can be!” I was a different story: “If I told you to sit down and be quiet, you’d giggle, take off your diaper, run out the front door naked and down the block screaming!”

In retrospect, it sounds like I was fun to raise, but that probably isn't very true. Among plenty of embarrassing incidents, my favorite is one that occurred in the middle of a crowded super market. I was sitting in a grocery cart that Mom was pushing when we passed an Asian family. I pointed to the boy sitting in a cart just like mine and said, “Look, Mom! Chinese kid!”

“What did he say?” the boy’s father asked Mom.

Acknowledging the child’s Sesame Street shirt, Mom very swiftly and smartly replied, “Oh, he likes Big Bird.”

I was an extremely energetic and rowdy kid. Too bad it had to be brain tumors that calmed me down.

Chapter 3

On the nights before going into surgery at Children’s Hospital, Mom would make me sleep on the rough blue couch in her and Dad’s room so we wouldn’t wake up Alex when we left at four in the morning. I hated sleeping on the couch with the way it was cold and uncomfortable and small and I still hate it.

Normally at night, I have dreams. Good dreams too! Sometimes I’m flying, sometimes climbing towers or swimming with dolphins and it’s the best! Not on these nights though. When I’m sleeping on the couch, my head is full of black. There are no dreams. And suddenly, I’d hear an alarm followed by whispers. In those few moments before I was fully awake, I’d imagine waking up on a bright Sunday morning in my own room. The whisper is Mom softly saying it’s time for breakfast. I jump out of my comfortable bed and rush into the kitchen where Dad is making bacon and scrambled eggs and putting it on Alex’s plate. I can pet our golden retriever, Molly, and eat fruit and pancakes until I burp loudly and the whole family laughs. We’re happy.

But that was never the case. The whispers were from Dad complaining about being up at this ungodly hour. Just as I finally got warm and comfortable even on the dumb couch, I could hear Mom coming over to wake me up. Being woken up is the last thing I wanted. Sure, the couch isn’t my bed, but it beats hospital gurneys.

The only thing I can think of that’s more annoying than being woken up for brain surgery is being woken up for school.

* * *

Blessed Spirit Private Catholic Elementary School is where Alex goes, and where I start going, too. I was so used to sleeping in and now Mom wakes me up at seven for first grade. In the morning, Mom dresses me in a white, button-down shirt, a hot and itchy red vest and tie to match. I need special plastic inserts in my black shoes or otherwise, I’ll walk even funnier than I already do. The inserts are hard and they give my feet blisters, but I’m told they make me walk straight. To be honest, I don’t care how I walk -- on my hands if I wanted to -- just so long as my feet don’t have to be in pain anymore.

I also can’t forget my weight. That’s really important.

A few weeks ago, Mom had to buy me a special two-pound weight. It’s soft and gray and wraps tight around my left wrist so that my hand doesn’t fly everywhere. The doctors say that the communication between my brain and my left arm is impaired so there are no neurotransmitters telling it to stay put. Without the weight, my hand raises upward to the ceiling. “Don’t forget your weight,” Mom says. I don’t and I’m off to school in the red vest that itches.

Room 109 is my homeroom. When I go there, there are other kids dressed like me in red, white and black. There are big tables in rows going up and down the class with nametags by each of the four chairs at a table. I find my nametag and sit down next to a kid with dark curly hair. He’s admiring a gold ring on his right hand. It’s worth admiring so I speak up. “I like your ring,” I say to him.

“Thanks!” the boy says. “It has a picture of Jesus on it.”

I don’t know who Jesus is, but he gets brought up all the time at home! Seriously, all I hear about is Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! Alex says, “Jesus opened the gates of heaven,” but I don’t know what heaven is! Mom says, “Jesus was crucified,” and I don’t know what crucified is! Dad says, “Jesus, where the fuck are my damn boots?” and I don’t know who he’s talking to!

I was going to ask the boy who Jesus is, but he says, “I love Jesus with all my heart. He died for my sins and I love him for that.” Then he kisses the picture of Jesus on the gold ring. Blessed Spirit Private Catholic Elementary School doesn’t make sense.

But my questions are soon answered because Mrs. Jones teaches us stuff. Mrs. Jones has short blond hair, and you could fit the world in her smile. She teaches about the Jesus guy and all about religion.

See, a really long time ago, the angel Gabriel told Mary and Joseph that the fruit of their womb will bear the light of Jesus. They said OK and so Jesus was born on Christmas. That’s why we give gifts to one another and Grandma says, “Oh, isn’t this sweater lovely?” Jesus grew up to be a carpenter like Joseph, except Joseph couldn’t do miracles like Jesus. (Miracles are like magic tricks, but you can’t say that aloud in class.) Jesus’s real dad is God in Heaven who sent Jesus to earth to be crucified and die for our sins when the pilot says.

And so Jesus had the Last Supper and died the next day on the cross. When he died, his Holy Spirit opened the gates of Heaven for us.

And that’s why the dark-haired boy kissed his ring.

* * *

Once a month, we walk down the hall in two single-file lines to Mrs. Adamson’s class to say the Rosary. This is the worst part of the month ever. What they do is they march all of the first graders down to one classroom and make us sit Indian-style on carpet pieces for about an hour and a half and listen to Mrs. Adamson do rosary and we have to say about a hundred Hail Marys. We’re given plastic rosaries to follow along with and if we were caught not following, we were told to say five extra Hail Marys when we go home and maybe God will forgive us.

I always get mean looks whenever Mrs. Adamson gets to the part where Peter denied Jesus three times. The other kids glare at me like it’s my fault, but I didn’t deny Jesus! I would never deny Jesus ever! If the soldiers asked me if I knew Him, I’d step right up and say --

“Peter,” Mrs. Jones whispers, “sit still!”

“But I wouldn’t deny Jesus!” I say back. “And now everyone is mad at me and my knees hurt from sitting Indian-style and the inserts hurt my feet and I lost my place in the rosary!”

“Say your Hail Mary!”

Brendan is a big suck-up, and sometimes he cries during the part where Jesus is nailed to the cross. “That’s mean,” he whines when Mrs. Adamson describes how the soldiers whipped him and put on the crown of thorns. He wipes a tear from his eye and everyone kind of giggles at him for being a big baby. Only babies cry.

* * *

To use the bathroom, we gotta wait for the bathroom break, which is when the class goes into two single-file lines of boys and girls down the hallway. We get into two separate lines because boys are not supposed to touch girls. That’s called “inappropriate.” We’re allowed to use the bathroom only five boys at a time and if you want, you can use the drinking fountain for as long as it takes the person behind you to tap on the shoulder three times and say, “1-2-3!” If you’re caught going over the limit, or if Courtney tattles on you, you gotta get back in line, and you can’t use the drinking fountain for the rest of the day.

There are strange things against the wall in the bathrooms too. I’m told they’re toilets but they’re not, because you sit on toilets. But I guess you’re supposed to pee in them. Everyone knows how to use them fine, but I still don’t get it. What if the boy next to you has prying eyes? Or what if your Shaky Left Hand slips and your pants drop and pee goes everywhere and someone sees your privates! Then what?

“Why don’t you use the urinal, Peter?”

“The what?”

“The urinal.”

“What’s that?”

“The toilet on the wall. Use it.”

“No. I don’t want to use the urinal.”

“Idiot.”

“Shut up.”

“You said ‘Shut up!’ I’m telling!”

“No, please don’t!”

Now I gotta go home and say ten Hail Marys because Justin told on me.

* * *

Before school even started, Mom had to go in without me and explain to Mrs. Jones about my problem. She told Mrs. Jones about the brain tumors and the Shaky Left Hand. Mrs. Jones cupped her mouth and told Mom how sorry she was. Ever since then, I have to use a ruler to hold my place when we read in class. I’m told that it helps me read if I line the ruler up under what I’m reading. If I don’t use the ruler, Mrs. Jones tells me to. I’m fine though. I don’t need the ruler.

I especially don’t need her help getting up the stairs. I’m embarrassed when we’re going upstairs to art class or computer class and Mrs. Jones asks me to stand at the front of the line so she can hold my hand. No one knows that I’m fine except me. I don’t need anyone’s help to walk up stupid stairs.

* * *

The art teacher, Mrs. Kochanski, has big red glasses that make her eyes look like dinner plates. She has hair just like Grandma, and she babies me twice as much. “What we’re doing today, class,” she says, “is making fruit baskets. What you’ll need to do is grab construction paper the color of your fruit and trace the fruit with these stencils. Once you cut it out, you’ll paste it on these baskets.” The baskets are made of brown construction paper. This project looks fun! I think to myself. I love art!

“Now, Peter,” Mrs. Kochanski says once I have my construction paper, “your teacher wants me to help you out in art class if you ever need it.”

“OK,” I say. “Thanks, Mrs. Kochanski.”

When I put the banana stencil down on my yellow construction paper and pick up my pencil, Mrs. Kochanski takes it away. “Let me help you, Peter!” she says, and traces it for me. Then she takes the scissors and cuts it out. Then she takes the glue and glues it on the basket. She does this with the apple, the orange, and the grapes. When she’s done doing my project, she says, “Wow, Peter! You’re quite the little artist! Just like your brother, Alex!” and she gives me an S on my report card that I don’t even deserve.

Gym class is no better, which we have on Fridays with Mr. Durham. We can dress in jeans and a t-shirt on gym days, but this doesn’t mean anything to me since I’m not allowed to participate in class. When we all go down to the gym, I usually take my rightful place sitting in the corner, doing homework, watching the other kids play crab soccer, jump-the-shoe, and hockey. If I get up to get a drink of water, I’m asked where I’m going, what I’m doing, John needs to go with me to make sure I come back, and you can’t leave the room, young Mr. Jurich, because you might take a fall when no one is around. Do your homework.

After gym, we have the bathroom break so that we can freshen up for the story Mrs. Jones will read us when we get back to homeroom. The story is my favorite part of the week because all we have to do is sit Indian-style on our carpet pieces and listen. I love it.

“Yes, Peter?” Mrs. Jones stops reading to ask me. “You have a question?”

“No,” I say.

“Then don’t raise your hand, dear,” she says.

‘Don’t raise your hand?’ But I didn’t raise my -- Oh no! Just as sure as God is in Heaven, my left hand is floating in air! I left my weight in the lavatory during the bathroom break!!!! What do I do? Mrs. Jones is well into her story, and everyone is listening very closely. I don’t want to disturb anyone! I can’t hold back anymore. Tears start flowing and I try to wipe them before anyone notices, but I can’t. I don’t want to hang onto my hand anymore to keep it from flying away!

“Peter!” someone whispers behind me. “What’s wrong?” I turn around and see Brendan. Great. Stupid Brendan. He’s the only person I know in the world who gets laughed at more than me, and he doesn’t even have brain tumors or the Shaky Left Hand. But I still wanna tell him. He looks sad for me.

“I lost my weight!” I hiss at his dumb face, wiping tears from my cheek. “I don’t know what to do!” I don’t even know why I’m telling Brendan. He’s such a suck-up and everyone knows that he probably cries more than anyone in the world. He isn’t gonna do anything about my problem. The only thing I can do is feel sorry for myself for being such an idiot and forgetting my weight in the bathroom, all the while holding my left hand on my lap for fear it might float up. If I tell Mrs. Jones, she might be cross and so there’s nothing I can do.

“Yes, Brendan?” Mrs. Jones says as she stops reading again. I look over and I see Brendan raising his freckled little arm high into the air.

“Peter forgot his weight in the bathroom!” Brendan exclaims, and now the whole school knows what’s going on. The entire class turns around to look at me -- my tears are dry, my face is a bright red, eyes puffy and my hand is floating again because I let go.

“Why did you forget your weight, Peter?” Mrs. Jones asks.

“I don’t know! I was washing my hands and I put it -- “

“It’s your responsibility to remember these things, you know.”

“I know, but -- “

“Brendan, will you go with Peter to the lavatory and get his weight back?”

“OK, Mrs. Jones.”

It’s awful. Mrs. Jones is finishing her story while I gotta walk with dumb Brendan down the hallway to the bathroom. Brendan is like six feet tall, and he asks why I have to wear the weight. I tell him about the brain tumors and he says, “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Brendan cares a lot, but I still don’t like him.

We finally get to the lavatory and open the door to get inside. The pale green bricks on the walls make everyone look sick and throw-uppy. That doesn’t matter because, oh my God, there’s my weight being thrown around by sixth graders! They’re wondering what it is, not knowing that it’s a very important piece of my arm! I want to tell Brendan that it’s OK, that the weight isn’t worth our lives. If we say anything to them, they’ll beat us up but good, and it’s the end. Just act cool, Brendan, just chill. We’ll just turn around and walk --

“Excuse me,” Brendan whines.

The sixth graders look up at us. This is it. We’re dead meat.

“That’s his,” Brendan says pointing at me.

The sixth graders look at me. They look really mad. My eyes start to well again and I want to tell them that it’s OK. You guys can have the weight. I don’t mind my hand floating up all the time. The closer to God the better, I always say! In fact, I can’t even feel my whole left arm because of the brain tumors, ha ha ha!

“Oh, this?” the dark-haired sixth grader says. He steps forward, and I step back behind Brendan.

“Yeah,” Brendan says. “Can we have it back, please?”

Brendan doesn’t know that you don’t say ‘please’ to older kids, but the sixth-grader says, “Yeah, sure.” He throws it to Brendan, who hands it to me. I slide it on my hand and we leave.

You played it cool, Brendan. I’m proud of you. I knew we’d get that thing back from those sixth-graders, and you did your part. We’ll make something out of you yet, kid… even if you do cry over silly things like Jesus getting nailed to the cross.

Chapter 4

There’s reasons behind everything.

To get to Children’s Hospital from the parking structure, we had to walk the Yellow Brick Road that was a just a concrete hallway, cold as ever at five in the morning, with yellow bricks painted on the ground. On the walls, there were badly-drawn pictures of Dorothy, the Tin-Man, and the Scarecrow, all trying to make you feel good about being up so early to get IVs shoved in your arm. Kids know what the hidden meaning is though. We’re still gonna hurt.

But it doesn’t stop anyway. When you actually do get in the hospital, they always make you take off your clothes. Every time. And they always give you a thin thin blue gown to put on with shoes to match. Oh, the shoes. The shoes have smiley faces on them. The smiley faces try to tell you that it’s going to be OK, just smile and it’ll all be over, even though you’re cold and naked under the paper gown. We know we’re still gonna hurt.

There are reasons to Dad coming downstairs this morning.

It’s Saturday, best day of the week. Me and Alex get up at seven and play videogames in the basement for as long as we like. After videogames, it’s cartoons, then Legos. Saturday night TV later. The day is looking good.

We hear Dad get up to go to work almost every morning. He usually just heads out the door coughing, but this time he stops on the landing, waits, then we hear his footsteps coming downstairs to the basement. He smells like his job, which is a smell I love. It smells like steel and campfires.

“Hey Dad,” we say.

“Alex,” Dad says a little wimpy, “Ya wanna push the pause button on that thing?” Alex pushes pause and Dad sits on the little stool next to our big chairs. “Do you boys know what a ‘divorce’ is?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What is it, Peter?” he asks me.

“It’s when two parents separate.”

“Good boy.” Dad is about to cry. We know where this is going. “Kids, me and your mother are getting divorced. I have no where to go, and she’s kicking me out of the house.” Me and Alex don’t really know what to say. Dad kinda just cut us off right in the middle of our game. “Your mother doesn’t want me around you kids anymore. She’s going to try to keep you away from me, but I don’t want that to happen.” He puts his hand on my head and runs it through my hair. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you two just weren’t meant for each other,” I suggest. I heard that once in school.

“What?” Dad says angrily. “Who told you that? Where did you hear -- did you mother tell you that?”

“Umm…”

“Ya know, it doesn’t even matter,” he cries. “I might never even get to see you boys ever again. You’re mother hates me so much.”

Dad gets up to leave.

“I love you boys.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Dad leaves and we continue the game.

* * *

Mom is upset with Dad for telling us about the divorce so soon. She says that she read somewhere about breaking the news to your children gently, “not in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy.” It’s really not too big of a deal, though. When Dad moves out, it’s like he never left because he was never home anyway. Actually, he just moves in with his mother a few blocks away.

And Grandma Jurich’s house is the ultimate in boring! Everyday after school, because Mom has to work all the time now, Dad picks us up in his truck and we drive to Grandma’s.

Our first time at Grandma Jurich’s house, she introduces us to her blue bird, Anthony. “Anthony,” she says, “this is Alex and Peter.”

Anthony chirps.

“They’re Donald’s boys.”

Anthony chirps again.

“Yes, dear. Their mother is the crazy one.”

After Dad drops us off at Grandma’s, he leaves. No one knows where he goes, but we usually don’t see him until he picks us up from school the next day. The only room we’re allowed in is the back room -- Dad’s room -- where we can watch TV on the fold-up couch Dad sleeps on. The living room is big and comfortable with a TV twice the size of our’s in the back room, but the living room is Grandma’s. All she does is sit in the blue chair all day, drinking martinis and watching her soaps.

Occasionally, she will cook, and it’s terrible. At the dinner table, she tells us, “Mable, Mable, nice and able, keep your elbows off the table.” We hate Grandma Jurich’s house.

Anthony chirps to us at the dinner table.

“Hello, Anthony,” Grandma says.

Anthony chirps again.

“No, sweetie, this is people food.”

Chirp.

“What’s that?”

Chirp, chirp.

“Yes, darling, I know. Donald does pay the crazy mother too much child support, but that’s what happens when your ex-wife lies to her lawyer.

“So how was your day, boys?”

“Fine.”

“Lovely.”

Sometimes, when Dad is around, he asks me and Alex if we wanna go for a ride to the bar. We jump at this since Grandma’s house smells. The bar is cramped and dingy, but it has darts and good cheeseburgers. While we’re at the bar, Dad meets up with his buddies and flicks Alex in the side of the head.

“Ow!” Alex yells.

“Oh, that didn’t hurt!” Dad roars with laughter, crossing his legs and taking a drink. His friends all laugh, but me and Alex just go back to darts. We wait for the waitress to bring our “cheeseboogers” Dad calls them.

On the way home later, Dad says, “Now boys, do me a favor and don’t tell your mother that I took you to a bar today. I mean, let’s just keep it between us men, all right?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Otherwise, she’ll get all mad and wanna take me to court, and you know how it is with women.” Dad looks at us and laughs. “Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag!” Alex and I laugh too, oh how strict Mom can be on poor Dad kicked out of the house. It really doesn’t make a difference if we don’t tell Mom, though. When we get home, she says we reek of cigarette smoke.

“Where have you been?” she asks.

“The bar.”

“Dad took you to a bar?”

“Yeah, except he told us not to tell you.”

“Hmm.”

Chapter 12

I can say I had a positive high school experience. I can say that I was picked first in gym all the time, that I was the star of every school play. I had friends up the ass, and those who weren’t my friends, how they’d strive for my attention. “Yo, Peter!” they’d shout Monday mornings. “Let me tell you about my weekend! I bet it doesn’t even compare to your’s, but it was still pretty wild! What? You were at that party too?! I barely remember it, dawg! You were in the band?! Man, that was wicked! Chicks were swarming all over you dudes, dude!”

Someone else would interrupt this conversation: “Hey, Jurich! We need a forward for basketball third hour! You in?” I have math class, but the teacher loves me and will give me a pass, so why not? Meanwhile, the theatre director would grab me just before the bell rings to ask if I’ll be able to come to rehearsal on such short notice. But I can’t, I’ve got a shoot for my final video project. Meanwhile, Brittany walks up to me and kisses me passionately on the lips and says, “I can’t wait for the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert tonight after cheerleading practice!” and I say something cool like, “Cool.”

Anyway, yeah, I can say I had a positive high school experience, but that would be terribly dishonest of me, and I don’t want those lies on my conscience.

* * *

My first days at Dearborn High were terrifying at best. As time went on, there wasn’t really much improvement either. I was a straightedge catholic schoolboy thrown into a dangerous public school where everyone had a better complexion. I looked up to everyone, literally. The only thing I had the upper hand on was the primary purpose high school served: education.

“This is a test tube,” the teacher said on the first day of biology class, “and this is a beaker.” Everyone frantically took notes while I kicked back and gloated silently to myself. My science teacher at Blessed Spirit had prepared us very well for high school and so I think I deserved these fifty minutes of self-indulgent egotism every day. Mainly because second hour was gym, and I was no real participant for locker room antics.

“So didja fuck her?”

“You totally checked out my balls, fag!”

These are a few of the conversation-starters you might hear in the men’s locker room. Such crudeness! I thought. It was probably my first real introduction to “man talk,” seeing as my skeletal physique had kept me away from similar situations.

Out on the gym floor, I was twice as confused as I watched teachers direct freshman and cocky sophomores to their designated set of bleachers. Kids would grab basketballs and gym instructors would say, “Tony! Put that ball away!” or “Sit your butt down, Mike!” I could already tell I wasn’t going to like gym that much.

“PE-9 over here!” a voice yelled off to the side. The voice’s owner was a gargantuan man who looked like Stone Cold Steve Austin. He wore a big gray sweatshirt and blue running shorts that barely reached his thighs. You’d half expect his sweatshirt to say “COACH” on the front when he turned around, and what was just as surprising is that it did.

Obedient and skeptical, I sat amongst the students of PE-9 class, most of whom apparently knew each other. I sat in front of a thin redheaded boy who looked twice as lost and I checked out the action. “You should always have at least one prospect in every class,” Mom always said. So I searched.

I spotted a chatty, blond girl in the front row. She reminded me of the girls at Blessed Spirit, so -- being the only type of female I was really familiar with -- I tried catching her eye. For all I knew, I would’ve been successful if not for Tall Dark & Dimples strutting up to the bleachers.

“Jason!” my star-crossed sweetheart screamed as the muscled brute took a seat. I had absolutely no chance at her now. Jason was probably a football player at the least. Plus he had a full goatee of thick black hair. How could I top that?

“Oh,” he said shyly. “Hey Erin. What’s up?”

Erin, her name was! Beautiful! But I had no time for fantasies reminiscent of Doug Funnie pining over Patty Mayonnaise; this guy was stealing my potential thunder. She gave him a big hug that I imagined was meant for me, and the two made idle talk for a bit. I could only think that she probably only goes for the athletic type. But there’s no harm in trying… I guess.

She was facing this “Jason” character, and was therefore looking in my direction. I mused over her golden locks for half a minute hoping to catch her interest. Finally, she had looked up at me! Although I was stunned a moment, she held her gaze long enough for me to do something. Anything! Smile damnit! OK, here I go…

“Can I borrow a pencil?” the thin red-headed boy behind me asked.

“What?” I asked, instinctively diverting my attention to him.

“A pencil,” he said. “Can I borrow one?”

And there they were: the first words spoken to me in my high school career. They were not “Hey man, you’re cool! Let’s chill!” or “Wanna be my date to the back-to-school party this weekend?” Hell, I would’ve taken “Out of my way, freshman!” At least that would’ve insinuated some sort of presence on my part.

No. They were “Can I borrow a pencil?” I didn’t realize it until later, but these first words defined a lot more about me other than my appearance of one who most likely carries a writing utensil. It defined me as a person. It defined my social skills. Not even two hours into the day, and I had already become That Kid.

That Kid is the quiet one you see in the corner of every classroom. Or maybe he sits in the front row. Or he might even sit in the back row… Actually, ya know what? That Kid sits wherever he wants. The point is that no one knows That Kid’s name. He comes to class every day, turns in his homework, takes notes, leaves. More importantly, he is practically a bull’s eye when you’ve nothing to write with.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, handing the boy my least favorite snowman pencil. When I had turned back around to further embrace the moment I had with Erin, she was already over me, talking to other people, thinking about other things. The rest of my hour was spent staring off into space.

Then there was another girl, Stephanie, who I sat next to in video class. We talked for a little bit. She asked where I came from. When I said Blessed Spirit, she giggled. “A nice little BS boy, huh?” I blushed. I was a catholic schoolboy, the most embarrassing type of boy you could be. Stephanie and I were hitting it off, making our quiet conversation when…

“Hi!” said some asshole who sat on the other side of her.

“Hi!” Stephanie said, turning her back to me.

“Some asshole” was this short kid with spiky hair and glasses. He was wearing khaki shorts and a blue short-sleeve flannel, but what really stood out was his acne. It looks worse than mine, I thought. Stephanie is so not going to be impressed by that!

“I’m Luke!” the jerk said in a scratchy and nasally voice that sounded like Bart Simpson. I couldn’t understand it. Who was this guy? He had acne like me and was still confident and happy! He held Stephanie’s attention the entire five minutes until the teacher showed up!

“I’ve always been into the technical side of things,” he boasted. “While other kids were playing dodge ball and football at lunch, I was playing on my scientific calculator with my physics book out in front of me. I guess that’s what happens when you work at a brake testing facility with your dad, right? My dad’s the vice president.”

Luke was a self-proclaimed nerd who had acne and was able to talk to girls. I had to be friends with him.

Class ended and I had a half hour for lunch. The cafeteria was huge and orange, and everyone was sitting together and laughing and talking, asking one another how their summer was and what classes they have. I sat by myself. I promised myself that tomorrow I’d have someone to sit with, even though the odds were pretty much against me. For the first time all day, I wondered how Mike and Chris and Tom and John and Mike and Mike and Matt and John were doing over at Blessed Spirit. Did they even miss me?

* * *

That night, Alex and I had dinner at Dad’s house.

“So, Peter,” Dad said when we were all cozily around the dinner table. “How’d you like your first day of high school?”

“I dunno, Dad. It was OK, I guess. It’s a lot different from middle school.”

“Oh yeah, I believe it! High school is way different!” I wanted to change subjects, but Dad kept going. “Best years of your life, high school. Cherish these days, Peter. You’ll never have anything like ‘em again! I’m tellin’ ya, Peter. High school a blast if you only -- Hey! Hey!” Dad directed his attention to Mischa who was scrounging around for scraps. “Get outta here!” he roared, kicking the poor cat in the side, which sent him running away crying.

“That was a little mean, don’t you think?” Alex said.

“Yeah, well, the little shit woke me up this morning! He had it coming to him!” That’s my dad. Getting revenge on cats.

“Uh huh, high school is the best years of your life, Peter. I tell ya, Mr. Davis and I ran Dearborn High when we went there. Other guys liked to give everyone shit, but we were the two most popular guys in school. And I tell ya what -- we did it without insulting anyone. I mean, shit, we were always stickin’ up for the fat chicks, defending guys like your brother here.” Dad laughed and smacked Alex on the shoulder. “Just try to make friends with anyone you can, and in four years, you’ll be on every page in the yearbook!”

If high school is the best years of my life, I thought, I’ll just give up now.

* * *

The next day in gym, after given our lockers and combinations, we were told to get dressed for class. I have to strip into my underwear around other guys? This was something I had never done before, and never planned on doing since I always got made fun of for having no hair on my legs. Having no hair on your legs means you’re “gay.”

Gay. That was a word I heard a couple times before, but heard about a hundred times in the first two days at Dearborn High (“Bro, this guy is so gay!”). Everyone used the term “gay” when they didn’t like something. Anyone who brings their lunch to school in a paper bag is gay. Anyone who does his homework to turn in the next day is gay. Anyone who walks funny is gay. It seemed like the only thing that wasn’t gay was walking around buck-naked in a locker room full of guys whipping each other in the ass with damp towels.

The word “faggot” was important, too. It was not uncommon on any given day that someone might stroll up to you and say, “Hey! Ya wanna see me dick?” Before you have a chance to respond, he'll already come back with, “Why? Are you a faggot?”

The world was confusing.

“Whitey-tighties, huh? Man, you are old school,” said the kid sitting next to me with short, brown hair and platinum gold highlights. I felt really embarrassed when I looked around the locker room and noticed everyone in boxers. I wanted to apologize: “I’m sorry! I went to catholic school where we never had gym class and briefs were recommended because they kept us from playing with ourselves in class or thinking dirty thoughts about all the short skirts!” I might’ve said.

“Whatever floats your boat, brother,” he said, confidently with boxers and hairy legs. “I’m Jeremy.”

“Hi. I’m Peter.”

“Ha!”

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, you’re serious?” Jeremy had a kind of California surfer thing going. His voice was really Whoa, man. Like, cool! which I guessed meant he smoked lots of weed. “Oh, sorry. It’s just sort of a funny name.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, feeling even more embarrassed of my smooth legs and whitey-tighties.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean it like that! I mean, ya know, it’s different! It’s kinda cool!”

“Yeah, sure.”

I bought sweatpants for gym class strictly so no one could make fun of my legs. I didn’t care if everyone was wearing shorts; I’d rather get made fun of for long pants than feminine legs. I was pulling them up when I noticed the husky dark-haired boy to my left looking at me. He had a stern face, but when I looked over at him, he quickly nodded his head up -- as they do in high school, as if to say, “Hello friend,” -- with his hugely expressive eyes and thick eyebrows.

“Yo, what’s your name?” the kid asked in a breathy voice.

I extended my hand. “Oh, hey. My name’s Pe -- ”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOUR NAME IS!” the boy cut me off, yelling at me and slapping my hand away. Then he stood up, raised his arms and shouted, “DO YOU SMEEEEELL WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKIN’!” The boy stood on the bench triumphantly and everyone around us celebrated his successfully played joke.

“Right on, man!”

“Yeah! Good one!”

Out in the actual gym, I took my usual seat in front of the kid with red hair. On the first day of school, no matter where you sit, it’s expected that you sit there the next day, even if there’s no assigned seating. So you better get the good spot next to your friends. I didn’t have to worry about it: I had no friends, so I was safe.

I sat and stared off to my angel, Erin, sitting there talking to some other cute friends (though not nearly as cute as she.) I was trying again to lock eyes with her when Jason, the walking ball of stupid chump, came strolling into class.

“Hey, Jason!” Erin screamed.

“Hi, Erin,” he said back smugly.

I hated Jason. I hated how he knew Erin from somewhere else. I hated his coy little smirk when he said hi to her, or how he showed off his muscles. I hated how he probably shaved his facial hair everyday, peaking it to accentuate his handsome chin. I hated how he walked right up to me, grinned and said, “Hey, man! What’s up?”

“Huh? Oh, uhh, nothing. How ‘bout you?”

“Not much,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Listen, I’m gonna be straight up with you. I’m a huge dork. You look like a dork, too. Ya wanna be friends?” Looking closer, I noticed that Jason was wearing a Batman shirt with a hole in the bottom hem, which exposed his belly, and his khaki shorts had a sloppy ketchup stain on the left leg. I figured that perhaps he really was -- as previously stated -- a huge dork.

“Oh, umm, yeah, sure,” I said.

“OK, cool,” Jason said. He sat next to me, turned around and said, “You too. Wanna hang out with us?”

“Yeah! Cool!” The kid with the red hair smiled his biggest, toothiest smile.

“OK, well, I’m Jay.”

“Hi Jay! I’m Ernie!” the red-haired kid said. He was all too happy to even have someone talking to him outside of, “Yeah, you can borrow my pencil.”

“And I’m Peter.” I said, shaking his hand.

“OK, Pete. Nice to meet ya.”

I never said my name was Pete.

* * *

It was only the second day of school and I already had friends at a lunch table with me! Jay was a huge inspiration. He was funny and charismatic and friends with everyone. People walked by our lunch table saying, “Hey Jay! What’s up? How’s the day going? Finding your classes OK?”

“God, Jay!” Ernie was beaming. “You’re so popular!”

“Yeah, no kidding!” I said. “You must’ve known everybody at your old school!”

“Yeah,” Jay said. “But none of them go here.”

“So how do you know everyone?”

“I met everyone just today.”

It was mind-blowing. There was no way he just up and met all of these people today. How did he do it? Wasn’t he afraid they’d say, “Get out of here, weirdo”? Ernie was already speaking my mind.

“No way, Jay! No one is that friendly! Prove it!”

“OK,” Jay said. He looked around the lunchroom for a group of kids he didn’t know, spotting some at the table next to us. Confidently, he waltzed up to them, introduced himself, and even sat down for a few minutes with them, talking up a storm! Ernie and I just sat there in disbelief, in awe of his magnetic social skills.

Jay returned to the lunch table. “Pete, Ernie. That’s Steve, Jason and Mike,” he said, pointing across the aisle. “They’re gonna sit with us tomorrow.”

“Cool!” Ernie said. It was cool. Jay was like no one I’d ever met. You’d never have seen anyone at Blessed Spirit walking up to your lunch table, introducing himself, and inviting you to sit with him. People at BS would say, “Fuck you! You walk funny!” It probably helped a little that Jay was a big brooding guy with facial hair at age fourteen. With him around, no one could make fun of my funny walk or Shaky Left Hand.

“Hi Jay!” said a high and cute voice behind me.

Before I even turned around, Jay said, “Oh! Hey, Maria!”

Maria?

I turned around and that was it. I was in love.

She was the most adorable thing in the world, Maria. She was a little thing, wearing a brown dress that flipped up at the end of her skirt. She was all brown actually: short, brown hair and big brown eyes, with three brown moles on her cheek that formed a perfect isosceles triangle. She was mine, and she was at our lunch table.

Jay and I were unstoppable. There wasn’t anyone in school who didn’t know us. We were the team that people loved and adored, and soon our table was the most popular table in the lunchroom.

I had also begun striking up conversations with Luke in video class. I was smooth, too. I butted in on one of his and my Stephanie’s conversations, saying, “I can’t wait to start shooting movies.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, his red and throbbing zits about to pop all over Stephanie’s cleavage. “And what interests you about all of this?”

“Well,” I bragged, “my brother, Alex, won a bunch of awards in the video program and it looks like a lot of fun.”

“Oh, cool!” Luke said stupidly while I stole Stephanie’s attention.

After class, Luke was kissing my ass. “So you’re Alex’s brother, huh? I’ve seen some of his videos after school. They’re really cool! Speaking of which,” he said, “what are you doing after school today?”

And then I was in. Luke wanted to be my friend. It was exhilarating. I would finally know his secrets to having confidence in the face of acne! I could almost hear him say, “You win. You can have Stephanie.”

“I dunno,” I told him. “Why?”

“Well,” he said, “there’s a Prayer Group meeting after school, and I wanted to know if you’d be interested in coming with me!”

Prayer Group? With that, I’d had had enough of Luke Duncan. Being his friend wasn’t worth sitting in a dead quiet room with fifteen other people, pretending to pray. What a stupid idea. Just because I went to Blessed Spirit doesn’t mean I’m just dying to start praying again! I left that school to get away from that shit. No, Luke Duncan, I was wrong; I don’t think we could ever be friends.