Freezing People is (Not) Easy (3 page)

While Big John was in jail, I became interested in astronomy, which was now my secret passion. I was fascinated with space travel and exploration, and I spent most of my precious spare time reading astronomy and science-fiction books. I lived vicariously through visionaries such as Jules Verne, who was later complemented by Arthur C. Clarke and my personal hero, Carl Sagan.

One day while riding in Big John's Cadillac, I took a chance and told him that I wanted to study astronomy when I grew up. Big John sniggered, “You're being foolish. There's no future in something as silly as astronomy. You need to put that out of your mind and concentrate on something you could earn a living at.”

I countered that I
could
make money at it; I would just have to go to school longer.

He gripped the steering wheel, teeth bared and tension rolling off every muscle and fat roll. He didn't like the new me—the old me would never have argued with him. He shook his cantaloupe-size fist in my face and shouted, “If you want to see stars, I'll show you some stars! Now forget it. You're not going to be an astronomer. End of discussion. Got it?”

I got it, and I got a sickening feeling that the meat grinder of my childhood wasn't quite ready to spit me out yet.

Midway through the fall semester of my sophomore year of high school, Big John, who had been arrested and sent to jail again, got out once more, and his Mafia money enabled us to live like rich people. We moved to Long Island and I attended a nice high school like the ones I'd seen on television. However, my dad's gangster tactics made our home into a fucking nuthouse, and he terrorized me whenever his mood turned foul. I was thrilled for any excuse to escape, including a homecoming dance one Friday night, despite the fact that I didn't know how to dance and felt self-conscious.

The girls at the party looked pretty, but they were silly and tipsy; their permissive parents had allowed them to drink at home beforehand. My eyes veered toward a shy girl sitting on a chair, almost hidden from the crowd.

I thought she didn't look dangerous, and I liked her Italian beak nose; I floated over to her. “I'm Bob,” I said and flinched; that sounded so common.

“I'm Elaine,” she replied, and I relaxed a little; maybe simple introductions are common because they work. I grabbed a metal fold-up chair and sat down next to her.

When she wasn't staring at the gymnasium floor, I could see that Elaine had soulful brown eyes, accenting her lovely face that wasn't covered with makeup. As I asked her questions, she gave longer and longer responses, smiled more, and stopped tugging on the hem of her yellow skirt. After thirty minutes I mustered the courage to ask Elaine to dance. The band was playing “I Miss You So”; a slow one was easier for a novice like me. By the end of the song, I was plunged into the throes of new love for this delicate hummingbird. We talked all night and danced a few more times.

The following Sunday I took her to the movies, and afterwards she was my girlfriend. We were together every possible minute without raising my parents' suspicions. Elaine was my rock, my proof of beauty and integrity, and the calm I never got at home. It seemed odd I had to wait until I was fifteen to discover the peace and serenity that I could find only in her arms.

Near the end of the following summer, my father informed me that our family would go on vacation to a beach resort in Massachusetts. I fought to stay home; the idea of being separated from Elaine by hundreds of miles for several weeks was unbearable to me. Of course Big John won the battle, and I sulked in the backseat during the long car ride to Nantasket Beach.

We had only been there for three days, and I was missing Elaine. Big John was overbearing as always. I escaped our oceanfront condo and his bellowing voice and headed for the Nantasket pier. I planned to launch my tiny rowboat at the pier, hoping to peacefully click off the time until this imprisoning vacation was over and I could return to Elaine. However, Big John had alternate plans for me—and my face.

I was talking to a pretty girl near the launch dock when I saw him darting toward me. He had given me strict orders against flirting with girls. He was gritting his teeth and readying both his fists. Most of the time he was a gentle giant, but he also had a foul temper and was prone to violence.

Dad was strong, but I had speed on my side. I wasn't about to stand there and get my ass kicked. A walrus couldn't catch a fox. Watching his oncoming charge, I simply leaped over the pier railing and landed in the water twenty feet below.

“Get out of the ocean and into my damn car,” Big John bellowed as I treaded water in the surf. I ignored him, just wanting to enjoy the warm sunlight at the pier. Suddenly his voice softened, “Bobby, please. Get into the car . . . please. And nothing will happen. Everything will be fine; we'll just talk. I promise.” I acquiesced and trudged to his Cadillac.

That's when I learned that a gangster has no respect for his own word or anyone else's. As I closed the car door, his thick bicep punched me in the jaw. My head ricocheted against the passenger window and I tasted the metallic tinge of blood mixing with the salty remnants of ocean water. He started the car for home without a word. Something transformed in me in that moment—an assured knowing that he would never humiliate me again. Big John had battered me for the last time.

We were traveling about forty miles per hour, but I opened the door and tumbled out of the car onto the street. I rolled over several times, feeling the sharp gravel biting at my arms and stomach and through my pants. I heard the brakes screech, but Big John didn't stop. I managed to stand and, although dizzy and disoriented, ran like someone chasing freedom. I never looked back. I wanted that image to stay forever with Big John—me running away in his rearview mirror.

While Big John might have terrified the underworld, I was Fast Bob; I knew “you couldn't hit what you couldn't catch.” I vowed that fat fuck would never catch me again.

If I had planned ahead, I probably would've gone home and gotten some food and an extra shirt before running away, but I knew that any hesitation, any procrastination, would only lead to additional humiliation. I stopped for a moment on the shoulder of the road on this narrow isthmus, breathing hard and looking at the road ahead and at Massachusetts Bay at both sides. In that moment, my problems transformed from getting beaten to death to starving to death.
Where would I eat and sleep?
I was penniless, so I hitchhiked to Long Island. I was glad I had kept Elaine secret from my parents. She didn't need gangsters showing up on her doorstep, scaring her mother, and dragging her into Big John's underworld.

I threw pebbles at Elaine's window until I caught her attention. Thinking it was the neighborhood boys, she was about to yell until she saw me. She grabbed her jacket, threw a leash on the dog, and was out the door twenty seconds later. Half a block from her house in front of a creek that ran between two split-level homes, she turned to me. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, Bobby! What happened?” She brought her hand to my chin, caressing me so carefully, then she leaned in and blew soft kisses.

I had a thousand different feelings in that moment. I was ecstatic to be free, exhausted, pissed that my so-called father had created this fucked-up life for me, and passionately crazy about this girl before me. All those emotions combined into a droll response. “Big John happened.”

She brought out a lace handkerchief from her pocket, dipped it in the creek water, and wiped away the blood on my chin, elbows, shins, and countless other nicks. Biting her lip so that it almost bled too, she stayed silent for a long time, nursing all my Big John scars and the scrapes from my collision with the road.

“What will you do now?” she finally asked.

I grabbed her hands as the dog, her excuse to escape the house, nipped at my ankles, “I'm not going back. I'm a man now, and I'll act as such.”

“Where will you stay?”

I didn't want her to worry, so I lied. “Oh, I have some old friends from the neighborhood. Their parents aren't around. I won't have any problems.”

She nodded and hugged me for a long time, trying to make all the hurt go away. Off in the distance, we saw the front door of her house open and we had to say good-bye. She quickly kissed me and was gone.

God, I loved Elaine. I lived only for the moments I could spend with her. She kept me sane and grounded, and she gave me all the money she had; it was enough to keep me alive as I frantically looked for work. She went without lunch and the nice new things she could have bought with her babysitting money. She snuck me sandwiches and fruit, and I slipped into her house for a quick shower when her parents were working. Even then I had to be careful; her two annoying brothers would snitch to their parents if they knew. I wondered if her brother Tommy ever missed a couple shirts and great pair of jeans. I felt awful about asking Elaine for those favors, but during those days she taught me so much about love, caring, and unconditional giving—lessons I should have learned from my parents. I wanted to take care of her, protect her, and comfort her, not the other way around.

The job search wasn't going well; since I looked too young, no one wanted to hire me. For the first two months, I snuck into cars to catch a few hours of restless sleep in the backseat, always scared I would get caught.

One frigid night spent shivering and rubbing my numbed hands and feet convinced me I needed another way to sleep; only the six inches of snow shrouding the car that night saved me from frostbite. So afterwards I spent the fifteen cents I received daily from Elaine and bought fares on the rapid transit system.

Each night I boarded the elevated trains into New York City, where I had free access to the subway and could catnap two hours in one direction then return the opposite way, night after night, back and forth like some giant pendulum. The subway cars were mostly deserted during the night, carrying only swing-shift workers, drunks, and other sleeping teenage runaways. There was one danger with this nightly trek—too many aggressive perverts hit on me for sex. I worried about the cops too. I knew some were dirty and searching for me as a favor to Big John, who had me labeled as a runaway juvenile delinquent.

One night during my subway catnap, a teenager staggered aboard with his right eye ripped open. Blood gushed out of his nose and mouth, streamed down his chin, and pooled on his shirt. I ran over and helped him sit down next to me. He collapsed onto my shoulder, slipping in and out of consciousness. I held him in my arms, not knowing what the hell to do with him and trying to ignore that his blood was splattered across my only shirt.

I no longer felt like a kid forced into adult situations; I was now a man. For the first time in my life I recognized this strong compulsion to help endangered human beings, even strangers. Then I realized I was alone; I scanned the other faces in the subway car, and no one bothered to look at this poor soul.

The kid awoke twenty minutes later and began talking in a foreign language I couldn't understand. He looked Puerto Rican, and after several minutes of frenetic but groggy gesturing, I realized he wanted me to help him get home. The boy grimaced from the rocking motion and moaned every time the car stopped at a station. After two hours of switching subways and soliciting a translator, we got off. He needed a doctor but directed me to his home instead of to a hospital.

Blocks upon blocks, I carried him through a frightening part of New York City, past a huge dead dog getting devoured by rats and bums loaded on cheap booze and God knew what else. Countless dark buildings looked menacing in their bombed-out appearance. My patient gave me the sign language not to look anyone in the face. He then passed his hand in a cutting motion across his throat.

Oh my God. What the hell kind of combat zone have I gotten myself into now?

When we arrived at his building, I attempted to say good-bye, but he clung to my neck and began screaming. I didn't want to attract attention, so I leaned him on my shoulder, breathed deeply, and looked at the stairs. I was exhausted and doubted I possessed the strength to climb them alone, never mind lugging this boy with me. He needed me though, so I shrugged and began climbing five flights. We passed a five-year-old girl sleeping with a teddy bear on the third floor landing, and I tried to ignore the vile sewer stench that grew stronger as we climbed. When we got to his door, he gave it three giant kicks.

What the hell kind of knock is this?
When the door opened, my heart fell into the ugly depths. Towering over me were four of the baddest, meanest, tattooed motherfuckers I had ever seen.

Before the door swung fully open, they knocked me to the floor and snatched my patient from my grasp. The fattest one had his foot poised over my face when the boy started screaming again. Whatever he said worked. At once they pulled me to my feet and hugged me. Once inside, the fat one got on the phone and called a brother who could speak English.