Chapter Nine

I was just thinking of doing something other than writing, but felt so guilty, I decided against it. Then I had an idea: we have pills for everything under the sun, so why not a guilt pill? I mean, really, this is a million-dollar idea, and I am looking for financial backing. I also need financial fronting. Contact me if interested. I know the psychotherapists and psychiatrists will not be happy if we overtake this particular niche, but so? There are enough emotional demons to accommodate all therapists present and future. In the absence of that, the therapists themselves will go bonkers, and will need to consult one another. Talk about humor.

In fact, I've had to consult one recently: I asked, “is it stupid to write a memoir when you're not even famous?” He said yes, but that he had a pill that would induce a psychosis that I was famous. That took care of that. There are a few side-effects. I get depressed at the absence of paparazzi (so take a pill), over not finding myself listed in any kind of Who's Who (ditto), and also I suffer from headaches and a bit of flatulence. For the former, he suggested using a larger font or just giving up -- after all, I'm already the Most Famous Writer in the World (do I need a refill?), and for the other problem, suggested either 1) cutting out the daily ½ gallon of chocolate ice cream, or googling sharpulence, and going from there. I see no sharpulence. As you can see, pills can be problematic. (They screw up your dictionary.) I myself am a pill, so I know this first-hand.

Anyway, I was speaking of moving to Milmar Drive, meeting Annie, wondering if my father intended for witches to kill me, and discussing (briefly) the nutritional value of marshmallows. What I didn't mention was that I had a dog, a collie named Sable. It is incredible how little I remember about Sable: virtually nothing -- except that she got sick. My parents explained that Sable was ill, and missed her Mommy and was going for a visit. A few days later Sable was back. Thirty-five years later, I learned that Sable had died and been replaced. This is the kind of thing you can do, and must do, I suppose, with young children. I'm not sure. I've never been so treacherous and kind at once. My children have all been around when we buried our dogs. It occurred to me at one such vigil, that I might be scarring them forever, but figured there would be a pill for that.

Speaking of death, just the other day, my ten-year-old said we come back as other things: animals, for instance. “I will be coming back as your cat,” she said. “Which one?” I asked, only to prepare, since one is viscious and the other, whiny. She didn't know. I said, “Well, you know, I won't be myself. I could return as a coyote, so I don't think you'd want to be my cat.” This gave her pause, as opposed to paws. I don't know why. It's not like there's a limit on the number of times we re-appear – at least I don't think so. At any rate, the conversation about her and me came to an end when we saw a dead bird in the alley we were walking down. “My god, I exclaimed,” what's Aunt Martha doing in this neck of the woods!?" My daughter was really put off by that, partly because there are no Marthas anywhere in our family tree, but also since she's sure that if we did have an Aunt Martha, she'd be an alligator. Kids just know these things. Without pills.

Anyway, here is something that fascinated me about Milmar Drive: apparently, our neighbors were “developers.” As my mother put it, they built all the houses on our dead-end street: about twenty. “Cool,” I thought. They didn't even look tired. So they named the street after themselves: Millie and Martin: hence, Milmar. I didn't know the world could work like that, and, as with Pig Julie, was fascinated one's name could refer to something other than the self. Why I became a loud, belching pig ship and they became a gorgeous, dogwood-lined neighborhood, I'll never know. At five, the world was a really interesting place, but really unfair. I was already learning big things like that. I hadn't even begun to ponder death's unfairness. I mean, how come some people get to be butterflies and others will be great apes confined in zoos? I would never shake this dilemma of what seemed like random kindness, random cruelty.

So anyway, Annie had this tiny bike, by which I mean it was normal on top but had very small wheels. She had a steep driveway and would just race down it and slam the brakes just before crashing into her basement, where her brother was a ham-radio operator. We weren't allowed in there, crash or no crash. And I couldn't get over it. It was scary. Ham radio? What was that? I mean, ham isn't even kosher! No wonder he hid in the basement. What if his mother found out what was going on in there? Now, I know this all sounds like rambling, but you do have to admit that a theme of sort is emerging. We have discussed pigs, and now are onto ham. Sure, there's been a lot of other stuff, but why not use blinders? They're so handy. I told you I had a plan – oh wait, no I didn't, because I don't. Just keep your eyes out for pig stuff, because sometimes the subconscious knows more than the conscious. (Which brings up a pertinent question: when one blames the brain, is it the conscious part, or the other? I need to know.)

One day she suggested I hop on back of the bike, so I did. But it's not like there was a seatbelt or even an extra seat: just her bony-as-heck butt, so I lurched forward, within seconds, my legs dangling 9we were in shorts).  But they couldn't really dangle; there wasn't enough room. So I went down the last half of the driveway, knees scraping all the way. This was a much bloodier sight than even Aunt Martha. I already had a knee defect, being half-bow-legged, which is to say that the left knee turns in while the right is just fine. I didn't need any more knee diefects. Let's just say that I didn't have too much fun on the bike, and never got on it again. (I did learn, however, why it was called a bozo bike.)

Much more fun was Annie's and my nearly killing each other in a tool closet.  I can't remember who started the whole thing. No kids do. If they do, they're lying. Anyway, I can't remember ever being that angry, other than one time I was babysitting my ingrate of a brother many years later, and felt murder in my heart. This was long before Jimmy Carter confessed to feeling a bad thing in his heart, remember, so it scared me. I thought I was unique in a dire, dreadful, heart-blaming way.

Anyway, we took turns shoving each other in, where our bodies and heads (oh, I guess a head is a body-part) hit upon shovels, hoes, rakes, shears, pitchforks, you name it. She'd toss me in, kick me around like a soda can, and then I'd retaliate. Around and around this went until suddenly her mother appeared, asking if we were really this interested in gardening. Ok, that's not exactly what she said. It was more like, “Get outta here, you bozos!” So we slunk off to nurse our bruises in the bathroom with the triangular stool. It was almost like some initiation rite had taken place, because we were inseparable after that, having survived one another. What we had gained was mutual respect: a much stronger bond than potato chips dipped in mayonnaise could ever be.

I haven't mentioned ravioli. A can of ravioli was Annie's favorite lunch. My mother never got ravioli, I mean, physically or intellectually. We were ravioliless. It could be that her mother was busier than mine, and needed easy food: I mean, Annie had two older brothers, one who was on and off secretly tangoing with an unkosher electronic gadget in the basement, and the other doing god knows what, because my main mission, other than friendicide, was avoiding Keith. Let's give Annie's oldest brother a name -- any name (which reminds me of the joke: when you were little, did you pick your nose? If the person is honest, you respond, well gee, couldn't you have made a better choice? I think I may have made that up: my one and only joke.) Boys were creepy, period.

Oh yes, the oldest brother, who called me Jello, was named Les. So Annie's mother had her hands full, and thus, I suspect, in came ravioli. Not that my mother wasn't busy. I, too had a brother, but only one. He was mellow, though, due to our fun baths, I guess. I have no idea what we had for lunch at my house. For all I know, it was ham. Oh, no, not possible. My mother kept kosher, a sort of funny story: kosher at home, but when she ate out it was shellfish. Always shellfish. Even when very young, I thought this was wrong.

Later I learned that religion can be flexible. You chose your level of devotion and then stuck with it. God was okay with that, very forgiving of human foibles, in between bouts of destroying entire peoples, or the whole world minus an Ark. But that took really big transgressions. Bigger, certainly, than shellfish, than attempted friendicide, bigger even than telling your therapist you need to triple your dose, when in fact, you've already done so, which is why you're thrilling him with your presence within hours of your last weekly session.