The Things You Learn as a Child

It was dark under the covers on my bed, but it was safe.  The air was still and the loud voices could still be heard but they were no longer shouts, simply muffled sounds that were undescernable.  I wondered when it would stop, when it would be okay leave my bedroom.  Though, to be honest,  I was in no hurry.

I learned a lot of interesting things hiding in the small bedroom I shared with my sister in a NYC housing project located on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

When I was 5 or 6, I learned that no matter how hard a person tried or how much they wanted to, they would never be able to fly away even if, in your eyes, they were a super-hero.

Back then, one of my favorite past times was looking out the bedroom window of our 13^th story apartment building at all the different cars and trucks as they raced up and down the FDR Dr. The Drive began at the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn bridge exit and ran up South St. until it turned into the East River Dr. in the teens.  I would watch these motor vehicles for hours always wondering where all those people could possibly be going and why were they in such a hurry to get there?

 I would also stare for hours at the East River.  On certain days, at certain times, the grey murky water that separated Manhattan from the lesser boroughs sparkled from the glare of the sun and during that period no one could tell that it was filthy or filled with dead things.  In those moments, the river was beautiful and I would imagine my future self, rich and happy, on one of the boats that traversed the shorelines on my way to happier places.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in my house to enjoy the view.  I had heard my parents whispering, on more than one occasion, about how my older brother John was always on the roof of our apartment building and figured he liked to look out and envision his future, as well.

John was my Mother’s second child and my favorite brother.  He was the cool one, the one with the long hair that made him look like Jesus and the hand-painted denim jacket decorated with peace symbols and pretty green leaves.  He wore killer construction boots and introduced me to the Beatles, the Stones, and Bowie.  He read really interesting books like “ The Lord of the Rings”, and “The Anarchist Cookbook” and then passed them to me when he was done.

He never made me feel invisible like the rest of my family and went out of his way to convince me that my opinions mattered, even if I was always considered the baby.  We never spent as much time as I would have liked together because of our 8 yr. age difference and the fact that he couldn’t wait to get out of our house almost as soon as he woke up.

I just figured, like everyone else who lived there, he didn’t want to hear my parent’s daily arguments about money, drinking or a job, so he ran as fast as he could to the streets, his friends, and where things were better.

Lately though, I started to notice changes in my brother.  When he was home, he was always so tired, he sometimes fell asleep at the dinner table or skipped dinner and went right to bed.  Also, he seemed to be getting thinner and his normally lustrous hair, just wasn’t as shiny. 

Back then, I chalked it up to the flu or some cold that he contracted and simply waited till he felt better and would pay attention to me again.

My parents were a little more concerned.  Often, I would hear loud whispers coming from their bedroom and, although, I couldn’t make it all out, I did pick up certain words like, needle, syringe and babanya.

I didn’t understand any of that back then, but the disgust impossible to hide in their tone, spoke volumes about how serious my brother’s problems were.

One day, money was taken from my Mother’s wallet.  This was not an unusual occurrence given the fact that my alcoholic Father, when he couldn’t get money from picking up discarded scratch tickets at OTB, or no one gave him a few bucks for sweeping up one of the neighborhood social clubs and their was no way to get any more credit from the liquor stores, would occasionally take what he needed from her.

But, for some reason, this time the arguments and accusations between my parents never materialized.  It was as if they both knew what had happened to the missing cash and quietly accepted the situation.  Their nonchalance at something that would have otherwise caused a shit-storm terrified me to no end.  Where was the explosion and what were they saving it for?

The whispering and side way glances continued for a couple of weeks.  During that time, other things began to turn up missing.  One day, it was an old toaster that never got hot enough to brown anything.  Another day, it was my Mother’s fake gold chain with the real gold “#1 Mom” attached.  Then, I noticed my beloved tape recorder was gone.

The tape recorder had been a Christmas gift from my parents.  Back then, there were no CD players or ipods and digital music wasn’t even heard of yet.  If you wanted to record your favorite song, you would need a tape cassette and have to wait by the radio till the station played it, with two fingers placed firmly on the play and record buttons and, simultaneously, press down on both once the song started.  If you were lucky, you got it just in time.  Most times, however, the first few chords were always missing.

I loved my tape recorder.  Not simply because it was the coolest present I’d ever gotten till that point, but because my sister and I would play for hours with it, taking turns recording our voices or making silly sounds, and for a short time we’d forget about the constant arguing and bitter feelings that permeated our apartment like the cold in winter.  It was an easy escape into a land of make-believe that never really existed for us as it does for so many other children.

Apparently, the tape recorder was my parents breaking point.  The fact that I was inconsolable and they certainly didn’t have any extra cash to replace it and make me happy again was definitely a factor. Even at 5 or 6, I already understood the power of my tears.  As the baby of the family I was my parent’s last chance at a normal child and was treated accordingly.  I got whatever I asked for (within their means) and if something was broken in the house or there was a fight, it was already a given that it was not my fault.  Sometimes I felt guilty when one of my other siblings got the blame for something I did, but mostly I was ok with it. Especially this time.  I didn’t care who took it (though I was sure it was my Father) I just wanted it back.

Had I known about the fallout that would ensue from a simple missing tape recorder, I would have happily given it up without another word.

I had been playing in my room with my make-believe dollhouse that I had constructed of cardboard boxes using old toilet paper rolls and empty match boxes as furniture, when the fireworks began.

“Where the fuck were you?”, I heard my Father shout as soon as the front door closed.  In my room, I couldn’t see who just walked in, but I had a good idea who it was.

“It’s none of your business”, John replied, slurring his words, “Why don’t you find another bottle to crawl into?” 

“You fucking junkie lowlife”, shouted my alcoholic Father.

 Then I heard a loud bang and some additional muffled shouting; muffled because I had already climbed into my bed and was desperately squeezing my ears closed with my covers.

After a few minutes of this, I couldn’t hear anything anymore.  Carefully, I began to lower the covers and, instead of shouting, heard the quiet sobs of my older brother.

As I bravely opened my door a crack, I witnessed something that I hadn’t seen before.  My Father, who everyone considered a waste, was cradling my brother John in his arms, a small cut bleeding from his forehead as they both sat on the floor, a broken ash tray at their feet with my Father’s old camel cigarette butts haphazardly strewn about. 

My brother was crying hard and all my Father kept saying was “Ssshh, it’ll be alright; it’ll be alright”.

After that, I knew who had taken the missing things.  I even kind of knew why.  As young as I was, I had heard the term “Junkie” on T.V. shows and even read the word in a couple of my Father’s books that I wasn’t supposed to go near. 

I hadn’t yet learned about drugs and what they could do to a person.  From my little exposure to the word, I knew that a junkie was a tragic figure that people were afraid of and cops always went after.  Later on, I would learn the hard way about being strung out on some substance or another and doing anything you had to, to get to that place in your head where the pain went away. 

But, at 5 or 6, all I knew was whatever a junkie was, it was bad.

After my Father had that big fight with John, my brother didn’t leave the house.  During that time, however,  I noticed he wasn’t the same.

He didn’t want to talk, or listen to music or even read.  He was jumpy and irritable and ate lots of chocolate candy.  Mostly, he stood in bed shivering and shaking.  My mother who ordered me not to go into his room, would go back and forth, all day long, emptying and cleaning a bed-pan for him.  I was certain he must have had the flu and she just didn’t want anyone else to contract it.

The very next day, I woke up to my brother screaming.  The sounds were guttural and reminded me of a wounded animal caught in a trap.

There was clear and distinct desperation in his voice when he shouted, “Get out of my fucking way … I’ve got to get out of here!”.

It was then I realized that my emotionally disturbed older sister wasn’t in our bedroom.  My first and only thought was that she would be terrified and too afraid to make a run for it.  When bad things happened in my house, she often froze and tried to disconnect from her reality.

Even though I was also afraid of the horror I would find, I also knew I couldn’t leave her out there with them.  I had to go get her.

“Get away from the door … move it you fucking bum”, my brother shouted, his anxiety and desperation growing.

I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.  What it Kathy was physically in the way and got hurt.  As I took a deep breath and opened my door, it wasn’t the figure of my sister sitting in a corner of the kitchen, her eyes blank as she rocked back and forth, back and forth that made my stomach drop and a silent scream emanate from my lips.

There, standing on the ledge of our 13^th story wide open kitchen window, one foot dangling out, was my brother.  My Father had a death grip on his arm and was pulling him back with all his might.  My Mother stood guarding the front door, sentry like, her eyes wide as she kept screaming, “Al, get him … get him!!!”

This time, it wasn’t my sister that stood frozen; it was me.  I was glued in place, terrified, I didn’t understand what was happening.

After what seemed like forever, my oldest brother Harry knocked on the front door, took one look at the situation, and made a dash to the window to help my Father with John.

Together, they pulled him safely back in, closed and locked the window and, as a group, all fell to the floor.

My Mother, regaining her senses, finally noticed her two terrified daughters in various forms of emotional distress and ordered us back to our room.  I picked my sister up off the floor and walked her to safety.

Before I closed the door, the last thing I heard was my brother John tell my Father, “you’ve got to let me go … I’ll die … I can’t do it like this”.

That night, my brother John went out.  He came back a few hours later, infinitely calmer, if a little sleepy and headed straight for bed.

The next day, I noticed a look of defeat on my parent’s faces that I hadn’t really seen before.  I also realized that each and every window in the house was kept closed.  At breakfast, I heard my parents trying to whisper in the corner.  Again, I didn’t really understand what they were saying, but I could make out words like, treatment, methadone and last chance.

When my brother John finally woke up and left his room, my Father asked him how he felt?  “Okay”, he answered, “I guess” and I noticed he sounded a lot older than he was.

“Are you ready to go?” my Father asked, the tone of his voice sympathetic and consoling, something I had only heard after I’d been crying and he wanted to comfort me.

“Yea”, John replied almost in a whisper.

“Then let’s go”, and with that Father and son left the apartment for places unknown to me.

As I got older, and my brother would try and fail and try and fail again to kick his heroin habit, I understood that on that horrible day he tried to jump out the window rather than suffer any longer, he simply didn’t have the strength to go “cold turkey”.  In fact, it would take many years of a Methadone program, before he would finally be able to get clean.

By then, he was no longer my hero.  After everything that I saw and heard, he was just my junkie brother.  Though I would always find great joy in the Beatles and the Stones and J.R.R. Tolkien, his recommendations no longer had as much influence with me, as they once did.

No longer the same was the view from my 13^th story windows.  For quite some time, I couldn’t even bare to look out.  After awhile, when I finally did, what I saw wasn’t the same.  I realized I would, probably, never drive back and forth over the FDR and never have a need to be in any rush.  I no longer enjoyed speed and buses would be just as good.

Also, looking at the murky, gray water of the East River, I finally saw it for what it really was; a way to keep Manhattan separate and apart from other New Yorkers while providing a dumping ground for not only dead people, but dead dreams, as well.