For the Love of Money (3 page)

A counselor pulled me off. I could see Jorge's eyes. They were afraid. I was thrilled. The counselor pushed me back. Jorge remained on the ground. I ripped myself from the counselor's arms and turned and walked away. I heard Ben following behind me.

When we got to the rocks on the beach where no one could see us, we sat in silence.

Then the feelings came. Whooping gasps. Stomach-­heaving sobs. Tears poured from my eyes and I leaned against Ben, shuddering. After a time, the convulsions slowed, then passed. My heartbeat leveled. I felt calm, but raw.

“Oh my God,” Ben said. “You fucked him up. I can't believe it.”

I didn't say anything, but my chest swelled a bit with pride. We stared out at the ocean for a few seconds.

“What happened?” Ben asked. I knew there was no way he could understand what had happened to me out there in the water. I tried to explain anyway.

“I felt like I was going to disappear,” I said. “Like I was nothing. I
won't
feel like that anymore. I don't care who it is, how tough they are. I'm not backing down.”

I could see he didn't understand. How could I explain that
I had become someone else? Someone bigger. How could I explain how powerful I felt, and how excited that made me? But also sad, for the loss of that little boy I'd once been, who'd silently slipped out of the life jacket and sank down into the ocean, until he'd disappeared so completely that it was as if he'd never existed at all.

CHAPTER
4

Numbcake

¤

A
year later, my family pulled up to Indra, a Thai restaurant in Glendale that we frequented three or four times a month. There were four kids now—Ben and I were thirteen, Daniel was six, and Julia was five—and we were regulars. When the pretty Thai woman at the front saw us, she directed us to our usual table.

Dad motioned for the waitress and began rattling off the standard order: pad Thai, barbecue chicken, spicy green beans with chicken, eggplant with pork, Indian-noodle soup, and seafood curry.

“Tony, I want the spicy fish,” said Mom.

The table went quiet. Mom sat with her shoulders hunched, her large body angled to the side, as if to deflect a blow. She hated how Dad ordered without asking what anyone wanted. She was jealous of his sway over us, how he could overrule her just by speaking, how we begged him to take us on “special time.”

I felt a burst of anger. Why did she start up like this? I liked the spicy fish, too, but it was
too expensive
. Even then, I'd begun to wish I had a different mom. Not just for me but for Dad.

When Dad and I were on special time, we'd go to a hole-
in-the-wall Korean place or a Mexican place in East
LA
. He'd have a couple drinks. In the car on the way home, Dad would talk about how unhappy he was in his marriage. If it weren't for the kids, he said, he'd have left long ago. He stayed for us.

I'd nod somberly, while inside I was overjoyed that Dad respected me enough to share his deepest feelings. I never loved him more than in those moments. “I really respect what you've done as a father,” I'd say. He'd nod, tears in his eyes. Then we'd go into the house, both furious at Mom.

Dad glared at Mom. To people who didn't know our family, asking for spicy fish might seem like a regular request, but I saw that it was a direct attack from the woman who'd forced him to work, let herself get fat, and trapped him in a loveless marriage. His eyes narrowed; he ordered the spicy fish.

I leapt into the silence that followed. “How's work?” I said to Dad.

“Shitty,” Dad said. “I didn't get the account. Close as a cunt hair.”

I giggled.

“Tony!” Mom said.

“Oh fuck off, Linda,” he said, and we kids stared at the table.

“Work is going good for me,” I offered, hoping to re­establish the peace. Ben and I were selling newspapers door-to-door. A couple times a week, a pickup truck rolled by our house and we jumped in the back with a few other kids. The boss drove to a new neighborhood and dropped each of us off on a different street to knock on doors.

“I was the top seller again this week,” I continued.

Dad smiled. “Oh yeah?” He turned to Ben. “What about you?”

Ben's face reddened.

Just then the food arrived, and relief flashed across Ben's face; he didn't have to answer. Hands reached out before the
plates even hit the table. After everyone's plates were filled, silence descended around the table. This was the part I loved. The tension between my parents, the sarcasm and teasing, all faded into a Christmas Eve cease-fire so we could eat our spicy green beans with chicken. The only sounds were forks on plates and heavy breathing. After the last bowl was emptied, the last plate scraped, we sank down in our seats with loud groans. Heads at other tables turned to look at us. The waitress cleared the dishes. What remained on the table was disgusting. Rice everywhere, splashes of sauce, noodles strewn about—it looked like we'd eaten without plates. But there was no electricity in the air, no wisecracks, no tension.

“I need to get out,” said Julia. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Go ahead,” Dad said, not moving. Dad was on the end. He needed to stand up for her to slide out of the booth.

“Dad!” she whined.

“You know the rules, Julia,” he said. Once he'd sat down, he wouldn't get up.

“Fine,” she said, infuriated. She slithered down under the table and began crawling through the jungle of hairy legs.

By the time Julia returned, the single dessert Dad had ordered, a sweet bean pie called Mah-Gang, was gone. As we stood to leave, Julia began to whine.

“I didn't get
anything
for dessert,” she said. “It's not
fair
.”

Outside, Julia stood at the window of the Circle K convenience store next door, pleading for Dad or Mom to buy her a Suzy Q. Mom fished a couple dollars from her purse and handed them to Julia.

We squeezed into Dad's gray Cadillac, the four children in the back, the interior still carrying the scars from
OJ
's death. Julia sat on Ben's lap. She hunched her body around the Suzy Q as she opened it, but she didn't have a chance. First, Ben reached around her from the left and swiped his
finger through the thick cream in the middle of the cake sandwich. She whirled, yelling “Stop!” As she did, I reached from her blind side and pulled off a chunk. She whirled back, infuriated. Daniel reached over and grabbed a handful of her treat and stuffed it into his mouth, laughing. “Stop! Stop! It's
mine
!” Julia screamed, as tears poured down her cheeks.

“Shut the fuck up back there,” Dad yelled.

The next night, Dad took Daniel, Ben, and me to Fender Benders, a fifties diner known for its signature dessert—the Bender, a plate piled high with chocolate-frosted chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, nuts, and a cherry. Every time Dad brought us here, we begged for the Bender. He almost never relented. But on that night, he ordered it. He'd gotten furious at how we'd fought with each other over dessert the night before. He wanted to teach us how to eat “like civilized people.”

Dad sat at the head of the table, the untouched Bender already melting before him. All eyes were glued to the dessert. “We are going to eat like people, tonight. Slowly. In control. One by one.”

He dug his spoon into the very top of the Bender, taking the cherry, much of the chocolate sauce, and a large portion of the whipped cream. We watched as he chewed slowly, staring at each of us in turn. He waited until his mouth was completely empty before he pushed the plate to his left, toward Ben.

That he chose Ben devastated me. I watched helplessly as Ben scooped an enormous bite of cake, ice cream, and the rest of the whipped cream, my favorite.

“Smaller,” Dad barked. “Put it back. Greedy fuck.”

Ben looked embarrassed, angry. “You said one bite. It's one bite.”

“I said put it back,” Dad said. For a moment Ben's eyes hardened in defiant scorn, but Dad stared him down. Ben dumped his bite back. He scooped a smaller one and ate it
without looking up. When he was done, he shoved the plate toward Daniel.

By the time it reached me, the whipped cream was gone. I took as big a bite as I thought I could get away with, and then passed it to Dad. Each time someone took a bite, I'd either celebrate or grieve, depending on the toppings they consumed.

The dessert was nearly gone when it once again reached Dad. He took an enormous bite. I heard Ben exhale in frustration. No one said anything. Dad passed the plate to Ben. One bite remained. Ben looked at Daniel's near-panicked face. Then he pushed the plate toward Daniel, who finished it off. As we walked to the car, my eyes filled with tears. It wasn't fair. Everyone else had gotten more than me.

A few weeks later I found myself home alone for the afternoon. I took all the cushions off the couches, reached deep into the crevices until I'd found every quarter, dime, and nickel that had fallen there. Soon I'd collected seven dollars.

I biked to the corner store and purchased a half gallon of chocolate-chip ice cream, whipped cream, and all the ingredients for a Betty Crocker chocolate cake mix. I baked the cake and when it cooled, I smeared the whole thing with chocolate frosting. I piled on mounds and mounds of chocolate-chip ice cream. I shook the can of whipped cream and sprayed until every bit was covered, as if by snow. Then I sat down at the table and ate, and ate, and ate. When I felt sick, I rested, then ate some more. When I finished, I stood up woozily and walked toward the couch. But I didn't make it—I veered off to the bathroom, knelt before the toilet, and vomited everything up.

CHAPTER
5

Chicken-All-Together

¤

W
hen Dad moved the family to a rented house in La Cañada—an effete suburb on the outskirts of
LA
—so Ben and I could attend the excellent public high school, I saw an opportunity for reinvention. I got my ear pierced and bought baggy jeans and a chain wallet.

La Cañada High School was small—three hundred students per grade—so our arrival set off a ripple of excitement. That first week, I received intricately folded handwritten notes from Stephanie Dodge and a girl named Mouse. I was attracted to both of them, especially Mouse. But as the week wore on, I realized Mouse and Stephanie were not part of the incrowd, so I ignored them. I wanted the popular girls.

I was fourteen and feverish with hormones. After school I'd sneak into my parents' room and pluck out the
Penthouse Forum
s my dad kept in his bedside table. In the sanctuary of my own room—for the first time, Ben and I didn't have to share—I'd read the erotic stories and masturbate over and over until I was exhausted.

I figured since there were no gangs at La Cañada, I could be the tough guy. Those first few weeks, I stared down several guys in the hallway and was thrilled when they dropped their eyes. One day I stared down a short guy whose muscles
bulged underneath his sweatshirt. He dropped his eyes, but with a smirk on his lips. That afternoon six guys surrounded me at my locker. The short muscular guy stepped forward. I thought he was going to say something, but then my right ear exploded, and my vision went black. When I came to, I was crumpled on the ground. The hallway was empty. I stayed home for a week, too humiliated to return to school.

A few months into freshman year, Ben started dating a girl named Emma Ramsdale. She had pimples, braces, no curves. But Ben liked her, and soon she was his girlfriend.

It was the first time either of us had a girlfriend, and I was jealous. I was also surprised. Since elementary school, things had been easier for me socially than for Ben. We were both nerds, but Ben took more flak than I did. He was always the smartest kid in school and, like many geniuses, had rough, abrasive edges. His sarcastic lash of a tongue, sweatpants, and thick glasses made him a frequent target. Toward the end of junior high, he'd started spending lunch alone in the library, studying algebra, because in the school yard he'd get picked on. And he was too scared to fight back.

But in high school he found refuge in Emma. She adored him. She was always over at our house. I became friends with her. Sometimes when she called for Ben, I'd talk to her on the phone for a few minutes before putting Ben on. I liked talking to Emma and wanted to be included.

That feeling only intensified when I was first invited over to Emma's house, with Ben. Her house was everything ours was not. It was immaculate. The refrigerator was stocked. Emma's mom cooked dinner every night. They ate together as a family.

Our Guatemalan housekeeper would leave a pot of spaghetti or greasy chicken on the kitchen table for dinner. We'd all eat at different times, in front of the
TV
. On weekends, Dad would order pizza, but in an effort to save money he'd
order just one. You had to eat fast to get a second piece. Once I took a piece into the bedroom and hid it in a drawer. Then I went back, got another slice, and ate it slowly, savoring it. Mrs. Ramsdale would make home-cooked meals like Chicken-­All-Together, a golden-brown chicken and cheese casserole. There was always enough for seconds.

When her husband walked through the door, they stood in the kitchen kissing and whispering. When my parents were in the same room, it was like being in a tank with two angry whales. I loved that the Ramsdales were still in love, and I harbored an innocent crush on Mrs. Ramsdale.

I wanted to spend as much time as I could at the Ramsdales'. I loved the cleanliness, the order. I loved being in a house where the parents weren't at war. Emma didn't seem to mind, but I could tell Ben didn't want me there. But still I came. As the months passed, Emma herself started to develop. One day I noticed that her stick-figure body all of a sudden had legs, breasts.

For a while, I ignored my attraction and held to the delusion that since Emma and I were friends, I had equal invitation to be at their house. That idea was smashed when Emma's family invited Ben, and not me, along for their annual Lake Tahoe family vacation. I asked Mrs. Ramsdale questions about the trip agenda, to make clear that I was available. But they never invited me. I was at their house as they loaded the van for the drive. I waved as they pulled away.

A few months after the Lake Tahoe trip, I was still hanging around Emma's house, and Ben had finally had enough. We were in the Ramsdales' living room with Emma and her younger brother. Ben and I were arguing. I said what I thought was the winning line and was smiling proudly when Ben retorted, “Why don't you leave? No one wants you around.”

A nervous silence descended on the room. Ben and Emma's brother went outside to throw the football. A minute
later, we followed them, and when Ben was running backwards, his eyes on a high-thrown ball, I ran up and slugged him on the jaw. Ben was now bigger than me, but I knew he wouldn't do anything. He was still scared to fight. He didn't seem hurt. He just stared at me scornfully, until I turned tail and ran down the street.

At the end of freshman year, my closest friend, Nate Robertson, said, “Wow, you are really getting fat.” It was true. I'd weighed myself the day before—210 pounds. At every meal, I ate until I was stuffed, chasing numbness.

I laughed off Nate's comment, keeping a straight face so he wouldn't see how much his words stung. Later that day, for the first time, I decided to go on a diet.

I ate three times per day, about three hundred calories per meal: a small bowl of cereal, a bagel, or a turkey sandwich with no cheese or mayo. I literally counted down the minutes till my next meal. I'd get in bed shortly after dinner in hopes that I could fall asleep before getting hungry, but soon I would be tossing and turning, taking sips of water to cool the burning coals in my stomach.

That summer I lost forty pounds.

Then, at the beginning of sophomore year, Ben went out for the wrestling team. I knew he didn't want me to follow. He had installed a lock on his bedroom door, one of those fragile slide bolts you find on bathroom stalls. I could have knocked it down with one kick, but its symbolism was obvious. He wanted distance from me, but I missed him and looked up to him, so I joined the wrestling team, too.

Wrestling is the perfect sport for a chubby kid dying to be tough. I began that first year wrestling in a 170-pound weight class but soon dropped to 160 pounds to fill an open varsity spot. In the off-season Ben and I went to wrestling camps and drove all over Southern California to compete in freestyle tournaments. By junior year, we were decent.

At practice I was always paired with Ben, which I hated. Whenever I went for his legs, it felt like getting in a car crash. It soon became clear he was the better wrestler.

I was getting tired of losing to Ben. In tenth grade, I scored 1400 on the PSATs. Ben scored 1510. During a bathroom break in the middle of the SATs, the most important test either of us had ever taken, I told Ben I'd missed at least three questions.

“I'm getting a perfect,” he said. And he had been right. He was physically larger than me, stronger, and a better wrestler. He had better hair than I did. Even his goals were bigger than mine. At the beginning of junior year he posted a piece of paper above his bedroom door that read:

Ben Polk, Goals

• California State Wrestling Champion

• 1600 SATs

• Bench press 350 pounds

• Run five-minute mile

• Straight As

Every time I saw that sign, I felt diminished. A few months into junior year, Ben and Emma broke up. I gave it about a week and then started showing up at her house. Without Ben there, I felt less obtrusive, and fell into the easy machinations of a family's routine. Now Mrs. Ramsdale would smile at me—just me—as I sat across from her at the dinner table. I would help Emma's brother with his homework. And I would spend time alone with Emma.

At first it was innocent—we'd study or watch
TV
together. But I still felt guilty. When I'd hear a car pull into the cul-de-sac, I'd rush to the window terrified that I'd see Ben driving up. From Emma's house I took a circuitous path home to obfuscate where I'd been. But nothing had happened.

Then, things started to happen. Small things. I helped Emma stretch, my chest against her back on the floor of her bedroom. We started sunbathing on her porch, and I would accidentally brush my hand across her legs. After a while, I started leaving my hand where it touched her. She didn't object. I think we both enjoyed that we were crossing a line. But the line kept moving. I started stroking her legs, closer and closer to her bikini bottom. But still, I believed, nothing really untoward had happened.

And then, something untoward happened. We didn't sleep together, but for a few glorious nights we did everything else.

After a few hookups, Emma stopped it. Of course, I never told Ben. A couple of months later, Ben and Emma got back together. He started to go again to her house, and sometimes she'd come over to ours. I'd greet her casually, as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened. And though Ben didn't know for sure, he must have sensed something. Ben and I had both started drinking that year, egged on by guys on the wrestling team, who taught us how to casually slide bottles of peach schnapps under our tee shirts and smuggle them from the grocery store. But over the past few months, I'd started to suspect that Ben wasn't just drinking with the wrestlers, but also alone in his room.

One night, I was in my room with Claire, a girl who'd progressed from platonic friend to shameful secret hookup to publicly acknowledged girlfriend. Ben was in his room with Emma. I went to the bathroom, and when I headed back toward my room, I passed Ben in the hall. My shoulder bumped his as we passed.

“What the fuck?” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“What are you even talking about? Fuck
you
.”

He came up on me fast and put his forehead against mine. I saw a rage in his eyes that I'd never seen before.

“Do something,” he sneered.

“Fuck off,” I said.

He hit me in the face. My head rocked backwards. I didn't so much feel pain as register the massive force of the impact. I stood there in the hallway, with blood running down my chin, and gaped at him.

“Hit me,” he said.

“No,” I said. He hit me again. His eyes were frantic. I could see he wasn't going to stop. I couldn't lift my arms. Not only was I now terrified of my brother; I was also thick with guilt. I deserved this. He hit me again. I took it. As he hauled back to punch me again in the face, my dad rushed out of his room and threw himself between us. I went into my room, sat on the bed, and burst into tears.