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.
That was fucking brilliant. The page disconnected and it was like when i was listening to Harry Potter and right at the good part, the CD stopped working. I panicked...
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