While I was in the hospital, Mom would get nightly phone calls from crazy aunts. “Oh, Cathy! I had the worst dream!” they'd cry. “I dreamed that Peter died!”
“Peter's not dead,” Mom would reply. “He's going to be OK.” The absurdity of this, Mom thought—she was the one with a child in the hospital and she was the one comforting others!
Naturally, she stayed a little protective of me, be it of something I have done or said... or sang.
* * *
Mom and I were sitting outside Haigh Elementary School one night waiting for Alex to get out of a Boy Scout meeting. I had Basket Case by Green Day stuck in my head.
“I went to a shrink,” I sang, “to da da dada da. She said da dada da that’s bringing me down. I went to a whore, she said my life’s a bo—”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Mom roared, honking the horn when her fists pounded on the steering wheel. “YOU WENT TO A WHAT?!”
“A whore,” I said quietly.
“Where did you hear that word?” Mom was really angry.
“It’s just a lyric in a song.”
“Well, I don’t want you singing that raunchy song ever again!” She was so mad, and I didn’t know why.
“Why?” I asked. “What’s a whore?”
Mom hesitated before saying, “It’s… it’s someone who gives really bad advice.” I wasn’t too sure what was wrong with that, but I never wanted to use that word ever again if Mom was going to explode again and blow up the car.
* * *
I couldn’t wait for Kyle to call me one evening that summer. It was the day that Banjo-Kazooie was coming out for Nintendo 64, and he was going to buy it right when his mom got home from work. He told me he’d call me as soon as he got in the door and put it in his system. And so I waited by the phone… for an hour… two hours, until I got too impatient to wait anymore and called him myself.
“Hello?”
“Did you get it?”
“Get what?”
“Banjo-Kazooie!”
“Oh… Yeah, I did. Who’s this?”
“Peter!”
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey! So can I come over?”
“Uhh, yeah, sure. I guess so.”
I pestered Mom enough, but that’s how you get what you want, so she eventually gave in and took me to Kyle’s.
Kyle’s room was a big upstairs loft that he shared with his brother. There wasn’t any finish on the walls so it was basically an attic with the frame showing and everything. Between the two beds on the far side of the room was a twenty-inch TV with a Nintendo 64 hooked up. Kyle said hi, but just barely taking his face away from the screen. I sat down on the bed and watched him play.
In Banjo-Kazooie, you play a bear named Banjo who has to save his sister Tooty from the evil witch Gruntilda with the help of your bird-friend Kazooie who lives in your backpack. It was the most anticipated game to come out that year and there I was, watching Kyle play when I could be. Except it’s his game, so what was I to do? I’d sound like a jerk saying, ‘Hey Kyle. You’ve been playing for three hours. Can I try now?’
But I said it anyway.
“Oh yeah, I guess,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Kyle was one of those people who hog videogames. He wouldn’t let me sit in the chair that was in front of the TV so I plopped down on his bed. When I had the controller in my hand, he kept telling me, “Now turn left here,” or, “Do a long jump here.” As long as he was still in control, it was OK for him to watch… until he got bored.
Kyle yawned really loud and wriggled a bit in his chair. “You’re sitting in my come, you know,” he told me restlessly.
“What?”
“You’re sitting in my come.”
I figured Kyle was just trying to confuse me or play with my head since he wasn’t playing with the videogame. He probably figured I would get so wrapped up in his coming that I’d say, ‘Forget this. Here’s your game.’ But instead, I did the opposite. I just shrugged it off and said, “Whatever you say, Kyle.”
“You’re gross,” he kept going.
I put the controller down this time. “I’m gross?”
“Yeah. You don’t mind sitting where I come. That’s disgusting.”
I looked at his bed. Did he come from the bed? I didn’t get it.
“What are you talking about, coming from where I’m sitting?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t come from there. I come there.”
“So you sleep here.”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
“No. I guess not.”
I went to Kyle’s house to play a videogame. What I got was a whole new outlook on life. Kyle explained to me about the birds and the bees and how the penis goes in the vagina and I always wondered how babies were really born anyway and it’s not even come like coming and going, but it’s cum like a spontaneous cumbustion exploding wildly into the midnight sky—and my goodness what a topic to bring up to a guest!
Mom was waiting in the car outside. “Did you have a good time?” she asked.
“Boy, did I ever!”
* * *
Me and Kyle’s talk couldn’t have come at a better time. We eventually began our Human Growth and Development classes with Mrs. Gershwin who was brave enough to teach the class. Fortunately, I was already a pro on the subject thanks to Kyle.
“Sex,” Mrs. Gershwin hesitated before a class of thirty students who were all eager to learn some new dirty words, “is, well, it’s, it’s like this. A man. Right, a man, he, well, he sticks his, um, his erection into—an erection is a, it’s a penis that is hard. Anyway, yeah, he places, or shoves rather—well it’s kinda both—his erection into the woman’s vaginal, uhh, vagina.”
As students started to learn more, the more some things clicked. It started off as quiet whispers in the hallway and they eventually pushed it to chuckles in the classroom. Before I knew what hit me, kids were coming up to me and shouting like it was nothing.
“Hey Penis! Hey Pee Pee!”
Apparently, my name, Peter, sounds like Penis. It was something no one ever noticed until this damn class. No one wanted to take responsibility for the teasing. When I confronted those “friends,” they all gave me the same response that usually credited some famous Peter:
“What? No way, man. I think it’s a cool name,” one friend told me. “I mean, seriously. Like Saint Peter? He was way cool.”
Great. So now not only was I a slang term for a gross body part, but now I was ‘way cool’ for denying Jesus.
* * *
Mom came home that night hoping to make dinner, clean a bit and go to bed. Instead she got me.
“My name means ‘penis!’” I cried to her. “Why did you name me that?”
What?” she asked. “I didn’t name you Penis.”
“You did!” I insisted. “Ever since Human Growth, I haven’t heard the end of it! I couldn’t be named Mike or John or something normal!”
“Why? So you can be like everyone else?” she asked. “If I yelled for Mike or John in the grocery store, half the place would come running.”
It was a good argument, but still, how could she do this to me? Did she really prefer to have her son tortured and outcast the rest of his life just because of a funny name?
“I like your name,” she continued. “I didn’t want to name you what everyone else was naming their kids anyway. It’s so typical.” I didn’t really understand how a life of agony makes up for having an original name so I just cried.
It’s not like Mom liking my name stopped anyone from making fun of me. Even harmless variations of my name that other people came up with were annoying and I’d get upset. Pete, Petey P, PJ, Peter Pan, Peter Cottontail, Peter Peter Pumpkin-Eater, Penis Boy, Peter Piper, Peter Rabbit, Pita Bre—
“Wait. Penis Boy?”
“Yeah, I mean, your name is another word for penis, right?”
“Shut up, jerk!” I told the stupid stringy-haired boy who called me that.
And before you know it, you’re on the playground before school even starts, in a fight with a kid from a grade above. Everyone was going Ooooooooooh. But it wasn’t the fun ooh you say when Robert Savel spills his milk at lunch. This kind of ooh was lower and it sounded like something bad was gonna happen.
When the ooh’s were over with and done, I found myself caught in a circle of students with only me and the stringy-haired boy in the middle, and I had no idea what was coming until the stringy-haired boy shoved me into the fence.
Normally I always liked attention, but this was not what I ever had in mind. I was wily enough and able to push the stringy-haired boy back a couple times, but he cried for his friend who was much taller and fatter than both of us combined. I’m no fool but I am a little cowardly so I tried running away, but the circle of students barricaded me in, shouting things like “Get back in there, Penis Boy!”
My adrenaline was pumping and I couldn’t back down. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I had to prove I’m tough, even if I lost. I tried jumping on the stringy-haired boy one time, but his fat friend had plans to punch me in the shoulder and knock me down.
I stayed on the ground for a few seconds to try to catch my breath. When I got up ready to fight again, everyone had gone to class. It was over as quickly as it began. Blessed Spirit very rarely had a fight, and even in my roughed up condition, I was actually kind of proud to be a part of this one.
When you’re in a fight in school, your fellow students will think you’re “bad news.” Being bad news is actually good news because then you become the tough kid in school and no one wants to mess with you because they think you’ll hurt them. When you’re bad news, girls whisper behind your back about how cute and mysterious you are. When Mike Consiglio got in a fight and had his tooth chipped with a hockey stick, he had girls whispering every which way.
I felt like a celebrity.
At least I would have if anyone really cared about me in a fight with the stringy-haired kid and fat kid from the upper grade. What you’ll never even know about being bad news is that you gotta keep fighting people to keep the reputation, and I wasn’t about to fight any more assholes so I guess it’s back to being a nobody. People may still have called me Penis Boy, but at least Mom wasn’t going to yell about grass stains on my brand new Dockers.
My nose was bleeding for the first part of the day, but no one cared. When the fight’s over and there’s nothing to watch anymore, people stop thinking you’re tough. Before Homeroom that day, I came in early and told Mrs. Glenn, “People are making fun of my name!”
“Making fun of your name?” she asked. “Who would do a thing like that? Peter is a great name!”
“No, it’s not. It means ‘penis.’”
“Excuse me?” she said appalled. I cried to Mrs. Glenn and dried my tears before anyone else even came into the classroom. Mrs. Glenn made a speech before the day was over:
“Names are sacred,” she announced to the class. “Names are very personal. We all have one, and I don’t want to hear anything more about students here making fun of somebody else’s name.” Everyone in the class looked at me. They all knew. “We are to respect the each and individual names of our peers. They are a gift that our parents and God gave us!”
I thanked Mrs. Glenn for the speech because it was very nice of her but I would’ve worded it differently. I’m pretty sure God didn’t give me this name. He would’ve been smart and named me Mike or John.
* * *
As time went on, religion class discussions drifted further and further into unspeakable topics—topics almost impossible to discuss in our class.
“As Christians,” Mrs. Terwillinger preached, her beak nose poking dangerously out of her curly blond hair, “we are tested every day. It is imperative, especially in this time of preparation for our third, and quite possibly most important, commandment that we pass each test presented to us. The devil is going to try and stray us away from the path of our Heavenly Father and we have an obligation to deny his evil doings. We cannot ever give in. Some temptations are harder to resist than others. Sure, it will get us out of trouble to lie to our parents. It’s easy to blame the broken vase on your little sister, I know. But the temptations I speak of today go beyond such examples that may seem superficial. I speak of temptation that only we know about. Temptations that derive from the sexual. I’m speaking about impure thoughts and masturbation.”
Laughter sputtered around the room. “Oh my GOD!” Scott said unquietly. “Jesus! Did she just say that?”
“Now, Scott,” Mrs. Terwillinger approached him kindly, “please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Yeah, dude,” I spat my foot out of my mouth. I didn’t see what was so funny about the discussion. It’s something everyone does so what’s the big deal? “We’re just talking about masturbating,” I said.
Gasp from the whole class.
“Peter Jurich!” Mrs. Terwillinger raged. “Another improper outburst like that and we’ll be sending you to the office!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Terwillinger.” Bitch.
“Well, I hope you are! Anyway,” she continued, “masturbation, though it is often done privately and is of no immediate harm to others, is a sin nonetheless. It requires lustful thoughts—thoughts that are harmful to you. The Lord tells us we shall never covet our neighbor’s wife. Furthermore, we should never covet anyone. It is an invasion of his or her person and physical love is only to be practiced within the confines of Holy Matrimony!
“Now Peter,” she continued. “Since you apparently find masturbation a fickle topic, you then would not mind reading the section in the religion text aloud for us.”
Mrs. Terwillinger didn’t like my family. She felt that it was wrong of my parents to divorce and disrupt the nuclear family unit. She sucked a lot and would never waste any excuse to embarrass me in front of the whole class. She knew that I was sensitive too, that I cried easily and she definitely used that to her advantage. After all, she would never volunteer anyone to read anything had she not known they didn’t come to class prepared.
“I don’t have my book today, Mrs. Terwillinger,” I mumbled, sinking into my chair. “I accidentally left it in my locker.”
“You left your religion book at locker?” she repeated slowly for all the class to hear.
“Yes.”
“Goodness gracious, Peter! I can understand leaving your science book in your locker. I can even understand leaving your math book in your locker! But your religion book? How could you?”
Mrs. Terwillinger never used to yell at students very much. By all means, she may have been incapable of it. Her appearance was probably the least intimidating of any teacher I’ve had so far: She was very short and pudgy with small beady eyes. She looked liked a shorter Big Bird, I always thought, with a long nose and large feathery yellow hair. Coincidentally, she squawked when anything surprised her. So instead of yelling, she enjoyed sending kids on a guilt trip of the worst kind. She would pretend she wasn’t angry but instead a bit confused as to how the minds of the incompetent youth of today worked.
“You know,” she said as she paced the front on the classroom, “maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I always used to hold religion in a much higher esteem than any other subject. Sure, I enjoyed learning geography and language studies, but I always used to find that deepening my faith made me a far more secure and confident person. And I found the more I paid attention in class, the closer I became to God.
“I really don’t understand what happened. Today, it really seems that students don’t find the subject of religion to be as important, or as interesting, as the others.” She quickly shot a glance at me to make sure my eyes were starting to water. The entire class’s attention was focused on me. That’s right—everyone was giving attention to the heathen boy named Penis who comes from a bad family with divorced parents who hate God. This boy will never be capable of loving, they all thought.
Mrs. Terwillinger persisted further as if she hadn’t already won.
“Sure, there are students out there who come from families that hold a strong Catholic upbringing, but still there are children who don’t seem to have any desire to discover where they come from and who they are. They insist on neglecting their place in the world. They insist on coming to class without their text…
“Now Michael, would you be so kind as to lend Peter your book so he can read aloud the section on masturbation?” Then she’d add a sigh and an “I just don’t get it” to allow the guilt to sink in just one more time.
* * *
Woody ran away a lot (the damn hamster) and I got pretty tired of it. Every time he did that, I had to make promises to God. Oh Lord above, I’d pray at night, please bring Woody home safely even though he’s probably just in the basement. If You do this, I promise I’ll stop masturbating at night, for I’m regrettably woeful that I might soil Your good name each time I soil my good underpants. Please God, bring Woody back to his cage. Woody would always come back and I would be happy.
And then one night when I came home from Dad’s, Mom had some bad news.
“Peter,” she said, sitting me down on the couch, a frown on her face, “I don’t want to tell you this, but Woody passed away today. I went to clean out his cage, and he wouldn’t wake up. I’m sorry.”
Mom hugged me and I was a little sad.
But part of me was also a little relieved. Woody being gone forever meant no more promises to God, which meant I could masturbate anytime I wanted to, day or night, and so Mrs. Terwillinger must be the biggest whore in the world because her advice was always really bad.
