It’s a Saturday, three weeks till the test. Ma sees how anxious I am and suggests hitting the Aquarium to destress. I invite Mar to come with us. He’s never been before and he’s especially amped about the tank in the middle. I’ve gotten tired of that tank—usually, when I go to the Aquarium, I speed ahead to the gift shop to cop shark teeth—but Mar gets me hyped about it again. It’s a gigantic, three-story tube, with a spiral concrete ramp that runs around it. The best thing about the ramp is that there are these dividers that chop up the tank glass into private window booths, and because it’s mad dark in the Aquarium it feels like you have your own little movie theater.
There’s a massive coral reef at the center of the tank, and a billion different fish, from tiny neon guppies to long, swooping sand sharks, circle around it endlessly. We find an empty booth and Mar bugs when a moray eel snakes out of a hole in the coral. He says, “Oh snap,” when a geezer sea turtle glides by. He cracks up when a fish that looks like a pancake, with a skinny protruding beak and wide googly eyes on each side of its body, stalls in front of our glass. Then we walk up a flight and find a booth on the opposite end of the tube. A shark swims by and glares at us with its big black and white eye.
“How come nothing ever eats anything in there?” I say, even though this is the kind of question Ma never seems to have the answer to. “You’d think those sharks would get their grub on.”
“Those are nurse sharks,” says Mar. “They just eat algae and stuff. They’re more like whales.”
“How do you know?”
“Used to wanna be a marine biologist.”
“Doubt marine biologists make much loot.”
“I’m saying. I used to.”
“You think that dude’s a marine biologist?” I say, eyeing a diver who’s hand-feeding a ray.
“Nah, he’s like a rent-a-cop version. Real marine biologists don’t mess around with tanks. They’re out in the ocean, with whales and stuff. I saw this show on PBS about these French dudes who dive with blue whales. You know how big a blue whale is? Like a hundred feet—like a NBA court.”
We watch the fish circle for a minute or so.
“You ever think about how bonk the ocean is?” Mar says, staring through the glass. “I don’t know…like, a lot of the time I forget about it even being there, but then I’ll be on the bus or doing groceries with my grandma or whatever, and outta nowhere I’ll start thinking about it—how, if you look at a map, it’s mostly blue. And then I’ll start thinking about it more and I’ll be like, this is bonk, there’s this huge pile of water splashing all over the planet, and a lot of it’s deeper than the biggest mountains go tall, and there’s, like, blue whales swimming around in there, like, bodies big as towers just swimming around in there. That’s bonk, right?”
“Sounds like maybe you still wanna be a marine biologist,” says Ma, smiling.
“Maybe a little,” Mar says.
“That’s bonk, though, right?” he says a couple seconds later.
Benno nods. I’m tempted to bulge my eyes and say, RO-gaine.
Instead I say, “I feel you.”
THAT NIGHT IN my room, I stare at the blue whale poster on my wall. Pops bought it for me a few years ago, at the Natural History Museum in New York. When he was a kid, he went to that museum all the time with Cramps, and his favorite part was the life-sized whale hanging from the ceiling. I’d heard so much about that whale, and when I saw it in real life I was a little disappointed. The way Pops hyped it, I assumed it was alive and in a tank. Still, I loved that poster because Pops loved that whale. Eventually I stopped feeling it and I almost tore it down. But now, with all the stress in my life, I’m glad I didn’t. It’s calming to have that chill-ass whale up there. I wouldn’t mind being a whale—preying on nothing, letting the seaweed and plankton slip through my lips, a soft, untouchable king.
Hours later I’m hard as a harpoon, fending off midnight thoughts of breasts and tests, and I realize I’m conning myself with this whale talk. Pops gives mad loot to Greenpeace; I’ve seen enough of their mailings to know better. Whales aren’t above shit. They’re getting smoked to extinction. I start imagining my puny white ass at English. I see Rawlins wave his hideous fingernail at me and I feel my pulse going past the speed limit. I try to think of Carmen and her sweet loopy letters to calm down. Then Pam creeps back into the picture, but now she’s in the bubble bath, behind prison bars. I try to force Carmen back in and now I’m trying with Jesus, too. Carmen and Jesus at their desks, practicing cursive. But the vile shit keeps worming its way back in, and I guess my hand has been moving down there this whole time without me even realizing it, because, all of a sudden, my whole body tenses up and my legs go straight as a mummy and my heart beats so hard I think it’s an attack, but then a bolt flashes through me and flashes again and mini-flashes a couple more times and then I feel more relaxed than I can remember in my whole life. My pajamas are wet, but I’m too chill to care. I’m floating. For a few seconds, I don’t need anything, fear anything, think anything. This is the best part, even better than the explosion—the paradise of no thought.
NOW THAT I’VE discovered the tactic, I can’t stop. I’m back at it that night, and the next morning. I’m at it all week. Some people cope with cologne on the upper lip; I escape with a palmful of Jergens. The problem is what happens a minute or so later, after the thought-free feeling wears off. That’s when the guilt sets in. Covered in my crime, I start thinking about where I’m headed if I don’t stop. Hell—the permanent pen.
I didn’t use to stress that much about hell—didn’t need to. I barely dabbled in evil, and when I did, it was usually small stuff, like dismembering daddy longlegs. When I messed up, I’d pray out an apology to G-dash, not knowing if he was Jewish or Christian, just knowing he was up there, heated. I always felt like he eventually forgave me and moved on. But this is different—the tactics are a big-league sin—and I’m not sure if my homemade G-dash is legit enough to get me out of hell. I’ve tried asking Jesus to pardon me, but this just makes me feel worse. A fake Christian can go to hell just for eating a wafer. So I assume a fake Christian, especially a masturbating Jewish one, isn’t supposed to ask Jesus for favors. I wish I could just convert, clear up all this confusion, and roll to Mar’s church.
MAR COMES OVER after the library as usual. Even though it’s a Friday, we’re both stressed because the test is a week away. Mar wants to relax with his C’s tapes, but before he pops one in, I turn to this local access show I’ve been watching lately. It makes me feel a little cleaner after tactics, and I figure Mar might like it, too. It’s hosted by this guy Reverend McGee and a younger dude named Bobby, who just amens everything the Reverend says. The Reverend always wears a red suit with a black tie, and Bobby always wears a black suit with a red tie. I’m not sure if they’re doing it on purpose, or if, like Pops, they each only own one suit. They sit behind this slim wood table, and the background is just a white wall, which is totally empty except for a small cross hanging in the corner, sort of crookedly. The only prop on the desk is a Bible, which the Reverend constantly picks up and waves around.
“The other night I was up late,” the Reverend says. “And sometimes, when I’m up late, against my better judgment, I end up watching one of those late-night trash talk shows. Now, normally I try not to spend a lot of time watching television. And that may seem funny, given my role as a television personality. But the truth is, the Bible keeps me busy most days—the Good Book keeps me plenty entertained!”
“Amen,” says Bobby.
“Give me John 3:16 any day over Johnny Carson.”
“Preach it!” says Bobby.
“Yo, put on the C’s,” says Mar.
“I like these dudes,” I say. “They’re inspiring.”
“Man, why don’t you just come to my church?”
“I told you, my pops said I had to study. I definitely would if I could. Let’s just watch for a couple more minutes.”
“I’m up the other night,” says the Reverend, “thinking about…what we been going through as a community. And I turn to one of those programs, seeking some kind of mental relief. The host brings on a man with all kinds of exotic and dangerous animals: snakes, big reptilian monstrosities, and other things you’d be crazy to go near. The zookeeper stays onstage, and the next guest, a supposed stand-up comedian, comes out, too. And once I hear that sorry excuse for a comedian open his mouth, I start to wonder whether he isn’t the most dangerous animal on the stage. This man—and I suppose it doesn’t matter, but he’s a white man—opens his act by asking the crowd…”
Reverend McGee closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Tell it, Reverend,” says Bobby.
“All right, I’ll tell it. ‘What,’ the comedian asked, ‘is the most confusing holiday in the ghetto?’ And the crowd went silent and he said—and it pains me to repeat this—‘Father’s Day.’ ”
Bobby shakes his head in disbelief.
“I seen enough of this,” Mar says.
“You’re not feeling this?” I say.
“I already got a pastor. I don’t need no TV preachers.”
“Two more minutes.”
“I turned off the program and lay there in the dark, next to my wife,” the Reverend continues. “What bothered me more than anything—even though this so-called comedian had no right to stand up there and denigrate the so-called ghetto—is that his words rang true.”
Bobby looks a little surprised.
“But I’ll tell you what. I haven’t given up hope. I’m not despairing!”
“Okay.”
“I’m not gonna let that funnyman have the last laugh!”
“Amen!”
“I know in my heart that the next generation of young men from this community”—he looks over at Bobby—“is gonna be the greatest generation of young black men this city’s ever seen.”
“Man, I’m trying to relax,” says Mar. “Throw on a C’s tape already!”
We settle on Game Six of the 1986 finals, one of Larry’s greatest playoff performances. We watch for a while, rooting along as Larry inches toward his triple-double, and then the phone rings. Ma picks up in the kitchen, talks to someone for a few minutes, and walks over to us.
“That was your grandmother,” Ma says to Mar.
“Something going on?” Mar asks, looking anxious.
“How would you like to sleep over tonight?” Ma says.
“She said I could?”
I’ve asked Mar to sleep over a few times. He always said he couldn’t and I figured it was because his grandma thought I was some kind of cracked can-bum.
“She did,” says Ma.
“Okay,” says Mar.
I’m amped to have Mar stay over, but the timing’s not ideal. Cramps is coming for dinner, which means there’s at least a fifty percent chance we’re gonna hear about the Holocaust.
An hour or so later, we’re at the dinner table and Pops walks in with Cramps, who’s hunched at a hundred-degree angle. His MD has gotten so bad he can barely walk or sit up, and he refuses to rock a wheelchair like a sensible geezer. He cranks himself upward to greet Mar, and his T-shirt reads, MY GOLDEN YEARS ARE PYRITE.
“That’s funny,” says Mar. “Fool’s gold.”
“Smart kid,” says Cramps.
“I know what pyrite is,” I say.
I used to be obsessed with pyrite. The Museum of Science was my spot, even more than the Aquarium, because its gift shop had the dopest souvenirs: 3-D dino puzzles, trilobite fossils, astronaut ice cream, and a massive bin of rocks and gems. Pyrite was the most expensive-looking rock in that pile, and at fifty cents per, it felt like a sick bargain. I stacked over thirty pieces. My goal was to get enough to fill a tank and then dive like Scrooge McDuck into my giant, glittering pool. But, one day, Cramps quizzed me about what I was learning from the exhibits and ruined everything. I told him the truth—that I didn’t really care about the exhibits, that what I really cared about was copping pyrite. He laughed and said, You have any idea what pyrite actually is? It’s fool’s gold. You know why it’s called fool’s gold? Because crooks used it to con morons during the gold rush. It’s worthless. It’s an unbelievably abundant and technologically useless resource. But it sure is shiny. You feel like a fool now? Good.
“I’m well aware of your knowledge of pyrite,” Cramps says, smiling. “How’d your latest practice test go?”
“So, Marlon,” Ma interjects. “How are you liking the King?”
“Pretty good,” Mar says shyly. “I like Ms. Ansley.”
“Got a favorite subject?” Pops says.
“Reading, I guess,” says Mar.
“That was mine, too,” says Pops.
Mar nods, looks down at his asparagus, lifts his fork, and reconsiders.
“Could I ask you something?” Mar says.
“Sure,” Pops says.
“What was Harvard like?”
“That’s a great question,” Cramps says. “What was Harvard like?”
“We didn’t spend a lot of time in the classroom,” Ma says to Mar, ignoring Cramps. “There was a lot of other stuff happening on campus back then.”
“Why don’t you tell him about your favorite subject,” says Cramps. “Vietnam!”
Pops breathes out a little laugh, takes a sip of his beer, and turns back to Marlon. “What have you been reading, Marlon?” he says.
“For school or for fun?” Mar says.
“See that?” Cramps says to me. “He reads for fun.”
“I’m too busy studying to do anything for fun,” I say.
“Studying? Or fussing over your outfits and arcade tapes?”
“Lou,” Ma says to Pops. “Please get him to cool it.”
“That’s all life is to you, grooming and games,” Cramps says.
“We’ve been doing plenty of test prep together,” Pops says.
“You’ve been going over your vocabulary cards?” Cramps says.
“Constantly,” I say.
“Good. What does charlatan mean?”
“All right, Dad,” says Pops, still trying to be patient. “Enough about the test.”
“You don’t know, because you are one,” says Cramps. “Long on glitz, short on substance. Look it up! C-H-A—”
“He gets it!” Pops says, finally losing it.
“You mean charlatan?” says Mar, pronouncing the ch like chard instead of shark. Cramps slowly turns to Mar. “That’s like somebody who, um, pretends like he knows stuff. Like a phony or a fakester.”
“Excellent,” says Cramps. “For that, you get a Quick Nickel.” Quick Nickels are for when you get one of his questions right. He pulls his ancient, cracked leather change purse out of his sweatpants pocket and passes the nickel to Benno, who passes it on to Mar.
Cramps gets off my case and we eat peacefully for a while. Ma tells Mar about her organizing work, Pops talks about teaching at the community college, and Mar does his best to seem interested. Cramps keeps glaring at Benno.
“What’s with you?” Cramps eventually says to Benno. “When are you going to start eating like a human being again?”
“At least he eats,” I mutter. As usual, Cramps piles food on his plate, takes two tiny bird bites, and leaves the rest for his doggie bag.
“Benno can speak for himself,” Cramps says. “Oh right. I forgot—”
“Dad,” Pops says, trying his best to be calm again. “We’re trying to have a relaxed dinner. Why don’t you lay off?”
“I’ll lay off when I’m finished. You never let anyone finish, you know that? Benno just decides one day he’s going to forgo language—the top trait that distinguishes us from hogs at the trough—and everybody’s fine with it. If I pulled a stunt like that when I was your age, back there”—he’s holding his fork like a weapon, underhanded, jabbing at the air—“I’d be sausage meat. But in this house, anything goes. You want freedom of speech, I’ll give you freedom of speech: Grow up!”
Benno runs to the living room and scrambles under this fort he made out of blankets and chairs.
“Go ahead, hide under your towels! Why don’t you join him, David? You two can make grunts and hand signals while I have an intelligent conversation with your friend Marvin.”
“I think everybody’s had enough by now!” Ma says.
“Dad,” says Pops. “Why don’t we get going?”
Pops hoists Cramps by the armpits and delicately drags him toward the front door. This is the second time in three meals that Pops has had to drive him home early.
“What about my doggie bag?” shouts Cramps.
“Liz,” Pops says. “Make him a doggie bag?”
“The future of the Greenfeld line!” Cramps yells back at me.
“Come on, Dad,” says Pops.
“Charlatans!” Cramps screams as the front door closes.
Mar looks stunned. I tell him it’s normal.
“At least we didn’t have to hear about Iraq,” Ma says.
Or the Holocaust.
“He’s always like that?” asks Mar.
“Usually he’s a little more down to joke around,” I say.
“He gets very anxious about exams,” Ma says. “You wouldn’t believe how much pressure he put on your dad about the SATs.”
Ma scoops some salmon and asparagus onto my plate.
“I think we forgot to do grace before?” says Mar.
I turn to Ma and she eye-smiles me.
“Would you like to lead us, Marlon?”
Mar closes his eyes and puts his hands in the prayer position. I clasp my hands together and close my eyes, too, but then open them and look over to Ma again. She shoots me a quick, teasing eye roll.
When Mar finishes his prayer, I ask Ma if we can go watch the Celtics pregame show.
“You guys need to eat a little. I don’t think Alma would be too happy if I let Marlon go to bed without dinner.”
I look down at the puke pile, hold my nose, and cram a mammoth forkful into my mouth. Mar stabs at some asparagus, takes a cautious nibble, swallows painfully, and chugs his entire glass of water.
“Miss?” Mar asks, all polite.
“You can just call me Liz,” Ma says.
“Okay,” he says. “Um…Could I possibly get some of those Tater Tots?”
“Sure,” she says, passing over Benno’s plate.
I jump on the chance. “Can I get some, too?”
She sighs. “If Marlon feels like sharing with you, it’s fine with me.”
We eat as fast as we can and then head to the living room to peep the game. We usually watch the C’s in the attic, but my parents just got a new TV for down here, and the games look way better with the extra six inches.
“That’s an ill fort,” Mar says to Benno. “Lemme climb in real quick?”
Benno pokes his head out and nods.
“Kinda comfy up in here,” says Mar. “Lemme make a peephole to watch the game?” Benno agrees and Mar props up the front of the tent with Benno’s horse-on-a-stick.
“Those pills you were taking at dinner—that was Prozac?” Mar asks.
Benno nods.
“They work on you?”
Benno shrugs.
“How d’you know about Prozac?” I ask.
“I just do,” he says.
I go to my room and grab the good luck shrine me and Mar made together before the season started. It’s the Bird-Magic card, now in a bolted plastic case, propped up on a foldout book stand with all kinds of crap from Benno’s chest—a rubber cobra, some Mardi Gras beads, a Navajo dream catcher—draped over it. I place the shrine on top of the TV and take a seat on the couch.
“Yo, Green,” says Mar. “Get in. Bring the shrine in here, too. This tent’s good luck for the C’s. I can feel it.”
Now that Larry’s retired, the C’s are a disaster. The other dudes from the Big Three—McHale and Parish—are crumbling without him. The only bright spot on the squad is Reggie Lewis, and even he can’t carry this team on his back. They’re in last place, with a two-and-seven record. Throughout the slump, I’ve tried multiple prayer positions, rally caps, inside-out clothes, putting pins in Benno’s Barbies—none of it works. If Mar thinks the tent is gonna bust the jinx, I may as well try it out. And I’ve gotta say, it is cozy in there. Benno set it up with just about every pillow and stuffed animal in the crib. Me and Mar lie on our stomachs, heads popped out of the front like Siamese turtles. Mar asks Benno to watch, too.
“With the C’s,” he says, “you gotta do everything in threes, just like the Big Three.”
Pops walks through the door, smiles, and shakes his head. A second later, he comes back, snaps a photo, and says, “This one’s going up in my office.” Mar doesn’t give one damn, so I let it go.
The C’s lose their lead late in the game and are forced into overtime. With the Hawks up four and only four seconds left on the clock, I suggest Spaceballs—another Cramps favorite—but Mar refuses to stop watching until the game’s actually over. By the end, pretty much everyone in the crowd is gone except for Superfan, whose black hair has gotten a little gray and who’s still wearing that same shiny old-school C’s jacket. Even though we lose our eighth game, Superfan sits there, clapping for the C’s as they run off the floor.
“Realest fan they got,” says Mar.
The buzzer sounds and the C’s announcers come on for another depressing postgame analysis. It’s the worst Celtics start in fifteen years.
I’m about to pop in Spaceballs, but Mar’s in a bad mood from the C’s and he’s already trying to go to sleep.
“It’s barely ten,” I say.
“Test’s a week away,” Mar says. “I’m trying to get rested.”
“I’m not tired at all. Let’s watch a little more TV.”
“Fine. Check 68.”
“You like that channel, too?”
“Depends.” He grins.
Channel 68’s the last one before my TV resets to 2. Half of the time it’s home shopping. The other half is a total grab bag.
“Word!” I say. It’s Sal and Al’s Memorabilia Mayhem. “You ever watch this show?”
Mar nods, chuckling.
I’ve been watching Sal and Al for years. Limited-edition collectibles are my shit—especially autographed ones. I’ve never been able to afford anything on the show, but if I ever get rich, I’m putting their 800 number on speed dial.
“Folks, you’re not gonna be-lieve this next item!” screeches Sal, running around the stage and flapping his arms like a lunatic. “I practically crapped myself when it came across our desk.”
Fat, sad Al silently yanks the white hanky off the pedestal and unveils a Reebok Pump signed by Reggie Lewis.
“Oh snip,” I say. “It’s only $499.99.”
“We’re talking about a game-worn sneaker, signed by the man who sweated all over it. Take a whiff of that, Al,” Sal says, shoving the shoe in Al’s face. “You’re smelling grade-A Reggie DNA.
“Al, I know what you’re thinking. Gee, Sal, that’s a once-in-a-lifetime collectible. But how do we know it’s the real deal? I’ve got your answer right here,” he says, holding a piece of yellowed parchment up to the camera. It says, CERTIFICATE OF AUTHENTICITY.
“That’s right, folks,” says Sal. “Notarized and embossed.”
“Oh snip,” I say.
“What you getting all worked up for?” Mar says. “All that stuff’s fake.”
“What about the certificate?”
“That’s pyrite, too.”
“How do you know?”
“Man, everybody knows,” he says, laughing. “You’re mad gullible.”
Benno cracks a smile, too, and I sit there steaming with shame.
After a while, it gets too hot in the tent, so me and Mar migrate to the couches. A few minutes later, Mar’s snoring. I consider rousing him so we can go to my room—Benno’s been sleeping in his tent lately, and Ma put fresh sheets on his bed for Mar—but I decide not to. I don’t feel like going to my room alone, either, so I turn off the TV and try to fall asleep out here with them. Pretty soon, Benno’s out, too. His snore sounds like a whistle tonight. Mar’s is more of a snot-train rumble.
An hour passes and, as usual, I’m way too awake. I turn Sal and Al back on and study those charlatans for a while. At midnight the show ends, and I reach for the remote. But before I click it off, the opening credits to Baywatch fade onto the screen. You never know what’s gonna pop off on 68. There she is, the blond goddess, racing into the riptide, hard nipples stretching her bright red suit. Instant wishbone. I suffer through ten minutes of Hasselhoff-centered plot about a cancer kid from Kansas whose dying dream is to see the ocean. Then the kid is swept away by a rogue wave and Pam springs into perfect, slo-mo action. I hear Mar stirring on the couch. I pull my hands out of my Hanes and scramble for the remote.
“Ugh, yo,” he whispers. “That’s nasty.”
“I was just flipping through channels,” I say. I turn to PBS and the guy with the fro is on, painting a shack next to a pond.
“Mmm-hmm,” Mar says, stretching himself off the couch. “Whatcha hands doing down there?”
“Down where?”
“You read the Bible, right?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“You read the part about Onan? My youth pastor said he’s one of the wickedest in the whole Bible. He said you need to save up your stuff till you married. He said if you waste it, the devil comes up and collects it. He measures it, too, so he knows just how much you spilt.”
Mar walks to the bathroom and a couple minutes pass. I assume he’s taking a deuce, so I switch back to Baywatch. I’m salivating at another montage when Mar calls to me from the bathroom.
“Hold up,” I say, transfixed by Pam but also, at this point, rooting for the cancer kid. “I just wanna see him finish this spruce tree.”
“For real, Green,” says Mar. “I think something’s wrong with me.”
I do the tuck move and walk to the bathroom. Mar points to his unflushed number one.
“So it’s mad yellow,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”
“Nah, but smell it,” he says. “Nasty, right? It’s never smelt like this before.”
“Now that you mention it, that piss is funky,” I say. “That’s, like, not normal.”
“Don’t play,” says Mar.
“This could be serious. We should probably call an ambulance.”
“Stop playing, Green.”
“For real. My uncle’s a doctor. My piss once smelled like this and he told my pops I had to go to the hospital to get tested.”
“For what?”
“Cancer.”
“Nah.”
“Dick cancer.”
“Man, shut up,” says Mar. His voice squeaks a little when he says it. I’ve never seen him this shook.
“Uh, guys,” Pops says, standing in the doorway of his room in his tighty-whiteys. “It’s way past time to hit the hay.”
He walks by us and into the bathroom. Then he sniffs, closes the door, and flushes.
“How about flushing next time, Dave?” he says through the door. “Especially with asparagus pee.”
We go back to the living room and I start rolling.
“Who’s gullible now?” I say. “You didn’t know about asparagus?”
Mar’s not smiling. He storms back to the couch and whips his blanket over his body.
“I never ate that nasty-ass shit before.”
“Cancer?” I say, mimicking his cracking voice. “Nah!”
“Man, fuck you,” he says, rolling over onto his other side, away from me. He’s cursing again. If he’s actually mad about a lie this stupid, how’s he gonna feel when he finds out I’ve been fronting about being Christian?
Five minutes later, Mar’s snoring again. There’s a plague in my pajamas and I don’t know if I’ll survive the night without a quick sesh. I look at Mar, sleeping so soundly. I wish I had what he has, what Bobby and the Rev have. I’m not saying it’s easy being black, but at least they came up with answers. All I came up with was confusion. Pops says we’re secular, but he’s always preaching about nonviolence, telling us never to fight back, which sounds like Jesus. But then you start whying with him, asking him why you should be so nice to people, even if they’re dicks, and he says, “You never need a reason to be nice.” And then later you ask him why the Holocaust happened—because there’s got to be some reason all our ancestors got smoked—and he says, “Things don’t happen for a reason. There’s no purpose to the universe.” And then you say, if there’s no purpose to the universe, why do you care so much about us being nonviolent, and he says, “Because of what happened to our family in the Holocaust, for one.” And then you become a kid who stays up all night wondering, So the lesson of the Holocaust is to never fight back?
Figuring out how to live in an atheist house is hard enough—but that’s easy compared to thinking about death. In those first few days after Benno cut himself, when everybody was worrying he was gonna do it again, what really bugged me out was thinking about Benno’s rotted body in a hole. If I believed Pops, he’d just be dust in the dark, until a million years later a comet detonated Earth and sent his particles into space. If I believed the Christian kids at school, he’d have a chance at heaven. He might go to hell for killing himself, but even hell seemed better than the horrible infinity of outer space.
Now I’m not sure what’s worse, endless black boredom or getting jabbed in the dick by the devil. All I know is I’d rather go to heaven. I decide I’m gonna come clean to Mar about everything first thing in the morning, ask him how to convert without getting caught by my parents. Once I’m a legit Christian, Jesus will forgive me for all the tactics and everything will work itself out. I start to feel a little more relaxed, but I still can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Pam racing through the riptide. Then I open them back up and see the pictures of Pops’s ancestors on the wall—all those Jews who ended up in the grotto—and I feel mad guilty about my plan to convert.
I turn the TV back on and watch Fro-man finish his chill landscape. My fingers tremble on the remote. The only time I’ve ever ached this bad was from growing pains. I take long, deep breaths till I feel light-headed. Fro-man dabs some white on the shack’s window, to make it gleam in the moonlight. I sit on my hands till they get numb. There will be no tactics tonight.
I’m still awake when Saturday morning cartoons come on. Light starts straining through the curtains. The wood stands tall. I think about rats eating seagull shit. I picture Cramps playing nasketball naked. The best dick kryptonite fails me. I get up, walk to the bathroom, head hung in disgrace, and yank away the pain.