Principal Denise Lobrano runs through the afternoon announcements at St. Benjamin Catholic School. She leads the school in a closing Hail Mary. I can hear the pious mumble of the two hundred or so students echoing her prayer down the musty hallway of nineteen-seventiees carpet and eighteen-seventies ideals. She motions for Jack and me to enter her office.
“Good afternoon, Principal Lobrano,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Please, Mr. Fitzpatrick, call me Denise.”
Jack’s principal is an obvious gym rat. She’s in her forties and has that overly fit, emaciated look that belies her femininity: almost perfect half-spheres for breasts poking from a striated overly tanned chest, hollowed-out cheek bones, arms so lean I can make out every veined curve of her triceps and biceps. If her muscle tone was just a shade softer, she’d be hot. As it is, much like Demi Moore, Madonna, and the female cast of Friends, she’s let the one-two punch of divorce and the fear of aging scare her into looking like a starving triathlete.
“Okay, Denise,” I say, trying not to ignore the painful, bony firmness of her handshake. “But only if you call me Hank.”
“Deal,” Denise says. She motions to the two curiously out of place floral-print wingback chairs across from her desk. “Please, have a seat.”
“Look, I’m sorry our mother couldn’t be here today.”
“A belated honeymoon, I hear?”
“So she tells me.”
“No big deal,” Denise says. “You’re listed as his emergency contact anyway. Quite a gap in age between you two.”
Jack joins in on the conversation. “Eighteen years.”
“He could be your father,” Denise says.
“Wish he was.”
“No you don’t, little brother.” I pause to quietly note the irony. I feel like my inflection on little brother was a little too loud and compensatory. How great would it be if I just ended the ruse here, Jack? Sitting in a floral-print wingback chair in your principal’s office.
“You’d be better than Gillman,” Jack says.
“That’s not exactly a high bar you’re setting there.”
My brother—at least for a little while longer—can’t help but chuckle. Once again, I’ve lived to fight another day.
“Hank,” Denise says. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but this is a fairly routine disciplinary issue. I’d like to get you in and out of here as painlessly as possible.”
“Disciplinary?”
“Yes. See, the seventh graders went on a field trip up to the International Festival at the Indianapolis Convention Center today.”
“I ate baklava for the first time,” Jack chimes in again.
“Did you like it?” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders. “Not really. Too dry.”
Denise sighs, shuffling her papers. “Jack, can you wait outside in the administration office lounge?”
“Be glad to.” He gets up, leaves the office. I try to pretend I don’t see him winking at me.
Denise closes the door and turns to me. “I didn’t want to embarrass him, Hank.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. “This is going to be interesting.”
“Apparently, Jack bought one of those water wiggler toys at the festival.”
“Water wigglers?”
“They’re those trick hoses filled with gel that are hard to hold on to because they keep rolling in on themselves.”
“Oh yeah, I know what you’re talking about. They kind of look like an artificial, well, you know—”
“Let’s just say sex toy.”
“Yes, let’s say that. What was he doing with it?”
“He was in the hallway outside Mr. Winsome’s seventh-period history class simulating, uhhh…”
“Masturbation?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“I’ll talk to him. What’s the damage?”
“A slap on the wrist. Jack’s a good kid. We’ve confiscated the item, and he’ll have a week’s detention.”
“That’s fair,” I say, standing up. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Just keep an eye on your little brother. He seems lost.”
“Thanks, Denise. Would I be a bad role model if I said, ‘That makes two of us’?”
“Nah, Hank. You’d just be human.”
I say my goodbyes to Denise. Jack is sitting in the administration office waiting room flirting with a redhead. And she’s cute.
“Who’s your friend?” I say.
“Oh, uh, this is, uhhh…”
The redhead offers me her hand. “My name is Brooke, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Please, Brooke.” I shake her hand. “Mr. Hank, or just Hank, is fine.”
She starts to back out of the room. “Anyway, call me, Jack?”
Jack nods. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great,” Brooke says, blushing. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hank.”
“Same here, Brooke.”
I smack Jack on the shoulder. “Not bad.”
“Shut up.”
“Just teasing you, buddy. Let’s get out of here.”
Jack stands up from his chair. “How bad is it?”
“Detention for a week. You’re lucky.”
“You going to tell Mom?”
“Nope,” I say. We walk down the hall to the front doors of the school. I open one of the doors, and we walk outside. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s leave the car here and take a walk.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“But that’s like three miles.”
“And I feel like we’re going to need all three of them.”
We’re about a mile from the school when I summon enough courage to broach the subject. “Okay Jack, let’s do this. Has Mom ever had the talk with you?”
“What talk?”
“You know, the sex talk.”
“Hell no!”
“What about Gillman?”
“Gillman needs to have the sex talk with himself.”
“Good point,” I say. “But all joking aside, have you ever talked with anyone about, you know, sex?”
“I had sex ed last year and the year before that, in fifth and sixth grade. I know how to do it.”
“That’s not what I asked. Have you ever sat down and talked with anyone about any questions you might have?”
“Questions? What kind of questions?”
“Anything,” I say. “If you want to ask something, ask me. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Hank, this is really weird.”
“We could always go back and have this chat with Principal Lobrano if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
“Hell no!”
“Then talk to me. If my twelve-year-old brother gets caught simulating masturbation with a sex toy, I’m thinking he has some issues.”
“I don’t have issues.”
“Are you masturbating?”
“Hank, shut up!”
“Well, are you?”
Even though we’re at least a dozen blocks from school, Jack still looks around as if to make sure no one can hear him. “Yes, I masturbate.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Don’t believe anything people tell you about the evils of masturbation—Mom, Gillman, Father Liam, or for that matter, anyone at St. Benjamin. It’s going to keep you sane. Did you know that masturbating five times or more a week reduces your chances of getting prostate cancer by thirty percent?”
“Looks like I’m probably not getting prostate cancer, then.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say. “When you can’t stop thinking about a girl, masturbate. When you can’t stop thinking about what you want to do with that girl, masturbate. If you’re upset, if you can’t concentrate, if you’re anxious, if you’re depressed, if you can’t sleep…”
“Masturbate?”
“Exactly!”
“This is officially the grossest sex talk ever.”
I haven’t even skimmed the surface of gross, but I’ll keep that to myself. I still remember the first time I masturbated. It took me three nights to muster the courage to go through with it. The first two nights, I would get just to the precipice of my climax and then chicken out because of the cramping. For a forty-eight hour period, I almost convinced myself masturbating was evil, otherwise why would it hurt so much? On that third night, I brought the album cover of Exotic Music of the Belly Dancer into my bedroom. I propped up the faceless beauty on my bed with two pillows and stood over her. The overhead lights cast a glare on her breasts, so I turned them off and used my desk lamp. I had planned on using Kleenex so I could flush the evidence, but the toilet paper was too rough, so I used the legs of my old teddy bear. I can still picture the teddy bear riding my cock and my ejaculate covering his face.
“Jack…” I say. “You have no idea what gross is.”
“I bet I do.”
“I bet you don’t. But the bottom line is, don’t be afraid of yourself, of what you’re feeling. Masturbate as much as you want, and if you have any questions, just ask me.”
“Really?” Jack looks around again, still convinced someone is eavesdropping. “Anything?”
“Yes, please. What are kids your age into these days?”
“Well, I haven’t had sex, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
“You’re twelve, Jack, so I’d hope not.”
“You’d be surprised with what’s going on with kids my age.”
“Really?”
“Well, maybe not at St. Benjamin. But I hear stories, you know, about what they do at the junior high.”
Ah yes, the dark specter of public schools. I’m guessing the stories Jack hears are overblown, if not complete bullshit. Vilifying public schools and their demonic minions is a time-honored Catholic school tradition. I think back to my parochial schooling, back to those Monday mornings we’d come into class and everyone would open their desks and summarily claim all their pencils had been stolen. They hadn’t been stolen, of course, but we all knew the CCD kids had been in our classroom for Sunday school. CCD, aka the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, or simply “Catechism,” as it’s more commonly called today, is the religious education program provided to kids who don’t attend Catholic schools. In my childhood, CCD was basically the mark of Cain. It meant your parents were too poor to send you to Catholic school, and so you couldn’t help it that you were a pencil thief or that you never showered, which was why our classroom stunk only on Monday mornings. Curiously enough, I don’t recall any priests, nuns, or teachers trying that hard to correct our misconceptions.
“I don’t care about the stories you hear, Jack. What are you doing?”
“Nobody, I mean nothing. Nothing at all really.”
“Good to hear,” I say. “I assume you’ve kissed a girl.”
“Well…”
“What?”
“When I say ‘nothing,’ I mean nothing.”
“No kissing at all?”
“A little. The occasional game of kiss and tag at a birthday party. Lately I’ve kissed a few girls because somebody dared me to at the…”
“Skating rink?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Open skate night taught me a lot of things, too.”
“Good, so you know where I’m coming from.”
“Not exactly,” I say. “My life wasn’t quite as sheltered as yours. Just so we’re clear, you’ve never French kissed a girl?”
“Nope.”
“Okay then, time for your first lesson.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack starts walking double time ahead of me.
“Come back here, you idiot! I’m not going to freaking kiss you.”
Jack slows down. “Then what are you gonna do?”
“Teach you how to practice.” I hold my right fist close to my mouth. “Raise your hand to your mouth like I’m doing.”
“No way!”
“Do it!”
“Okay,” Jack says, mimicking my motions. “Whatever.”
“Now, you know when it’s cold outside and you blow air through the opening in your hand to stay warm?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s basically the same principle we’re going with here, only instead of blowing through your hand you’ll be puckering up and sucking.”
Jack drops his hand away from his mouth. “I was wrong, Hank.”
“What?”
“Now this is officially the grossest sex talk ever.”
I grab his hand and lift it back toward his face. “Do you or don’t you want to learn how to kiss a girl?”
“I do,” Jack says, rolling his eyes.
“Instead of a perfect circle like you’d normally use to warm up your hand, make it more of an oval so the opening in your hand is shaped like a mouth.”
Jack shows me the lemon-shaped opening in his hand. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” I press my mouth against the side of my hand. “Now, pucker your lips and kiss the opening of your hand like this.”
Jack follows my directions to the letter. “Like this?”
“That’s pretty good,” I say. “Remember, it’s all about balance. You’re not trying to swallow your hand, but at the same time you don’t want to stab the opening of your hand with your mouth. That’s when you slip in the tongue. Just like your lips, there’s a give and take to it. Imagine you’re kissing a girl. Don’t fight her tongue, but at the same time don’t let your tongue just hang there limp in her mouth.”
“How will I know if I’m being too aggressive or not aggressive enough with my tongue?”
“Believe me, you’ll figure it out. And whatever you do, don’t use your teeth. Don’t bite her tongue, don’t lick her teeth, just keep the teeth out of the whole equation.”
“Why?”
“Because that just encourages her to keep biting. And biters are the worst kissers, among other things.”
“What other things?” Jack asks.
I pat my naïve student on the shoulder. “That’s not in today’s lesson plan, buddy. I just want you to know one thing.”
“What’s that?
“No matter what situation you find yourself in, you can come to me. If things are getting too heavy or out of control—at a friend’s house, at a party, wherever you are—I’m just a phone call away. I will come get you, no questions asked.”
“No questions asked?”
“None,” I say as we approach a busy intersection. I don’t notice the “Do Not Walk” sign.
“Easy there, big bro.” Jack holds his arm out to prevent me from stepping into the street. My protector. “So, we done with the sex talk?”
“Do you want to be done?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to start.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Music maybe?
“Perfect. What’s everyone into right now?”
“Train, Matchbox Twenty, Destiny’s Child.”
“Yuck.”
“Tell me about it,” Jack says.
“No Staind or Incubus in there?”
“So you know what everyone is into right now?”
“I have a radio, fool.”
“I don’t listen to the radio.” Jack smirks. “I’m pretty much all about the Dave Matthews Band.”
“Still?”
“What’s not to like?”
Jack spent two weeks with Jeanine in Portland last summer, and she effectively brainwashed him. Gone was our shared love and shared CD collection of Metallica, Scorpions, Guns N’ Roses, and Mötley Crüe, and in its place were cassette bootlegs of various live Dave Matthews shows and mind-numbing deconstructions of the band’s “transcendent visual imagery and musicianship.” Jack’s words, not mine. I even caught him listening to one of Jeanine’s bluegrass bootlegs. Seriously, sis. Fucking bluegrass?
“Do we really have to go over this again?” I say. “There are three reasons I don’t like the Dave Matthews Band. Reason number one, too many drunken frat boys at their concerts. Reason number two, they’ve become the fallback band for Deadheads who still haven’t come to terms with Jerry Garcia’s death, getting a job, or personal hygiene.”
“I like the Grateful Dead.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s the third reason?”
“They don’t rock.”
“Don’t rock?” Jack says. “Have you even listened to them?”
“I’ve listened plenty, and I can’t envision going to a Dave show and banging my head, pumping my fist, or feeling my heart about to explode out of my chest.”
“That’s your main criteria for music? Whether or not it makes you violent and gives you a heart attack?”
“When I want to rock, I want to rock, not do the stoner shuffle to safe, uninteresting folk music.”
“I wouldn’t call Carter Beauford safe or uninteresting.”
“He’s Dave’s drummer, right?”
Jack nods. “And probably rock ‘n’ roll’s greatest living percussionist.”
I shake my head in a dissenting motion. “I’m never leaving you alone with our sister again.”
“Name someone better.”
“He’s practically in our own backyard. Does the name Kenny Aronoff ring a bell?”
“Should it?”
“He’s John Mellencamp’s drummer.”
“Is it possible for you to have a musical discussion without referencing Mellencamp?”
“Okay then, what about Neil Pert?”
“Neil who?”
“Dear Lord, I have failed you as a big brother.”
“Relax, Hank.” A car honks as it passes by us. Jack waves. “I know who Neil Pert is. I just don’t think he’s as good a drummer as Carter Beauford.”
“Neil Pert could eat a bowl of drumsticks and crap a better solo than Carter Beauford.”
Jack laughs at me. I laugh right back at him to spite myself. I’ll never be a Dave Matthews fan, but if the guy can deliver me more of these moments with Jack, I might just jump on that Phish-wannabe frat-rock bandwagon. Talking about music is something I always wanted to do with Dad, but by the time I had formed an opinion one way or the other, he was gone forever. I think Dad would have been on Jack’s side in this argument, but I don’t tell him that. Blues harps, fiddles, a full horn section: that was John Fitzpatrick’s kind of music.
Thank you, Dave Matthews. If somewhere in between smoking dragons with your girlfriend, getting stung by bumblebees, and wearing pineapple grass bracelets, you can make the world smile, who am I to disparage a twelve-year-old’s cassette bootlegs?