Claire Standish: "Do you think we'll all end up like our parents?"
A Criminal
His birthday was on Tuesday, but he's not yet sure how he feels about being 8. For example, he's not completely confident he knows where the 'g' and where the 'h' go in the word itself, and last year, in first grade, when they were learning how to write their numbers, he had a really motherfucking hard time forcing his pencil to make the interlocking loops of the 8. So, all of that doesn't exactly guarantee that 8 will be a banner year for Johnny Bender.
But, whatever, 8 is clearly cooler than 7, and, and also, his 8th birthday party might have been the best birthday he can remember, mostly because his 7th just didn't happen since nobody really had money for cake or presents that year and his 6th was a miserable rainy day which pissed his dad off so badly they all just sort of tiptoed around and ate cake on the sly, and he can't really remember much before that one.
So, it was probably his best birthday ever, but that's not exactly impressive, and it's not something he's truly excited about, because the fact that it was the best so clearly highlights the fact that he doesn't have a lot to compare it to, and that blows.
(His mother tried, but the pitiful cake and the recycled New Years decorations and the Happy Birthday song that had to be quickly sung during the commercial of the Bears game because otherwise his dad wouldn't participate was almost worse than nothing at all.)
Sometimes, he feels like his family is like a cheap TV show; like they're all actors who are just pretending to like each other, and they're doing a really shitty job at it. His family always feels like they're trying to be like other families, but the effort is half-assed at best, and so Johnny gets a box cake and a birthday party during halftime of a football game, and that's supposed to be good enough.
And it's not like most of his friends at school and in his neighborhood are doing that much better with their own families, and also when his mom pulled the cake out of the fridge she looked so proud of herself, so Johnny hugged her and helped her wash the dishes when the half-assed birthday party stumbled to a halt after the football game came back on.
After everything had been more or less cleaned up and put away, Johnny's mother winked at him, and, peering into the family room to make sure her husband was absorbed in the game, led Johnny outside to the garage.
His mother fumbled with the latches on the door, and Johnny watched her hands tremble and bit the inside of his mouth as hard as he could, to stop himself from saying anything that would ruin her happiness on this one stupid day. Finally, she got the door open, and Johnny blinked in surprise when he saw the bike.
It was old, and kind of rusted, but at least it was a boy's bike and the brakes worked and it didn't have any streamers or anything attached to it with superglue. His mother beamed at him, and grabbed him in a whole new hug, and whispered "Happy Birthday, my favorite little man."
And Johnny hugged her back, because it definitely wasn't the shittiest bike in the whole world, and because she was trying, and because everything didn't always have to be so hard and sullen and unforgiving. So, he got a half-assed party and a half-assed bike for his 8th birthday, and it really wasn't a terrible day.
But that was Tuesday and today is Friday and Johnny has been 8 for three whole days, and while he deeply appreciates all the trouble his mother must have gone through to find him a bike, it is kind of a piece of shit, and so he has a mission: he's going to make this bike look brand new.
Johnny knows there are cans of black paint in the garage from when his dad painted the kitchen table and chairs for his mom like two years ago, and he figures that if he paints over the rust spots on his bike, it will be almost perfect.
But, the cans of paint are stacked at the very top of the steel shelves that line the garage, and Johnny is the 2nd tallest kid in his second grade class, but there is no way he can reach the paint by himself. He pauses, hands wrapped around the highest shelf he can reach, and looks back over his shoulder at the house.
It's just the middle of the afternoon, but right now his mother is watching her soaps and nursing a beer or two, and she might come help him but she also might be really pissed at the interruption, so he decides to do this all by himself. Because, see, he's 8 now.
So, he steps up onto the first shelf and pauses, waiting to see if the shelves will collapse or if anything will tumble free and shatter on the concrete floor. But the shelves are firmly anchored, so Johnny lifts himself up to the next step, grinning madly as he climbs. (He's always wanted to monkey his way up these shelves, but his father has always grabbed his arm and yanked him down before he got higher than the first step. So, this is climb is doubly exciting, for its danger and for its illicitness.)
The sharp edges of the metal shelves scrape the thin skin of his stomach as he hoists himself to the highest shelf, and his shoulders burn as he wraps his hand around the handle of the closest paint can and yanks.
The can sticks for a second, years of dried paint gluing it in place, then with a screechy riiiip jerks toward Johnny, swinging at his face. He ducks down below the shelf and lets go of the can, suddenly off-balance and almost-falling. The can thunders past his head and jumps over the edge of the shelf, shooting past him, and Johnny, still clinging to the highest shelf, doesn't even stretch for it. He watches the paint can fall, horrified at the mess it's going to make, but, in the secret part of him that loves disorder and chaos, delighted by what he knows is coming.
The paint can bounces once and completely explodes; paint launches itself up, down and around the enclosed garage. Globs of black paint splatter the dirty windows and the dusty floor; they soak the corkboard wall of tools and the boxes of Christmas ornaments and winter clothes stacked haphazardly around the garage. It's a huge, horrifying mess, and Johnny just hangs in the middle of it for a minute, fingers pressed against his mouth (to stop himself from laughing or from crying, he isn't sure) and listens to the thick drip...drip of black paint puddling in the garage.
There are rags and bottles of turpentine piled under his father's workbench, and Johnny knows that he could take them out and try to clean up some of this mess. He could fix the worst of it, and hide some more of it, and his father might not even notice for a few days, and maybe not even ever. He contemplates that for a minute or two, but isn't really thrilled by the idea, or anything.
And, also, he really shouldn't have to rummage around in the garage to find paint to cover up the rust on the piece-of-shit bike his mom bought off the neighbors down the street; he shouldn't have to make his bike safe all by himself- actually, his father shouldn't spend so much money on booze and cigarettes, and should have bought Johnny a better fucking bike for his birthday.
He slowly climbs down, careful of the smears of paints on the shelves that slip and slide under his feet, threatening to send him flying. When he reaches the floor he surveys the mess he's made, and decides that he's going to leave it. Let his dad see it, and let him do what he wants about it. Fuck it. Fuck him, Johnny thinks, savoring the hard edges of the word in his brain. Fuck him.
And so he walks out of the garage and slams the door shut behind him, and decides to take his shitty bike for an aimless ride around the neighborhood. Maybe see if he can make any more disasters. That would actually probably be kind of fun.
Johnny knows, as he pedals away down the driveway, just thinking about the sheer enormity of the disaster he created, that his dad will be beyond pissed. But lots of things can make his dad beyond pissed, and what'll probably happen is this: there will be some yelling and Johnny will learn a new curse word or 12; there might be a slap and a purple bruise as a result, and Johnny will absolutely have to scurry out to the garage and clean it up.
But none of this is unexpected, because this is how Johnny's father has always treated him, and this is how all fathers treat their kids, with a mixture of violence and anger with some humor and incredulity thrown in, at the idea that this ridiculous little person who keeps fucking up and who also keeps needing you is your responsibility.
The streetlights snap on suddenly, the noise echoing through the semi-deserted streets and Johnny, standing up on the pedals in his mostly-inexplicable desire to always go as fast and as recklessly as he can, flinches violently.
Because when his father sees the garage it might not be so bad, but, it also might be terrible. There might be a screaming fight that floods out the windows and into the street and there might be a beating that's so bad that Johnny won't be able to ride his bike or clean the garage for a few days. It's getting harder to tell; his father is drinking more and getting meaner and more pissed over stuff he never would have minded last year.
Johnny doesn't get it: nothing's really changed that would turn his father from a guy who could be kind of an asshole when drunk to a guy that is always a raging, furious asshole, ready to hurt and humiliate at the merest pretext.
Because, they still have the same kind-of-shitty house, his father still has the same kind- of-shitty job, they still eat the same kind-of-shitty food when his mother feels up to cooking. Nothing's really changed.
(And that is mostly the problem: Jack Bender is only getting older and nothing is really getting worse, but nothing is really getting better, either, and Jack can see the parameters of his life closing in on him. But Johnny was only 8 on Tuesday and he sees none of this, but he does understand that if he'd spilled paint in the garage last year, it wouldn't have been so terrible but doing it this year? Things could be bad.)
"JOHNNY! YOU LITTLE SHIT!" The bellow echoes through the house and Johnny snaps awake, launching himself out from underneath his covers and dashing over to his bedroom door. He can hear his father's footsteps pounding up the stairs, and he takes deep breathes, readying himself for this battle.
The door slams open, and his father is there, hallway light pouring over his shoulders and into Johnny's room. Johnny blinks, hands thrown up in front of his face, and his father grabs his upraised arm and yanks him down the stairs.
They march out to the garage, or rather, his father marches, and Johnny stumbles along after him, wincing as the gravel of their driveway stings his bare feet. The garage lights are blazing, and Johnny sees a group of men huddled outside the open garage door, smoking thick cigars, carrying coolers and card tables and handfuls of poker chips.
Johnny feels like his stomach has sunk down to his knees as he father drags him into the garage and squeezes Johnny's arm so hard Johnny whimpers (under his breath). It's Friday night, which means it's poker night, which means Jack Bender and his friends were supposed to play poker in the Bender garage-his wife won't let him play in the house, because the noxious smoke from their cigars gives her headaches.
They're supposed to play poker in the Bender's garage, but they can't, because thick streaks of black paint cling to the walls and ceiling and floor and windows, and coat every other visible surface, and Jack Bender is screaming in his son's face, gnashing his teeth in his hurricane rage.
Johnny can smell the whiskey seeping from his father's mouth and pores as the man pulls him up on his toes, and he drops his head, fear making his joints feel loose and unattached to the rest of him. Alcohol, especially a lot of alcohol, makes his dad unpredictable, and Johnny can already feel bruises blooming under his father's huge, squeezing hands.
The slap reverberates throughout the garage, bouncing off the paint-spattered walls, and Johnny falls, barely getting his hands around to catch himself. He sprawls on the floor for a minute, letting himself get used to the sharp, slicing pain in his mouth and the ache in his upper arms. His father stands over him, whole body trembling with fury, and Johnny closes his eyes as his father's hands descend.
He's yanked up and almost leaves the ground completely, and his father almost pulls his shoulder from his socket, so tightly is he clenching Johnny's arm. His father lunges forward, and there's a gasp and the beginnings of a shout or a protest from one of his father's friends standing in the driveway, but Johnny has his eyes closed and isn't looking. He doesn't want to know what's coming. He's never before seen his father this mad. He's never before been this terrified.
His father jerks his arm up over his head, and he hears the hissing noise against his skin before he feels the searing pain. His eyes rip open and he stares at his father, who is grinding something dark and crumbling into Johnny's forearm, twisting and stabbing until the bones of Johnny's elbow grind together.
His father drops his arm and backs up and Johnny sees the dark thing fall from his father's fingers; it is the remnants of a cigar and holy fuck his arm hurts and oh shit did that really just happen to him? There is a sliver of regret in his father's glazed eyes, but it is not at all in Johnny's nature to let people apologize when they've hurt him so he cradles his arm against his chest and sucks in great gulps of air, and won't look at his father.
Johnny starts back toward the house, ducking his head as he walks by the men who didn't bother to help him, or even to protest, and Johnny's father pushes on his shoulder, but his hands are gentle. "That's what you get, you little shit," he informs his son, but he's actually telling the group of men, and not really Johnny. Johnny hears remorse in his father's voice and feels it in his hands but doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge it, because his father doesn't deserve Johnny's forgiveness, not while Johnny's arm is burning and bleeding and it feels like the cigar is still pressed against his skin. Fuck him.
He throws himself up the stairs, unsteady and shivering, and hesitates outside his mother's room, but in the end decides not to bother. She's passed out and won't wake up until tomorrow. (And he's never sure whose drinking he hates more, because when his father drinks he becomes more present, more dangerous, more likely to hurt someone, but when his mother drinks she is lessened, less present, and isn't likely to do much of anything at all.)
So, he doesn't bother waking his mother because she'll get up tomorrow to the mess her husband and his friends left in the house and the mess her son left in the garage and the mess that is Johnny's arm which hurts like nothing he's ever felt before.
He curls up in bed and listens to his father and friends clink their bottles and light their cigars and deal their cards, their laughter and jokes and loudness which they don't even try to quiet trickling up through his open window. It's his 3rd day of being 8. Being 8 blows.