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.