For the Love of Money Read online

  Ben and I were pushed into the far side of row four. I started frantically counting how many students there were per row, but lost count and had to start over. Our row filled, and the line snaked back, one level up. Jorge entered the row, and I prayed and prayed that some distance would separate us. What are the chances? I protested feebly as Jorge plopped down almost directly behind Ben. Jorge and his friends started as soon as they sat down.

  “Bitch,” said Jorge.

  “Pussy fat twins,” one of his friends said.

  “What the fuck you looking at?” said another.

  I wanted to disappear. I looked over to see if I could engage Okie’s attention, but he was deep in conversation with a female counselor. I looked around desperately for someone to help. There was no one. Ben was getting it worse—he was closer—and I was glad for that.

  “Fat twins. Fucking fat twins,” Jorge said.

  Ben and I just stared straight ahead, not even willing to acknowledge our terror to each other. At times like this I hated Ben; our twinness seemed to make us conspicuous targets. I’d be paralyzed with fear, and tortured afterward by impotent rage, and Ben would see all of it.

  The camp director walked onstage. I felt a wave of anger gathering behind me. The crowd had just started to quiet when Jorge leaned forward and slugged Ben across the cheek.

  Everyone around us froze. I looked over at Ben, whose hand had gone to his face. He was looking up at Jorge, who towered above him. Ben stared at him for a second, and I thought he might do something. But then he turned away, faced forward. Only I could see his eyes fill with tears.

  “You okay?” I whispered.

  “No,” he said, keeping his brimming eyes forward. I wanted to apologize for getting us into this, but I didn’t. After the campfire, Ben and I walked silently back to our cabin and climbed into our bunks without a word.

  Jorge and his friends haunted us the entire week. The activity in the morning with our cabin was safe; Jorge was with his own cabin. But afternoons were different. During the three hours of free time, Ben and I existed on the periphery, always on guard against Jorge and his friends, always moving. It seemed everyone was playing and laughing but us. Sometimes we’d make our way to the beach and bodysurf. There was one fat kid who bodysurfed near us, but we kept our distance from him, conspicuous enough.

  Late in the afternoons we’d sit wrapped cold and damp in our towels and watch the campers waiting in line for tubing. Each cabin had been assigned one time slot for tubing, and ours was the last day. A large, inflatable tube roped to the back of a speedboat would drag the campers, one by one, into the ocean.

  By the last day of camp, Ben and I were refugees, stumbling around, seeking asylum. We were sunburned, exhausted, and friendless. It was our turn for tubing, and Ben and I were near the front of the line.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I said to Ben, and he nodded. The kid ahead of me squealed as he was dragged toward open water. I was next. The counselor looked down at me.

  “Thumbs-up means you want to go faster,” he said. “Thumbs-down means slow it down. If you fall off, just stay where you are and let the boat circle around for you. Hold on tight to the handles or they’ll slip. And have fun. Remember to have fun.”

  The boat dragged the tube into my reach. I held the dock with my right hand as I leaned out with my left to grasp the handle tightly. Straining, I lowered my body facedown onto the tube, which skimmed across the water.

  The man in the boat smiled at me and gave a thumbs-up. I took a deep breath and gave one back. The boat pulled away. The line snapped taut. It felt like my arms might rip from their sockets. I suddenly understood how powerful the engine was, and I was scared.

  The water sprayed up and knifed my face. I couldn’t open my eyes. The tube bounced higher and higher. I wasn’t giving a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down—I was holding on for dear life. My forearms were straining and my fingers started to slip but a rush of adrenaline allowed me to close my grip.

  Suddenly, the collisions got harder and the bounces higher and I knew we had reached open water. Whap, whap, WHAP, the ocean slammed the tube. WHAP, WHAP, WHAP. The water felt solid, like concrete. I gasped for breath as the air crushed my lungs. I moaned through clenched teeth.

  Then it happened.

  I saw the boat turn; we had gone as far out as we were going to go—to the middle of the ocean—and we were turning back. The turning boat made a huge wake, frothy and raging. The rope to the boat strained from the centrifugal force. I was on a collision course with that wake. I was going to hit it dead-on.

  The tube hit the wake like a freight train. My feet flew into the air as I held my desperate grip on the handles. For a moment I enjoyed a reprieve from the battering waves. Then, I felt the tube start to turn. No, please God no. As I sailed through the air, clutching my lifeline, I saw the tube move out from below me, turning on its side. The water opened up beneath me.

  With a great smack, I slammed into the ocean. The tube flipped upside down. I couldn’t breathe, but still I clung to the handles. I knew I had to let go, but I was afraid. Finally my fingers loosened, and I felt the tube rip away. Then I was somersaulting underwater.

  I didn’t know which way was up. I jerked around, caught in my now-loosened life jacket, choking and desperate for air. I opened my mouth but instead of air I inhaled a wave. Saltwater stung my throat. I choked and gagged. My life jacket bunched up by my ears, trapping my arms, obscuring my view. It felt like I might slip out of it.

  I was able to take in only a quick breath before I was hammered again by another wave. When I finally surfaced, I began to cry.

  The sea seemed to calm. I looked around. The boat was nowhere to be seen. For miles, all I could see was black ocean. No land. No boats. No humans.

  Each time I kicked I was afraid my leg might rub against a shark, common in those waters. The weight of my body seemed too heavy for the flimsy life jacket. The water was rising above my jawline. The feel of water entering my ears drove me to a frenzy, and I kicked furiously until I tired and sank once more. I cried and flailed. I thought I was going to die.

  I was dizzy from the cold and lack of air. My breathing was jagged, gasping. The terror of the moment, the fear and humiliation from the week, from my whole life, rushed over me. My neck slipped under the water, then my mouth, then the top of my head. I was completely submerged, in the middle of the ocean.

  Then something happened. Terror and humiliation collided, and it was as if an atom had been split. Where there had been fear a moment before, now there was fury. With deep, heaving strokes I willed myself out of the water, chest high. No longer was I slipping underneath; my legs churned determinedly beneath me. I would swim back if I had to, goddamn it.

  At the top of a swell, I caught sight of the boat in the distance, heading toward me. I was ready to tear apart anyone that came at me. The boat drew past me, and I glared at the driver. He was laughing. The tube arrived, and with a kick I propelled myself up on it. My fingers slipped as I tried to grasp the handles, and again I sank below the surface. Three times I tried, and three times I slipped, falling into the icy water. The fourth time, I closed my grip on the handles and held on for my life.

  I signaled a thumbs-down.

  When I got back to the pier, I slid from the tube and frantically dog-paddled to the ladder. The driver called after me, but I ignored him. As I pulled myself up, my limbs started shaking.

  “Are you okay?” Ben asked. “What happened?”

  “I fell off,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to stay?”

  I told him no, and sat on the beach, numb from the cold and the fear. As I waited for Ben, I thought about what had happened out there. Something had changed inside me.

  When Ben returned, we walked back in silence to the cabin. It was the last day of camp, and we had an hour to pack up our belongings.
I toweled off and put on damp and dirty clothes. Ben kept looking up at me, but I didn’t speak. It seemed impossible to explain. I felt hardened, seared.

  Just as I was finishing packing, I saw movement from the corner of my eye and looked up to see Jorge and his three friends approaching our cabin.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t feel fear—I was as scared as I always had been. It just didn’t matter as much anymore. Fuck it.

  “Come on, you fucking pussy twins. Let’s go. Get the fuck out here.”

  I saw the surprise on his face as I strode toward him.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  His friends cheered but his face dropped. My face felt slack. He started to run toward me. He took two steps and then leapt into the air, a jump kick. I caught him in midair, rolled my hips, and threw him into the corner post of the cabin, moving after him. He hit it with a crunch, fell to the grass, and I was on him. In a panic-driven rage, I attacked him with fists, forearms, and knees. I never felt my hands hit him, but I saw red marks on his face and rips in his shirt.

  A counselor pulled me off. I could see Jorge’s eyes. They were afraid. I was thrilled. The counselor pushed me back. Jorge remained on the ground. I ripped myself from the counselor’s arms and turned and walked away. I heard Ben following behind me.

  When we got to the rocks on the beach where no one could see us, we sat in silence.

  Then the feelings came. Whooping gasps. Stomach-­heaving sobs. Tears poured from my eyes and I leaned against Ben, shuddering. After a time, the convulsions slowed, then passed. My heartbeat leveled. I felt calm, but raw.

  “Oh my God,” Ben said. “You fucked him up. I can’t believe it.”

  I didn’t say anything, but my chest swelled a bit with pride. We stared out at the ocean for a few seconds.

  “What happened?” Ben asked. I knew there was no way he could understand what had happened to me out there in the water. I tried to explain anyway.

  “I felt like I was going to disappear,” I said. “Like I was nothing. I won’t feel like that anymore. I don’t care who it is, how tough they are. I’m not backing down.”

  I could see he didn’t understand. How could I explain that I had become someone else? Someone bigger. How could I explain how powerful I felt, and how excited that made me? But also sad, for the loss of that little boy I’d once been, who’d silently slipped out of the life jacket and sank down into the ocean, until he’d disappeared so completely that it was as if he’d never existed at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Numbcake

  ¤

  A year later, my family pulled up to Indra, a Thai restaurant in Glendale that we frequented three or four times a month. There were four kids now—Ben and I were thirteen, Daniel was six, and Julia was five—and we were regulars. When the pretty Thai woman at the front saw us, she directed us to our usual table.

  Dad motioned for the waitress and began rattling off the standard order: pad Thai, barbecue chicken, spicy green beans with chicken, eggplant with pork, Indian-noodle soup, and seafood curry.

  “Tony, I want the spicy fish,” said Mom.

  The table went quiet. Mom sat with her shoulders hunched, her large body angled to the side, as if to deflect a blow. She hated how Dad ordered without asking what anyone wanted. She was jealous of his sway over us, how he could overrule her just by speaking, how we begged him to take us on “special time.”

  I felt a burst of anger. Why did she start up like this? I liked the spicy fish, too, but it was too expensive. Even then, I’d begun to wish I had a different mom. Not just for me but for Dad.

  When Dad and I were on special time, we’d go to a hole-in-the-wall Korean place or a Mexican place in East LA. He’d have a couple drinks. In the car on the way home, Dad would talk about how unhappy he was in his marriage. If it weren’t for the kids, he said, he’d have left long ago. He stayed for us.

  I’d nod somberly, while inside I was overjoyed that Dad respected me enough to share his deepest feelings. I never loved him more than in those moments. “I really respect what you’ve done as a father,” I’d say. He’d nod, tears in his eyes. Then we’d go into the house, both furious at Mom.

  Dad glared at Mom. To people who didn’t know our family, asking for spicy fish might seem like a regular request, but I saw that it was a direct attack from the woman who’d forced him to work, let herself get fat, and trapped him in a loveless marriage. His eyes narrowed; he ordered the spicy fish.

  I leapt into the silence that followed. “How’s work?” I said to Dad.

  “Shitty,” Dad said. “I didn’t get the account. Close as a cunt hair.”

  I giggled.

  “Tony!” Mom said.

  “Oh fuck off, Linda,” he said, and we kids stared at the table.

  “Work is going good for me,” I offered, hoping to re­establish the peace. Ben and I were selling newspapers door-to-door. A couple times a week, a pickup truck rolled by our house and we jumped in the back with a few other kids. The boss drove to a new neighborhood and dropped each of us off on a different street to knock on doors.

  “I was the top seller again this week,” I continued.

  Dad smiled. “Oh yeah?” He turned to Ben. “What about you?”

  Ben’s face reddened.

  Just then the food arrived, and relief flashed across Ben’s face; he didn’t have to answer. Hands reached out before the plates even hit the table. After everyone’s plates were filled, silence descended around the table. This was the part I loved. The tension between my parents, the sarcasm and teasing, all faded into a Christmas Eve cease-fire so we could eat our spicy green beans with chicken. The only sounds were forks on plates and heavy breathing. After the last bowl was emptied, the last plate scraped, we sank down in our seats with loud groans. Heads at other tables turned to look at us. The waitress cleared the dishes. What remained on the table was disgusting. Rice everywhere, splashes of sauce, noodles strewn about—it looked like we’d eaten without plates. But there was no electricity in the air, no wisecracks, no tension.

  “I need to get out,” said Julia. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Go ahead,” Dad said, not moving. Dad was on the end. He needed to stand up for her to slide out of the booth.

  “Dad!” she whined.

  “You know the rules, Julia,” he said. Once he’d sat down, he wouldn’t get up.

  “Fine,” she said, infuriated. She slithered down under the table and began crawling through the jungle of hairy legs.

  By the time Julia returned, the single dessert Dad had ordered, a sweet bean pie called Mah-Gang, was gone. As we stood to leave, Julia began to whine.

  “I didn’t get anything for dessert,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

  Outside, Julia stood at the window of the Circle K convenience store next door, pleading for Dad or Mom to buy her a Suzy Q. Mom fished a couple dollars from her purse and handed them to Julia.

  We squeezed into Dad’s gray Cadillac, the four children in the back, the interior still carrying the scars from OJ’s death. Julia sat on Ben’s lap. She hunched her body around the Suzy Q as she opened it, but she didn’t have a chance. First, Ben reached around her from the left and swiped his finger through the thick cream in the middle of the cake sandwich. She whirled, yelling “Stop!” As she did, I reached from her blind side and pulled off a chunk. She whirled back, infuriated. Daniel reached over and grabbed a handful of her treat and stuffed it into his mouth, laughing. “Stop! Stop! It’s mine!” Julia screamed, as tears poured down her cheeks.

  “Shut the fuck up back there,” Dad yelled.

  The next night, Dad took Daniel, Ben, and me to Fender Benders, a fifties diner known for its signature dessert—the Bender, a plate piled high with chocolate-frosted chocolate cake, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, nuts, and a cherry. Every time Dad brought us here,
we begged for the Bender. He almost never relented. But on that night, he ordered it. He’d gotten furious at how we’d fought with each other over dessert the night before. He wanted to teach us how to eat “like civilized people.”

  Dad sat at the head of the table, the untouched Bender already melting before him. All eyes were glued to the dessert. “We are going to eat like people, tonight. Slowly. In control. One by one.”

  He dug his spoon into the very top of the Bender, taking the cherry, much of the chocolate sauce, and a large portion of the whipped cream. We watched as he chewed slowly, staring at each of us in turn. He waited until his mouth was completely empty before he pushed the plate to his left, toward Ben.

  That he chose Ben devastated me. I watched helplessly as Ben scooped an enormous bite of cake, ice cream, and the rest of the whipped cream, my favorite.

  “Smaller,” Dad barked. “Put it back. Greedy fuck.”

  Ben looked embarrassed, angry. “You said one bite. It’s one bite.”

  “I said put it back,” Dad said. For a moment Ben’s eyes hardened in defiant scorn, but Dad stared him down. Ben dumped his bite back. He scooped a smaller one and ate it without looking up. When he was done, he shoved the plate toward Daniel.

  By the time it reached me, the whipped cream was gone. I took as big a bite as I thought I could get away with, and then passed it to Dad. Each time someone took a bite, I’d either celebrate or grieve, depending on the toppings they consumed.

  The dessert was nearly gone when it once again reached Dad. He took an enormous bite. I heard Ben exhale in frustration. No one said anything. Dad passed the plate to Ben. One bite remained. Ben looked at Daniel’s near-panicked face. Then he pushed the plate toward Daniel, who finished it off. As we walked to the car, my eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else had gotten more than me.

  A few weeks later I found myself home alone for the afternoon. I took all the cushions off the couches, reached deep into the crevices until I’d found every quarter, dime, and nickel that had fallen there. Soon I’d collected seven dollars.