Day 17 In the Peugeot Again

Another memory of the Peugeot was a bit more violent.  We are back in the states, living in Maine and my brother, Volt and I are going to my sister’s wedding in Farmington, NH.  I brought a friend along who also knew my sister.  His name was Mark (real).  This was my half-sister, DoeRaymee and we had only known each other for the brief custody visits my mom was allowed when we were little kids.  Yeah, my mom lost custody of both her daughters in 1950.  It’s takes a lot of something for a woman to lose custody of her daughters.  Fahsolah was the oldest, DoeRaymee, the youngest.  I never had a close relationship with Doeraymee as I did with Fahsolah.  But that was a long time ago and now as teenagers and young adults, things were changing.  Doeraymee was getting married!  Truth be told, it was going to be free booze and maybe a whiff of some pot knowing her and her future husband.  RSVP big time.  Because of the booze my memory of the actual event is fairly a dot dash affair.  One dot I was there, then I dashed away when it was over.  Memory bank deleted.  I do vaguely remember it was a beautiful view out of the living room window but that’s it.

 The culture of my family was definitely shit rolls downhill.  That means the warhorse (mom) had the ultimate power and used it accordingly via rankings.  My older brother never got touched by Mom but he swears to this day he caught his fair share.  When you are abused emotionally, verbally, psychologically and physically your world turns inside.  You blossom into a self-absorption field of lilies and everything turns into being about you.  You project your fears, your hate, and your drama on everybody around you.   “It’s not fair that Titus gets to go and I can’t!  Volt did soak the sponge with gas but the match blew out before igniting the garage!”  It’s always about me.  Covering my ass, telling on my brothers for anything just to get the shit off from me.

 Titus would always kick my ass no matter what.  I wasn’t allowed to hang out with him, talk to him, go into his room, nothing.   If I crossed any of those lines, I got my ass beat.  If he was too tired (being asthmatic it was frequently that way) he would have one of his friends come over and kick my ass.  So of course I had my duty to kick Volt’s ass whenever he got on my nerves.  We shared rooms, Volt and I so there was bouts of peace but it was always a hair trigger away from someone screaming murder.  I wasn’t as cruel as Titus so we mostly managed to get along.  But we never got along as friends.  None of us.  There was no brotherly love or respect or even like between us.  We were programmed by the warhorse to tattle, tussle, traumatize on each other as long as there existed a breath in our bodies.  I don’t know why, it just was.  It was normal.  If Volt was getting a beating I would hide in the bathroom and listen through the walls and snicker as he was begging for the warhorse to stop.  I thought it was funny.  Why wouldn’t it be?  I wasn’t the center of attention for once.  Being that it was all about me, I was finally on a winning streak and fuck everyone else.  It never stopped Volt from doing the same with me.  We would tease each other afterwards with the words we used in our failed pleadings for her to stop the fucking whipping.  I hate percolator coffee pots.  Those cords are just too manipulative for other functions.  So you get the picture, we used our fists instead of our hearts as tools to foster brotherly tolerance.

 I knew I was too drunk to drive that night and Volt volunteered as he was still learning.  Fine, fine I’ll sit in the back and let Mark ride shotgun.  In my drunken manner I wanted to listen to WBCN, Boston’s finest hard rock and leaned forward to change the channel.  Well Volt had a different agenda in mind and immediately changed it back.  When you’re drunk and a drunk, it doesn’t take much to be offended.  A slight turns into a family tragedy and that’s what was about to erupt tonight.  I leaned forward to change it back and snarled some surly demeaning words in Volt’s ears as I did so.  He slapped my arm and said something equally offensive and of course, changed the channel again.  Mark was way more sober and should have been driving but instead he tried to play peacemaker.  Uh, there is no such thing as a “peacemaker” in this family, maybe “piecemaker” but not no peace making here Mark.  He started to yell at us to calm down and realized soon enough that he was just adding to the insanity rising inside the Peugeot.

 Volt’s slapping my arms turned into me slapping his head.  Not the brightest stroke of a battle plan as he was in control of the car.  With his left hand on the steering wheel he turned to punch me with his right hand.  I had the advantage as I had both hands free and the ability to move back and forth.  Not him.  The beauty of the wedding and all its wonderful promise of future love and celebratory relations was completely shot to shit on that ride home.  I remember having a vague thought that maybe this wasn’t the right time to make my stand because of that ceremonious event .  But fuck that.  I ravaged his head with my left hand severely.  I lost control and wanted to beat the crap out of him.  I hit his head on the down swing, on the upswing I hit the top of that well-constructed Peugeot ceiling.  And I was seriously working it too.  Mark’s voice was all throat out, Volt was screaming/crying and still trying to swing with his right.  It was my angel’s grace that we were the only car on the road for that insane moment. 

 Volt pulled over thankfully and screamed for me to get out.  I put on my older brother airs and laughed as I exited the car.  A last “Fuck you”, doors slammed and dirt and rocks in my face as he floored the car off the shoulder.   There I was, 3AM, in the middle of Route 236, the night black as night could be.  My left hand bloody and throbbing quietly but with intent in that moment alone.  The end of the wedding festival, abandoned on the side of a road, dark place of the night, drunk and more ashamed than angry and facing miles of shuffling before I got home.  I barely had time to reflect on what just happened when a car pulled up and the passenger door popped open.  “Get in, get in.  I’ll give you a ride home” a jovial voice greeting me.  It was unsettling it was so surreal at that second.  Everything felt like it was in slow motion as I got in his car.  However odd it was it didn’t stop him from laughing out loud.  “I saw the whole thing, it was classic!”  He had slowed down behind us for safety and curiosity as it was so unreal.  I let him carry on with this mirth as it was a shit load better than what I just crawled out of.  In some sick twisted way it was funny.  Really, just another day in the Shirley family.  Brothers beating brothers.  Spitting, swearing, spewing threats and oh yeah, what a beautiful day for a wedding Doeraymee, thanks for inviting us to share in your loving event.  Your special day.  This isn’t the ending of the story, no.  Humor guy gave me a ride home and Volt had beat me there by about 10 minutes.

 My parents were up, Volt was bawling and when I came in the volume and swearing increased tenfold.  All 3 of them were on me.  “What did you do to your brother?  What kind of brother are you?  Are you crazy to do that while he’s driving?”  All the normal stuff you’d expect to hear but I wasn’t buying into any of it.

“What, the little baby can’t take a little paddling?  The little baby needs his mommy to take care of him?” Bile oozing out of my mouth as I directed this to him.

“Fuck you asshole!” as he charged into me.  It’s on.  Oh yeah it’s on again.  My hand was the size of a grapefruit by this time but it didn’t stop me from pounding on his head again, ow, again, OW, again, OH FUCK OWWWW.  Me and Volt in hysterics and there were other fun epithets being barked that added to this mad family union. My dad and mom both reached into to pull us apart and the whole family collapsed on the floor in a fit of crying and screaming madness.

 Everything kind of stopped and all you could hear was the wheezing and throaty, chunky breathing.  It was a sweaty, sticky mess, just a stupid overwhelming cluster fuck mess.  I had been beating my brother so hard with what turned out to be a broken hand.  The anger and alcohol wiping out any common sense, any empathy, any love for him.  But this was part of the training.  Wasn’t it?   This should have been one of those spot light moments for the warhorse that we were still at each other’s throat years later.  I rolled off the pile and slowly got up holding my arm looking at the mess that was my left hand.  Demolished.  Thank you Peugeot safety team for building such a structural monster.  My mom started making noises with her mouth asking if I was proud of what I did.  I didn’t give a shit what she said.  I didn’t give a shit what my dad was trying to say.  I was just looking at Volt in revulsion at what a piece of shit he was for making me kick his ass so bad.  I hated this family and I hated myself.  I couldn’t apologize as I was a soldier in a family of narcissistic umbilically connected douchebags.  You couldn’t give in or you lost.  Who knows what it was you were losing too.  Yeah I broke some bones on my brothers’ hard head, he’d survive.  I’d survive.  The distance created would widen and the years that grew between us would feel longer.  I won’t ever forget that pile on the floor though.  We were broken, all broken to end up like that.  All the evidence over the years and for years to come were just small tokens trying to convince me how crazy this family was.  And I was just as crazy too.

 Volt and I were in the car within a week partying.  I was the back seat passenger due to the cast on my hand and Volt was the driver.  Back to normal.

 

1.        I’m grateful that we actually didn’t kill each other over the years.

2.        I’m grateful that alcohol is not a part of my life at all.

3.        I’m grateful that I can love my brother today and not feel too weird about it.   Not entirely cured but working on it.