If you want to stare, then you do what you like.
Motherfucker.
Burn a hole through me. Give me that look that lets me know you remember. The face. What I did to you. What I did to your mom. It was good while it lasted, wasn’t it? Remember when I took you to a ball game and jacked up some fucking wop in the parking lot? Remember the good times. You think it lasts forever.
We met at the bars. Or was it the personals? The artist moved out, and the guy from the Eastern bloc with the limp didn’t have much staying power. I came in and charmed the shit out of her. Charmed you too, big guy. Remember?
Here’s what I remember: The asshole look on your face every time something didn’t go the way you wanted. You’re still mad about the camera? You got everything back!
Your wallet was gone and you came to me. What would a grown man do with a kid’s wallet? Think these things through. You’re not so smart after all. And when Curtis pulled out the knife? It was a butter knife. Sure, your mom got mad and I smacked the shit out of him, but he’d taken worse. He’ll still take worse than that. He’ll forget about more beatings than you’ll ever take while you slip and slide through life by the hairs of your cunt.
Make that face. The one when I called Chuck a nigger right in front of you, and you looked like you might shit your pants. You thought I said it because I hated black people? I said it because he was acting like a fucking nigger!
She told me the basement was cursed. Believe that? Ghosts and goblins. And you thought I was dumb. A grown woman who believes in spooks. She thought if we took it, if we had the house to ourselves, we’d all get to start over. You ever think I was just trying to help her be right for once?
I never got through to you, but what good are regrets? I was growing dope in my cellar before you ever realized you had a life to be ruined. There’s a lot more to life than impressing faggots. Your brother still around? We got along. He GOT IT. He never even held it against me when the dog ate his face. Does he still have his scars?
Remember when I told you my granddad was a brownshirt? Your mom told you he was one of the good ones, like he had final edit on Schindler’s list or something. No way. He killed Jews. She hated me for that one–for giving that up to you. I was the first one to ever call you a hebe, wasn’t I? We had something in common. Me and grandpa, I mean.
Oh. You’re still bitter that I waited until a week before your bar mitzvah. It’s called a test, you fuck. Show me the grade on that one. There was only one question.
What does God look like?
Of course I went in through the window. I had a key, I could have walked in the front door, but I didn’t. I had the proper respect for the situation. I appreciated what I was doing. Three years in the making. One trip, one bag, grab what you can. A broken window. In through the basement. Sometimes, your ghosts are demons.
Right for once in her goddamn life.
But like I said, you got it all back. Most of it. What you heard is that my pack got raided at the YMCA, but you never believed that. She got the camera back, though. I’m not stupid. I know what important means.
We had our idyll, and I showed you the berserk. You got angry and never stopped smiling. Don’t act like you cherish pastoral horseshit. You were looking for your own way out.
So tell me. Are you staring or just looking right through me?
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