A Smoking Hot Family History

Dan Merritt
Lucy Ives
Autofiction
5/12/23

A Smoking Hot Family History

Daniel Edward McIntyre was born on November 14th, 1928, in Newark, New Jersey. His mother was pregnant with him when she came over from Ireland. The family lived in a tenement. Dan worked as a telephone boy. In 1944, he dropped out of high school and joined the Navy. He was sixteen; he lied about his age. He was on Okinawa. He built an airstrip. After the war, he went to Georgetown on the G.I. Bill. He became a dentist. He married Mary Toohey. She was a typist. In 1958, they moved to the suburbs. They had six kids: Danny, Marcy, Anne, John, Billy and Jeanne. All six kids went to Catholic school. All six kids went to college. Danny became a corporate lawyer. He worked for Deutsche Bank. When he was 45, he got hit by a car and was paralyzed from the neck down. When he was 65, he got brain cancer and died. Marcy became a dentist. She took over Dan’s practice. When she was 65, she got breast cancer. They caught it early, thank God, and she’s OK. Anne was a corporate writer at J.P. Morgan. John was an investment manager at Prudential. Billy was a banker at Wells Fargo. Jeanne was a marketing consultant at Weber Shandwick. Each had three children. Except for Jeanne, who had none.

Raymond Walter Merritt was born on July 16th, 1938, in Queens, New York. His father was a plumber. He grew up going to the Hamptons. He went to Holy Cross, then Columbia Law. He married his high school sweetheart Carol Bremer. She was a teacher. They lived in Peter Cooper and Stuyvesant Town. He worked for Wilkie, Farr and Gallagher, a white-shoe law firm. He climbed to co-head of the executive committee, the top of the ladder. Ray and Carol had two children: Ray and Kim. They lived in the city during the week, and in the Hamptons on the weekends and in the summers. The kids went to public school. Ray went to Bucknell and then became a banker at Chase. Kim went to Boulder and became a piece of shit. Ray had three children, Kim had two.

I was born on April 29th, 1999, in Manhattan, New York. My name is Daniel Christian Merritt. My life has just been one mistake after another. Failure, loss, misery, dejection, depression, sickness, evil, hatred, violence, black, black, black, black, black life.

There are family names. Dan. Ray. There’s Grandpa: Dan. There’s Uncle Danny. There’s me. There’s Pop Pop: Ray, Ray Sr., Sr. There’s Dad: Ray, Ray J, Ray Jr., Jr.

Ray J’s not really Ray Jr. though. Ray J is Raymond William Merritt. Ray Sr. is Raymond Walter Merritt. Dad’s always taken it as a slight. “He couldn’t even give me his name.”

“My father’s never said, ‘I love you.’ Not once in my entire life.”

It’s just complaint, complaint, complaint.

“Every year when they drive down to Florida, they take 95. They basically go right by the house! And they’ve never once stopped. ‘Well… what would we do with the dogs?’ Just leave the stupid fucking dogs in the car!”

He hates those dogs, oh my God. “Ratty little things.” I agree. Jake and Piper. Disgusting mongrels. “Cujo.”

Jake is on his last legs. He’s blind in one eye, so he always walks around in a circle. Thinks he’s walking straight. When he goes to the groomers, they have to put him under: a while ago, he bit the girl brushing his teeth.

“I saw the charge from the dog-washing place and almost lost my mind. Two hundred bucks for a haircut?! It was the damn sedatives. I’m not doin’ that again. I called the vet. I wanted to see if I could just get this little fucker taken care of. The lady got all uppity: ‘Sir, sir, we don’t do that anymore! Animal HIPAA’s changed.’ Animal HIPAA my ass! I said to her, ‘It’s an act of mercy! How about this? How about you don’t wanna put him out of his misery? How about I take him to the woods out back my parents’ house and chop his head off?!’ ‘Sir! Sir! I have to inform the vet about this! You can’t do that!’ I hung up. What’re they gonna do, arrest me?”

He does all the dog shit for Nana and Pop Pop now.

When we first got Scout, our perfect golden retriever, Dad had this recurring dream. When you have a puppy, it’s like you have a kid. It makes a lot of noise in the morning. Barking. Six in the morning. “Barking it’s damn head off.” Ray was the one in charge of getting up, going to the basement, and letting the dog out. In the dream, he goes downstairs and lets the dog out, but the dog comes back in. It won’t stop barking. Anne is gonna get woken up. The kids. The neighbors. Ray takes the dog into the bathroom. He shoves its head in the toilet. He’s trying to drown it. He’s holding it underwater, but the dog still won’t shut up. It just keeps barking and barking. Volume unabated by submersion. “So I’m drowning the thing and it just won’t shut up, so I have to saw its head off.”

And Ray is doing a great pantomime, and Grandpa is peeing his pants laughing. This is at Blackburn. There’s a fire on in the fireplace. We only lived there a few months. So it’s always winter.

I couldn’t shit. I was a kid and I couldn’t shit.

Positivism.

Positivism regarding shit.
Sit on the toilet for twenty minutes.
Tell your body it’s time to go.
Play your Gameboy.
Read your frog book.
Read your frog book and wait for Lucas Murphy.
Wait for your friend.
Read your stick-bug book.
Read on the ottoman by the window.
Read on the ottoman and look out the window.
Keep looking out the window.
It’s green and grey; it must be spring or summer.
It’s full and cloudy.
Trees’re full.
And swaying.
It’s cloudy.
Sit on the ottoman.
Sit on the ottoman and sit on top of the gold blanket.
Lie under the gold blanket and wait til midnight and we’ll go watch the fireworks.

Positivism regarding shit.
Prunes.
The sorbitol content of dietary fiber likely provides a laxative effect.
Prunes on yogurt and granola.
Prunes on cottage cheese and apple sauce.
Prunes splat, with their juices.
Eat the bad part first.
Eat the bad part first.
So you can eat the good part without the bad part ruining it.
Hold your nose.
Hold your nose closed and choke down.
Feel it hard and soft in your throat.
Slinking down your throat.
Get it down.
Eat the good part.
It’s at the kitchen table.
It’s warm and wood.
It’s the same table where you’ll sit and see the notepad.
It’s on Colt Road.
It’ll be on Waldron Ave.
72 Waldron Ave.
93 Colt Road.
93 Colt Road.
Sit and eat and get ready for school.
Dad’s driving you.
Help him tie his shoes.
He can’t reach his shoes.
Help him tie his shoes, he can’t reach them.
He can’t bend that low.
His knees can’t bend that low.
Kneel down and help him tie his shoes.
It’s Halloween.
Have ghost cookies tonight.
Have microwave ghost cookies tonight.
It’s dark outside.
It’s morning and it’s still dark outside.
And it’s orange lights.
His legs are wide.
You can hug his legs.
His legs are like my chest.
Kneel and knot the shoes.
Work shoes.
Combat boots.
They’re Keen utility shoes.
They’re construction shoes.
Your dad builds houses.

Positivism regarding shit.
Jack Schroder can’t shit.
Your friend Jack Schroder can’t shit either.
Angela told me so herself.
Same thing.
Same thing.
Same thing.
Asshat.
Angela hates that her husband’s home from work.
Angela hates that Jeff wears sweatpants and watches TV.
Jeff worked at Goldman 40 years.
Jeff was CFO at Goldman.
Jack’s sister can’t go to school.
Jack’s sister Mary Margret can’t go to school.
Can’t go to Oak Knoll.
Oak Knoll School of the Holy Child.
Mary Margret cries and screams, and Mary Margret’s thirteen.
Too old to be screaming.
She can’t go to school, she pisses her pants.
She tears her hair out.
She pukes and cries.
She pukes in the pick up line and pukes in the drop off line
She pukes in the pick up line, relieved.
She pukes scared.
Terrified.

Positivism regarding bellies.
And arm fat.
And no sprinkles.
And self control.
Restraint.
And why do the boys get to get ice cream?
And seashell necklaces for Catherine’s ninth birthday.
Those necklace making trays.
Jewelry making.
Bracelet design board.
Beading jewelry organizer tray.
My sister.
Maybe it’s plastic, maybe it’s cardboard.
It’s grey.
Like sealskin.
We’re looking out for your health.
We’re looking out for you.
Just be smart.
Everything in moderation.
But why do the boys get to get ice cream?

Go back to the good old days when we could hit our kids and call them names.

First time taking a pill.
23 Old Brook Lane.
How many houses?
We’ll show you how to take a pill.
We’ll sit on the couch with you.
We’ll sit beside you.
And hold the glass of water.
Just pretend it’s not there.
Pretend it’s not on your tongue.
Just swallow.
Practicing swallowing.
Drink the water.
See? Swallow.
Just swallow.
Put the pill on your tongue and pretend it’s not there.
Put the pill on your tongue and swallow.
Take a sip of water and swallow it.
I choked, I choked, I choked.
I spit up water all over myself.
I got it all over my shirt.
My parents are cracking up.
It’s pretty funny.
But I’m dying.
My eyes are watering and I’m gagging.
My throat feels so dry.
My face is salty with tears.
The pill is so big.
The pill’s the size of my fist.
The pill’s too big.
I can’t do it.
You can do it.
Look at the pill Daddy has to take.
Look how big it is!
You can do it.
You can be just like Daddy!
Cmon let’s take it together.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
It’s not funny anymore.
Now they’re pissed.
Alright cmon just take it already.
Put it on your tongue and swallow it.
You have to take it.

How many houses?
72nd Street.
88th Street.
Ezekillis Hollow.
Colt Road.
Old Brook Lane.
Waldron Ave.
Blackburn Place.
Hobart Ave.
Kittredge Loop.
11th Street.
14th Street.
Elizabeth Street.

How many beds I’ve lied awake in?
How many houses I thought’d burn down?
With me in ‘em.
With me outside watching.
Watching my parents burn up.
And all my toys.
And my brother and my sister.
Tied to their beds.

My parents were out to dinner.

They went out every Saturday night. Date night. I hated date night. I hated when they would go out. Cindy would come over. Cindy Lamantia. She drove a PT Cruiser. A purple PT Cruiser, literally! Her husband was the groundskeeper at Noe Pond. A shitty ‘country club.’ A fake country club. A ‘lake’ club. This vile hole in the earth. Scooped out. Dug out. A dirt pit filled with SEWAGE. They lived on the property. In a little apartment above the snack bar. I went in there once. They had one of those cat jungle gym things. Weirded me the fuck out. We were never animal people.

Cindy would come over every Saturday night. She would come at 5 or 6. Feed us, watch us play, while my parents got ready. Actually sounds like a pretty nice treatment for my parents. Get to shower and get your nice clothes on, all nice and alone and unbothered by rambunctious children. Then they would come downstairs, lookin’ all nice, and say goodbye and goodnight. I hated it. But I loved hugging my mom. Sometimes she would wear a fur coat. Mink. That was my favorite coat to hug her in. I would rub my hands around on the back. It felt so good. Pushing the fur one way smooth and flat. And then coming back the other way it would tuft up. It was cool and smooth and I loved my mom. I love my mom. I always hoped I could stay up late enough, so I’d be awake when they got back. When I got put to bed, I’d lie there waiting to hear the front door open. Hear the, “Thanks so much.”
“They were angels.”
And the packing up and the eventual second sounding of the front door: Cindy leaving. And then the rustling in the kitchen. Maybe another wine bottle cracked. And then the footsteps coming to my bedroom. And the door gently opening. A sliver of light growing. Warm, warm under my covers and Mom comes in still cold from outside. Hugs me and her coat’s still cold.

After my parents left for dinner, I’d help Cindy put Catherine and Reed to bed. I’d hang out in their rooms and play with them while they put their pajamas on. While they brushed their teeth and combed their hair. I’d lie in their beds and read with them. I’d dance around the room and rile them up. Afterwards, me and Cindy (me and Cindy, me and Cindy, me and Cindy!) would watch a movie. It was my date night, too.

When it was time for me to go to bed—and I never put up a fight, I was always the consummate charge—I would help Cindy set the TV to channel 2. I would offer, “I can help you find something good? Are you sure you don’t want to watch something else? We have the HD channels? If you just go to channel 502 it’ll be the same thing but in hi-def?”
“It’s fine honey, it’s just background noise.”
I’d go to bed, and she’d copy down recipes from my mom’s cookbooks. She had very long nails. I had never seen anything like it. Crazy fake nails. She let me touch them. I couldn’t believe it. She’d sit at the kitchen counter with the lights off and the TV on and copy down recipes. She’d copy them down onto post-it notes. She’d copy them down in pen.

It was a bad night.
Lying in my bed.
Lying awake in bed.
Scared of firefighters.
Scared of my parents coming home and seeing firefighters.
Seeing firetrucks lining the street.
Seeing flashing lights.
Red, white and blue.
And no sirens.
No sense in waking up the neighbors.
And seeing the house smoldering.
No survivors.
Scared worse of surviving, and everyone else being dead.
Scared of foster care, or the orphanage.
Too many orphans in children’s literature!
Gave me nightmares!
I was lying awake, tripping out to this shit.
To the point of tears.
So I was gonna go downstairs.
I was gonna debase myself.
Cry to Cindy.
Tell her I was scared.
Tell her I couldn’t sleep.

I got out of bed. Pulled back the sheets. Lowered myself onto the carpet. Padded across the room. Pushed open the door. It was dark in the room, and only a bit less dark in the hall. There was a faint glow of light coming up the staircase. I walked towards it. I heard whispering. I stood at the landing. I could see Cindy’s shadow around the corner. Down the stairs, around the corner. I could hear her whispering. She was on the phone. “Oh but the kids! It just breaks my heart. And she’s so young, too. Three kids, what’re they gonna do without her? Oh and the husband, you have to feel for the husband. Oh God, watch over them. How long do you think she has? Oh my God, that’s horrible. I can’t even. I can’t even imagine it. And it’s just so random. She was healthy. She was so healthy. And there’s no hope? Inoperable? Oh God. Etc. Etc.”

And I was frozen. Petrified, listening. She was talking about Mom. Mom had cancer. Mom had breast cancer. I couldn’t think. My brain was shut off. My eyes were hollow. I was stock still.

I must’ve made it back to my bed. I must’ve fallen asleep. And I woke up to Mom hovering over me. Kissing my forehead. And I started to cry. I couldn’t tell her I knew.

Our neighbors, the mom died from breast cancer. On Colt Road. It was all boys. Three or four sons. They had a messy garage, filled with outdoor toys. Sports equipment. An ATV. I was friends with the youngest. He had a Gamecube. I wanted a Gamecube, but I got a PS2. The PS2 was the newer, better console, but I was still disappointed. I wanted a Gamecube so I could be just like him. His room was messy. He had a TV in his room. He had clothes all over the floor. My room had fine art photography. Their mom died from breast cancer. They moved to North Carolina. I imagined she found out and didn’t tell anyone, and then one day, a random day, just left a note on the fridge, and left and went downtown and sat in a cafe and died. The note would’ve said something like, “I have breast cancer. I’m going to die. I love you all. Goodbye.”

My mom didn’t have cancer. Thank God. Thank you God. Thank you God. Thank you God for my health and the health of my family.

The notepad comes in in fifth grade.
I can see where it happened.
It started at the table, and then it moved onto the couch.
I can see the notepad on the table.

It was DARE graduation.
DARE.
DARE to keep kids off drugs!
Drug Abuse Resistance Education.
They had the graduation thing at the high school.
It happened at night.
7 p.m.
It was the end of the school year.
It was May.
I had probably been playing outside all afternoon.
I was probably hyped up.
Tweaked out.
On adrenaline and dirt-smell.
I went with my dad.
When we got there, I wanted to go sit with my friends.
I sat with Steven Tyrone.
Steven Tyrone was bad.
He had learning disabilities.
He was a troublemaker.
He came to the first day of school in a luchador mask.
He had severe learning disabilities.
He came from a broken home.
I didn’t like him.
He scared me.
I am a good person.
I don’t know why I sat with him.
We made jokes and laughed the entire time.
What really got me in trouble was the whole mayor thing.
Our mayor at the time, Jordan Glatt, came and delivered a speech.
“I was a good kid.
I was just like you.
I used to be just like you.
But I hung around a bad crew.
A real bad crew.
Lemme tell you.
They were into some real bad shit.
They lied to their parents.
They cut class.
They hung out by the train tracks.
They would lie to their parents; they would cut class and go hang out by the train tracks.
They hung out by the train tracks and did bad things.
They drank:
Beer.
Oh I can remember it: train tracks littered with empty beer cans.
I used to hang out with them too.
I lied to my parents.
I cut class.
I went and hung out by the train tracks.
I even drank.
But then one day it all caught up to me.
I woke up.
‘What am I doing man?’
I had to cut them off.
I stopped going down and hanging out by the train tracks.
I stopped cutting class, lying to my parents.
I got on the straight and narrow.
(And look at me now).
But my friends.
Oh they weren’t to be swayed.
No amount of pleading would get them to change their wicked ways.
I begged.
‘Stop drinking. Stop hanging out by the train tracks.’
But they wouldn’t listen.
And then,
It was too late.
One night, they were hanging out by the train tracks… drinking.
And one of them got a little too drunk.
And stumbled onto the tracks.
And fell over.
And a train was coming.
And he was fallen over the tracks.
Lying over the tracks.
And he couldn’t get up.
And his friends tried to help him.
And he couldn’t hear the train coming.
He was too drunk and so he couldn’t hear the train coming.
And he was laughing.
Drunk.
Laughing.
And his friends were screaming.
And the train was coming.
And he was lying across the tracks.
And BAM!
The train exploded over him.
Blood rained.
The boys were drenched.
The noise.
Oh the noise.
The squelching of his body.
I’ll never forget that sound.
When the train passed, they looked down to see… their friend…
TRISECTED!
He had gotten cut into three pieces.
He was lying on the tracks in such a way that when the train ran him over it cut him into three pieces.
The lower part of his legs.
The upper part of his legs and part of his midsection.
And then the chest and head.
The skin was—
[What does skin look like when the blood’s drained from it?]
THE SKIN WAS THE COLOR OF CANDLEWAX.
All the blood was drained from the body, and the skin was the color of candlewax.
The gravel, the empty cans: splattered crimson.
It looked like JACKSON POLLOCK.
I was the one who had to tell his mother.
I had to go knock on her door in the middle of the night.
That knock every parent dreads to hear.
She came to the door.
Before I could even open my mouth, she was bawling.
She knew.
She knew her son had been on a bad path.
She knew this day was coming.
The day when finally it would all catch up to him.
The funeral arrangements were made hastily.
They had to get three small coffins.
One for each piece of his chopped-up body.
DO YOU WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TO YOU?!
DO YOU WANT TO END UP LIKE THIS?!
WITH YOUR MOTHER SOBBING OVER YOUR THREE SMALL COFFINS?!
HAVING TO THROW IN THE FIRST HANDFUL OF DIRT?!
SCREAMING, TEARING AT HER THROAT?!
UNABLE TO BREATHE—”
At this point, Mayor Glatt was ushered offstage and given a glass of water.

I was at the pool.
Canoe Brook Country Club.
It was a Sunday.
3 days later.
The pool closed at 8.
At 7:45, they made you get out of the water.
It was sunset colors.
We drove home.
It was warm, but it was cold, too.
The day had been warm.
The air was warm.
But now the sun was going down, and it was getting cold.
And my suit was still wet.
It was wet on the leather seats.
I asked my dad if I could play video games after dinner.
His response was vague.
“We’ll have to see about that.”
I thought nothing of it at the time.
But I remember it now.
Word for word.
After dinner, Mom and Dad sent Catherine and Reed to the basement to play.
They called me into the dining room.
They were seated side by side.
I was to sit across from them.
The table was wood.
It was a rectangle.
It was a nice table.
It was very smooth.
And nicely lacquered.
It was light brown.
In front of my mother, there was a notepad.
A yellow legal pad.
She had a pen.
I didn’t know what was going on.
I was in a good mood.
And then it began.
“We got a phone call from Mrs. Hague.
She was sitting behind you at the DARE graduation.
She said you were very poorly behaved.
She said you were very disrespectful.
She said you reflected poorly on the school.
She said you reflected poorly on her.
She said your behavior was unacceptable.
Your behavior was unacceptable.
What do you have to say for yourself?
I can’t believe you.
We can’t believe you.
To laugh and make jokes, at such a serious occasion:
How could you?
The mayor, the mayor of our town deigned to speak to you, and this is how you repay him?
The mayor related a painful, painful experience, and you laughed at him?
Did you think no one was watching?
Did you think no one could see you?
What were you thinking?
Did we not raise you right?
Have we failed as parents?
We’ve failed as parents.
How could you do this?
Have we not taught you to respect others?
Have we not taught you to respect authority?
Have we not taught you how to behave?
Why did you sit with that boy?
What’s wrong with you?
What’s wrong with you?
What’s wrong with you?
Mrs. Hague had to call your father at work.
How do you think that made him feel?
How do you think he felt?
He thought you were hurt.
I thought you were hurt.
I was in disbelief.
He was in disbelief.
‘How could he have done something like that?
You must have the wrong kid.
My kid would’ve never.
My son would’ve never.
Danny would’ve never.
No! There must be a mistake.
This can’t’ve been him.
Are you sure?
Are you sure?’
I couldn’t believe my ears.
Your father couldn’t believe his ears.
My son?
My son?
Behaving like this?
Associating with people like that?
Have we not raised you right?
What were you thinking?
It’s beyond.
It’s just beyond.
Your mother is right, it’s just beyond.
I just can’t believe it.
It’s beyond belief.
One of the most important moments of your elementary school career.
And this is what you do?
This was supposed to be a celebration.
How do you think teachers at the middle school are going to react when they hear about this?
You could’ve just set yourself up for failure.
You’ve shot yourself in foot.
How do you think it will feel going into middle school handicapped?
Good luck getting into that honors math!
There goes Harvard!
It’s not even that Ray, it’s the principle of it.
It’s the lack of respect.
It’s the disrespect.
The blatant.
Fragrant.
Unbelievable.
Incomprehensible lack of care.
Do you just not care?
Do you really just not give a shit?
Don’t you care how you’re representing your elementary school?
Don’t you care at all?
The whole town was there.
The whole town saw you.
Every kid from every elementary school.
All their parents.
They were all watching you.
You let us down.
You let your school down.
You let your teachers down.
You let us down.
You should be ashamed.
We can’t believe you.
How could you’ve done something like this?
It’s like we don’t even know you.
You’re not who you are.
Who are you?
Where is our son?
Where is our boy?
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?
WE DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE.”
Throughout all of this, tears were shed.
Bodies were moved.
All around the dining room.
And the living room.
And the den.
It was one of those blowouts.
I tried running.
They just followed me.
I curled up in a ball on the couch.
Mom came over and sat with me and rubbed my back and hugged me.
All while continuing the diatribe.
It didn’t end.
How many times did I scream I’m sorry?
How red could my face have been?
How hoarse my voice?
Their voices modulated.
Pitch and volume.
Gristle.
Grit.
They comforted me, between barbs.
Between blows.
They really wanted to understand.
How, how could I’ve done this?
It didn’t make sense to them.
They listened to my responses.
My mother recorded them on the notepad.
Where was the disconnect?
What had been going through my head.
How could they make sense of this?
There had to be reason.
There had to be reason.
There had to be an explanation.
There had to be some way to make sense of this.
There had to be some way to understand.
“No Wii until school’s out.”

Recently, I was at a hockey game. It was Devils vs. Rangers. New Jersey Devils vs. New York Rangers. Playoffs. First round. Game five. Series was tied two-two. Rangers had won the first two games, had gone up two-oh. Devils had won the last two. This was a big game. Devils had a chance to pull away. To win three in a row would be huge.

My cousins are huge Devils fans. Huge, huge, huge. They watch every game. This is my mother’s sister’s family. My mother’s sister Marcy. It’s Marcy, her husband Rob, and their three kids: Jimmy, Betsy and Kiera. Jimmy is 33. Betsy is 30. Kiera is 27.

Betsy got the tickets a while ago. She just bought ‘game five tickets.’ It’s not guaranteed that there will be a game five. Of course, one team could win in four. She got the cheapest seats. Nosebleeds. Literally three from the top row of the whole place. It was a sickening height. And so steep. Rangers fan sitting in front of us: kept standing up: I kept wanting to give him big kick in back: send him shootin’ off like rocket!

But Betsy was in Tahoe for a bachelorette party. So I got the nod. “What’s your class schedule Thursday night? Just noticed on your schedule you have Phil New our’s til 430. Is that still correct? I’m only asking because I wanted to see if you wanted to go with Reed to the Ranger - Devils game at the Prudential center at 7:30 tomorrow night, Betsy’s got two extra tickets. Once I hear from, I’ll confirm. Regardless, maybe you and I’ll go free doesn’t want to go.” My dad is a long texter. The ‘Phil New our’s’ was probably supposed to be ‘film class.’ He uses dictation sometimes. There was a ‘Reed’ omitted from the second to last sentence. ‘Free’ translates to ‘if Reed.’ Reed is my brother.

I figured that the seats were from work. Like Betsy got them from work. Like Betsy got them from work and was going with a client or a friend, and had a seat or two free. Betsy always brings up how she used to babysit for me. And other random stuff from before I can remember. Like making fun of my mom for being too liberal-parent-y. “There was one time when you made a really stinky poop in your diaper! We were all cracking up and yelling, ‘Gross!’ Then your mom said, ‘Don’t laugh at his natural bodily process. It’s only natural. In fact, it’s beautiful.’ And then she took a big sniff!” Obviously I don’t like hearing that! It’s like she treats me as if I’m still that baby. And there’s the whole, “Oh my God?! You were born in 1999?! That makes me feel so old!” Like, cmon. Enough already. I hate being lil-bro’d.

I figured, I figured, I figured, I figured it was nice work seats until I literally got there and Kiera was like, “Oh yeah, Betsy got these seats ages ago, they're nosebleedin’ Nellies!”

Kiera drove in from Summit with Reed. Jimmy drove down from Beacon. I PATH’d out from city. I got there first. It was like a civil war. All on the train, mixed up with the commuters, and in Newark Penn, and on the big avenues between the station and the stadium: a sea of red, white and black, and red white and blue. New Jersey vs. New York.

I never really got sports rivalries until recently. “Who cares?” I thought. But then I had a revelation. I really hated rival fans. Like I really really hated them. Like I wanted to kill them. I wanted to see them dead. It felt like I was in medieval times. A few weeks ago my roommate and I were watching the Knicks game at a bar. They were playing the Cavs. There was a Cavs fan sitting behind us. In his stupid Cavs hat. Stupid fucking Cavs. I wanted to crack him over the head with my beer bottle. Bro: we’re in New York. Take off that fucking Cavs shit. I’d knock that shit right off his head.

I don’t know what changed in me. One day I couldn’t care less. I laughed at those diehard fans. And then, one day, I’m a homicidal maniac. Ready to die. Ready to die for the red, white and blue. I wish I could die for my country. If only there was a war. If only there was someone we could glass.

I went right to the ‘fan fest.’ It was this setup outside the stadium. Food trucks, beer trucks, a stage with a band playing. New Jersey overload. The band played 50 Cent’s “In Da Club,” but replaced every ‘Go shawty’ with ‘Go Devils.’ I waited in line for beer. The line was very long. I waited in it for a long time. I texted in the group, “I’m waiting in line for beer. Does anybody want me to get them one? The line is very long.” No one responded. Eventually, as I was nearing the front, I saw Kiera and Reed. I waved them over. They wanted to go inside. My line-waiting had been in vain. Without purpose.

We went inside.

We went to a bar near our section. We waited for Jimmy. We got him a beer. We saw Dr. Bartlett. He was an oral surgeon. His office was in Summit. He was a contemporary of Marcy and Rob’s. Marcy was a dentist and Rob was an orthodontist. We said hello. Dr. Bartlett was there with his son. His son was about Jimmy’s age. By this time Jimmy had showed up. The son and Jimmy had gone to school together. They had gone to Delbarton. It was a fancy Catholic prep school. That’s where Reed was at. The son asked Reed, “So, you’re a senior? Where’re you going to college?” Reed said, “Georgetown.” Period. No ‘I’m thinking about Georgetown.’ He said it definitively. First I’d heard that he’d actually made a decision! “Yeah, we put the deposit down.”

Last weekend, when we went to dinner for my birthday, my dad said to the coat check guy, “We’re celebrating! It’s my son’s birthday, and my other son just got into a college that starts with a ‘G!’” The coat check guy umm’d. He failed to provide my dad with a, “Georgetown?! Wow! Good for you! And your son, of course.” I quipped, “Garvard.”

At the stadium, we stood around with Dr. Bartlett and his son for a few minutes. Then it was time to go to our seats.

The game started.

It was very fun. La, la, la. We watched the hockey game. Hockey, hockey, puck, puck. Woo! Yay! Oh man! Oh no! Get it in! Skate faster! Hit that guy! Oh my God! Score! Goal! Save! Penalty! Buzzer!

And then it was time for intermission.

The period ended.
The buzzer went off.
All rise.
And descend, towards concessions and restroom.
I was walking behind Jimmy.
We were chatting, limply.
That awkward thing where the person in front has to keep stopping and turning around to talk.
“Pretty good first period.”
“Yeah.”
“That goal was a little bullshitty, but hey: numbers on the boards.”
“Yeah.”
I said I wanted to get some food. And another drink.
I asked him if he wanted another drink.
“No. I’m good. Thanks.”
I also wanted to go to the bathroom.
I needed to go to the bathroom.
I had to piss like a racehorse!
Jimmy was going to the bathroom.
We approached the bathroom.
The line was very long.
It was a river of people in that hallway.
The long hallways that wraps around the stadium.
Circles around it.
With the beer stands and the food stands and the bathrooms coming and going.
Revolving.
Spinning.
Revolver.
Long gun.
Graphic photographs.
Graphic images.
Graphic images of the attack went viral on Twitter.
Graphic images.
Grisly images—including of a blood-spattered child—spread virally.
Gruesome images.
Unusually graphic.
Truly graphic images.
Open-casket images.
Horror.
Violent images.
A spokesperson for the site said it had begun removing video of the massacre.
Graphic content.
Terrible images.
Graphic video.
Graphic images.
Conversation began to trail off.
Between Jimmy and I.
He thought I was about to leave to go get food. And another drink.
But he didn’t realize that I was actually going to stay here.
With him.
And wait on line for the bathroom.
Because I had to piss like a fucking racehorse!
So it was that funny thing that happened.
Where he turned around and was like, “OK, well, see ya…”
And I just stood still and said nothing.
For a moment, just to let him bask in the weirdness.
And then I stuttered, “Oh uh um I oh uhh’m gonna just go pee too.”
“I thought you were gonna go get food? And another drink?”
“Yeah I’m gonna, I’m just gonna pee first.”
Chuckles: “You can pick one.”
“…”
“You can pick one. You can go to the bathroom, or you can get food. And another drink. You’re not getting both in in one intermission.”
“…”
“…”
“Eh! I’ll give it a shot! Worst that happens’I miss the first few minutes of the next quarter.
“…”
“I mean period.”
The line was very long.
It took a long time.
It was less of a line and more of a big group of people.
It was less of a line and more of a big cluster of people.
Aggregation.
Throng.
And they would feed into the little tiled passage.
“What they should really do, is have a food and drink place in the bathroom, so while you’re waiting to piss you can also be waiting to get your shit.”
This made some people crack up.
I think it’s a good idea though.
I also said, when we got into the bathroom proper and could see all the urinals, “Aw hell naw! No wonder this shit taking so long! Why ain’t they got them horse trough things they got at baseball games!”
And of course, mfs were taking their sweet time at the urinals.
Buttoning up their belts at the urinals.
Cmon man! Everyone knows you walk away from the urinal as soon as you can after you finish peeing.
You leave your belt undone and you walk away.
Go belt your belt in front of the mirror or something!
Or just do it while you walk out.
Don’t stand doing it at the urinal.
You’re wasting precious time.
Ridiculous.
After I said all of this it was quiet a moment.
There was still a ways to go before our turn.
I guess I had the courage worked up, so I asked Jimmy,
“So did you ever record Grandpa talking about being in the war? Didn’t you do some shit like that? I remember you talking about that once in Manasquan. And my mom said something about it too. Like you talked to him and made the audio recording or whatever?”
“Oh. Uh. No.”
“…”
“I talked to him about it, but I never recorded anything.”
“Oh. I thought you had. I thought someone had said something about you doing that.”
“Yeah, no.”
“Oh. Well I was just hoping that you had some recordings or something. I’m writing this family history thing and…”
“…”
“Maybe I should try to talk to him about it.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. If you do want to do something like that, you should do it sooner rather than later…”
“…”
“You should do it sooner rather than later… cuz… you know…”
“Yeah.”
“…”
“…”
“Cuz he has Alzheimer's and is gonna be dead as shit soon.”
I am a bad person.
I am wasting precious time.
Soon my grandpa is going to be dead.
And I will never have talked to him about being in the war.
I am a failure.
I will be a failure.
I will continue to be a failure.
I will continue to be a bad son and a bad grandson.
I will regret this my entire life.
Sometimes my dad offers to come into the city to pick me up.
To drive me home.
And sometimes I tell him I’d rather take the train.
I like listening to music.
Or writing, on the train.
But someday he’ll be dead too.
And I’ll have nobody to come and pick me up.
Who’s gonna want to drive into the city to pick me up?
What am I going to do when my parents are gone?
How am I going to survive?
God this life is so worthless.
It’s all a joke.
A sick, miserable joke.
Issac Brock says, “If God takes life he’s an Indian giver.”
Mark Kozelek says, “I can’t live without my mother’s love.”
A long time ago, I was on vacation.
I was 12.
Or 10.
How old are you when you’re a kid?
We stayed in this great big house.
In Sag Harbor.
It was a French person’s.
They had books in French on the bookshelves.
It was a big square house.
It was white.
It was stately.
It was set on a nice lawn.
There was the driveway, and off about 50 yards, across a nice lawn, was set the house.
On the other side of the driveway was a scraggly lawn.
With trees and shrubs.
At the end of the driveway was a little pool.
We rented this house two or three years in a row.
For a few weeks.
Sometimes with my dad’s sister and her family.
It was a great house.
I freaked out.
I had a crazy existential crisis.
This one night.
I was lying in bed.
It had probably been a long great day of beach and pool and barbecue and television and toys and teasing my sister and getting stung by horseflies.
I was lying in my bed.
All alone.
All by myself.
It was a strange room.
I slept by myself at home.
But there was something extra lonely about that room that night.
I was just lying there, thinking.
And for some reason I just started thinking.
“I’m 10.
Mom’s 50.
When I’m 20, Mom’ll be 60.
I wonder when I’ll get married.
I’ll probably get married when I’m 30.
So Mom’ll be 70.
So if I have children and they’ll be ten and I’ll be 40, then Mom’ll be 80.
But what about when I’m 50 and Mom will be 90?
But then I’ll be 60 and Mom will be 100?
Wait but what if Mom dies?
Wait but Mom’s going to die.
At some point Mom’s going to die.
Even when I’m 60 won’t I still need her?
Wait?
Will Mom not be able to give me a hug?
Mom’s not going to be there if I need to cry.
Wait what?
No.
I hate this.
I hate this.
No.
No.
No.
Why?
No.”
By now, I’m crying. And I probably traipse to my parents’ room and wake them up. And Mom takes me downstairs, probably to let Ray sleep. And tried comforting me. And we’re in the downstairs bathroom. And I’m sobbing and she’s comforting me:
“Darling, that’s a long, long way away. I’m here right now. It’s OK.”
And I see right through this:
“YEAH BUT YOU'RE NOT ALWAYS GONNA BE.”
“Stop darling, it’s OK, it’s a part of life. It’s a long ways away.”
“Oh God, Mom, but what about when I’m 50?”
“Shhhhh, it’s OK.”
And it was dark in the bathroom.
Pitch black.
Mom kept the lights off.
I hugged the toilet.

When Grandpa went to Georgetown, he had this professor. The first day of class the guy walked in and said to everybody, “In here, I’m the only one who smokes.” Back then, everyone smoked in class. But not in this professor’s class. In his class, he was the only one who smoked. And smoke he did. He chain-smoked through every session. Halfway through the semester the university outlawed smoking in classrooms, even for professors. So, did the guy stop smoking? Nope! Instead, he would go stand outside the classroom, right by the window, and teach from there! Smoking all the while.

Grandpa never smoked. My dad never smoked. “A nasty habit.” His parents smoked—two packs a day. My mom was a cigarette enjoyer. Not an enthusiast, not a chain-smoker, but an enjoyer. When Grandma and Grandpa would throw parties, they would put out a bowl full of cigarettes on the coffee table. It was just polite.

Grandpa didn’t drink either. Not really. He loved his Budweiser, but that was it. “Anything else could get you into trouble.” Temperance, moderation, abstemiousness. “The more we keep ourselves alone and secluded, the more fit do we make ourselves to approach and attain to our Creator and Lord. Spiritual exercises. To overcome oneself and to order one’s life.”

There’s this joke: a guy’s walking down the street and sees a very old man sitting on a porch. He goes up to him and says, “Wow! God bless! You’re so old! And you’re still enjoying a nice sit on your porch. What’s your secret?”
“Well, I smoke cigarettes all day every day, and I drink from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep.”
“Wow! Well, how old are you?”
“24!” 
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