My Bully
When I was 14, a student at York Preparatory High School the same year Robert Chambers would graduate, and a couple of years before he would strangle his girlfriend to death in Central Park earning his moniker of The Preppie Murderer, I met a guy name John Grech. John was a big guy; all meat. His father was a building superintendent, and he lived in a basement apartment on 96th street, on the East Side of Manhattan.
I live across town, on the Upper West Side. If you know anything about New York in the eighties, you'll know that East 96th St. and West 96th St. are really different animals. West Side was way more upscale, East Side became really ghetto at just about that median. John was originally from upstate, and he was a Heavy Metal bad ass. For some reason, me and my Jewish friend Jason wound up becoming friends with him. I was the guy who brought the pot into that little circle. For the first 2/3 of the year things were pretty normal. Jason and I wound up getting into some big fight one day, I don't remember what it was about, but I remember us beating the crap out of each other in Central Park, and me storming home. So John was really my only friend for a while there. I still saw the guys from the neighborhood, but I was starting to cut school a lot and acting out in weird ways. I remember dousing with AquaNet these plastic shelves I had on my wall next to my sink (I was living in the back room of our large West Side apartment, what would have been the maid's room. It had a sink and a small closet-sized toilet/tub room) one time when john was over, and setting those shelves on fire. The soot stain was there for years, until the whole place was finally repainted when I was away in rehab.
Anyhow, out of the blue one day in the early Spring, John told me, "I want you to bring me a hundred dollars by the end of the week or I'm going to beat the shit out of you." Being a spolied child, I had no real problem stealing from my parents, as I was entitled to whatever was theirs, but this request caught me off guard, and scared me. I'd been in fights a few times, even broke a guy's hand a couple of years earlier, but, like I said, John was a big motherfucker. Like the jokes about Tyson, how he'd punch you and your rib cage would wrap around his fist. That's pretty much the picture I had in my head.
But there was more than that. I was a generous kid because I knew my parents were more well off than others, and I knew what any rich kid knows: money can buy you friends. But John's demand confused me, and made me angry, as well as sweat. And I spent the next few days wondering how I was going to get out of this. If he didn't get the money, i was going to get hurt. I wish you could have seen his eyes. You'd know what I mean. He had the look of a cruel man, and he had this rather impressive mustache for a fourteen or fifteen year old. He had this insane cackle, like a fake laugh ... like DeNiro in Cape Fear. No kidding, that's not an exaggeration at all. And he didn't blink when he laughed, just his gawping mouth, and his strange eyes under his thick eyebrows.
So I stole that money. And that Thursday night I sat in my room sweating, wondering what the hell I was going to do. I took my father's mat knife out of his toolbox, and I stood in front of the mirror, and I cut a thin line across my chest. And then I cut another. And another, just to see if i could take the pain, you see, and far before cutting was cooler than drugs.
And the next morning I got to school bright and early.
And I waited for John to come up the street.
And I walked right up to him.
And he asked me if I had the money.
And I told him, "Yeah, I've got the money."
And I threw the wad of bills at his feet.
And I tore open my Polo shirt.
And I pulled that mat knife out of my Chinos.
And I began to cut my chest.
And I yelled at John.
"You want to hurt me, John? You think taking that money gives you power? You think threatening me with pain gives you power? You can't hurt me, John. You don't matter. Nothing matters."
And I cut myself, and yelled, and cut myself, and yelled, and cut myself, and yelled.
John had that wide, freaky-eyed gaze that he got when he laughed.
but he wasn't laughing.
And he gathered most of those bills off the street and ran away from the school, back up the block.
I didn't show up at school that day or much at all after that, and would wind up getting left back a grade, and changing schools to the school that I had picked as a first choice but my parents had vetoed in favor of York, which, I imagine, they thought would be better for me.
And the next few years would only get worse.
I guess self destruction is a part of my core.
I live across town, on the Upper West Side. If you know anything about New York in the eighties, you'll know that East 96th St. and West 96th St. are really different animals. West Side was way more upscale, East Side became really ghetto at just about that median. John was originally from upstate, and he was a Heavy Metal bad ass. For some reason, me and my Jewish friend Jason wound up becoming friends with him. I was the guy who brought the pot into that little circle. For the first 2/3 of the year things were pretty normal. Jason and I wound up getting into some big fight one day, I don't remember what it was about, but I remember us beating the crap out of each other in Central Park, and me storming home. So John was really my only friend for a while there. I still saw the guys from the neighborhood, but I was starting to cut school a lot and acting out in weird ways. I remember dousing with AquaNet these plastic shelves I had on my wall next to my sink (I was living in the back room of our large West Side apartment, what would have been the maid's room. It had a sink and a small closet-sized toilet/tub room) one time when john was over, and setting those shelves on fire. The soot stain was there for years, until the whole place was finally repainted when I was away in rehab.
Anyhow, out of the blue one day in the early Spring, John told me, "I want you to bring me a hundred dollars by the end of the week or I'm going to beat the shit out of you." Being a spolied child, I had no real problem stealing from my parents, as I was entitled to whatever was theirs, but this request caught me off guard, and scared me. I'd been in fights a few times, even broke a guy's hand a couple of years earlier, but, like I said, John was a big motherfucker. Like the jokes about Tyson, how he'd punch you and your rib cage would wrap around his fist. That's pretty much the picture I had in my head.
But there was more than that. I was a generous kid because I knew my parents were more well off than others, and I knew what any rich kid knows: money can buy you friends. But John's demand confused me, and made me angry, as well as sweat. And I spent the next few days wondering how I was going to get out of this. If he didn't get the money, i was going to get hurt. I wish you could have seen his eyes. You'd know what I mean. He had the look of a cruel man, and he had this rather impressive mustache for a fourteen or fifteen year old. He had this insane cackle, like a fake laugh ... like DeNiro in Cape Fear. No kidding, that's not an exaggeration at all. And he didn't blink when he laughed, just his gawping mouth, and his strange eyes under his thick eyebrows.
So I stole that money. And that Thursday night I sat in my room sweating, wondering what the hell I was going to do. I took my father's mat knife out of his toolbox, and I stood in front of the mirror, and I cut a thin line across my chest. And then I cut another. And another, just to see if i could take the pain, you see, and far before cutting was cooler than drugs.
And the next morning I got to school bright and early.
And I waited for John to come up the street.
And I walked right up to him.
And he asked me if I had the money.
And I told him, "Yeah, I've got the money."
And I threw the wad of bills at his feet.
And I tore open my Polo shirt.
And I pulled that mat knife out of my Chinos.
And I began to cut my chest.
And I yelled at John.
"You want to hurt me, John? You think taking that money gives you power? You think threatening me with pain gives you power? You can't hurt me, John. You don't matter. Nothing matters."
And I cut myself, and yelled, and cut myself, and yelled, and cut myself, and yelled.
John had that wide, freaky-eyed gaze that he got when he laughed.
but he wasn't laughing.
And he gathered most of those bills off the street and ran away from the school, back up the block.
I didn't show up at school that day or much at all after that, and would wind up getting left back a grade, and changing schools to the school that I had picked as a first choice but my parents had vetoed in favor of York, which, I imagine, they thought would be better for me.
And the next few years would only get worse.
I guess self destruction is a part of my core.
