Childhood | 1 July 2021

It had been almost fifteen years.  Childhoods marred by estrangements.  I broke the silence we shared, the only thing I knew to say was ‘red leather.’

BNR Response

I couldn’t believe it.  I’d been living in the city for five years and had somehow avoided being a volunteer in an Upright Citizens’ Brigade skit through literally dozens of out-of-town guests’ trips here.  And here I was, at that scuffed up table on that tiny “stage” under the busy streets of Chelsea.  After sitting, I looked up to discover the volunteer sitting across from me: fucking Fredo.  His real name was Freddie but after the stunt he pulled at the end of college I simultaneously stopped speaking to him and started calling him Fredo in homage to the traitorous Godfather character of the same name.

So now I’m face-to-face, looking at this ugly mug while having to stage whisper background noise to fulfill my volunteer obligation.  I attempt to get “red leather, yellow leather” out of my mouth.  I mutter with disdain.  But fucking Fredo hasn’t recognized me yet, and his goofy half drunken demeanor is absolutely enraging me.  Everything about him is so totally him: the “I © NY” tee shirt, so fresh of the Time Square shelves that it still has its creases in it; the thick 5 o’clock shadow that looks more like Homer Simpson than Don Draper; that same dopey laugh that comes out only when he’s genuinely enjoying himself.  Wanker.  It was all flooding back, and the good mixed with the bad like blood into sand and seemed to find itself on my tongue, prompting a strong desire to spit.

I’ve momentarily lost track of where I am until the peels of laughter snap me from my reverie.  The two women downstage are deep into their scene about a raccoon that’s loose in a bustling restaurant.  I’ve always enjoyed the performances of the brunette, Wendy, but the blonde is an over-eager newcomer who seems to think that the SNL casting director is in the audience that and every night.

“A RACCOON?!” the blonde yelps, holding her curled fingers up to her mouth in desperate overacting.

“I really hoped I’d never see you again, you piece of shit.” I spew in Fredo’s direction, spit from my mouth landing on his beardy cheek.  He doesn’t hear me so I say it again, louder.  This time, he seems to catch only the epithet and he faces me fully for the first time, saying, “Sorry, you talking to me, brother?”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘brother’, motherfucker.” I spout, and now my finger is in his face.  At first, he starts to laugh but the smile quickly melts and is replaced by a grimace of recognition.

“Oh shit, Jack.”  He’s got the right end of it now.

“That’s right, ‘oh shit, Jack.’”  I kick back at him.

“Where will we get an animal trap at THIS time of night?” The blonde, Carolyn, tries to carry on the absurd raccoon storyline.

“Maybe if we create a big distraction then none of the other diners will notice as we catch it!” Wendy conspires.  The audience laughs easily.

And just like that, I lunge across the table and Fredo, not realizing that it was a collapsible prop until it quickly folds under the weight of our lumbering bodies.  Stunt glass shatters into safe shards and makes our very real fight seem like enthusiastic play-acting.  The crowd erupts into laughter and applause, potentially thinking that we are really taking our volunteer responsibilities seriously.  The improv actors take the opportunity to build on the momentum and excitement we’ve created.  It works for awhile until our strenuous tussle moves further down stage, interspersed with my abbreviated account of Fredo’s unforgivable indiscretion.

“Sierra and I were going to…MARRIED…love of my life…never would have slept with you…too much to drink…ruined my life…fuck off and die.”

We roll around like fighting sibling possums, partially because I don’t think Fredo really wanted to get into it with me.  Finally, exhausted from the fight, we roll, bruised and battered and panting in our 40-something bodies, off the stage and land on the sticky carpet floor between cocktail tables.  The room is silent, and I no longer care where I am or what kind of spectacle I may have created.  I have nothing left to say, or perhaps I do but I don’t know how.  Fredo just looks at me with empty and sad eyes.

As the stage manager raises the lights, I notice that the crowd has circled around us.  We are still on that tacky ground that smells like gum and stale beer, but we are now propped up on injured limbs, panting, and holding eye contact in the sobriety of this protracted moment.

“Sierra?  Sierra who?” Freddie pleads.

DD Response

It had been almost fifteen years. Childhoods marred by estrangements. I broke the silence we shared, the only thing I knew to say was “red leather.”

I was afraid her reaction would be the same as before- disgust and denial- but she simply looked into my soul with a palpable gentleness. “I know,” she said. “I know you were telling the truth all along. He did it to me too.” Her response made me weak in the knees. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Fifteen years without my sister. A family torn apart. The sadness of it all washed over me distilling all of my fierceness into a puddle of sadness. She took a step forward and opened her arms. I leaned in and she enveloped me. “I’m so sorry,” she said as I cried. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Fifteen years earlier

Our dad sat in his red leather recliner with his right hand flipping through the nightly news channels and his left hand clutching another beer. Mom and Cindy finished cleaning the kitchen and bounced into the room. Mom announced she was going to play bridge at the VFW, and Cindy said she was going to a movie with her boyfriend. Dad grunted his acceptance. Mom and Cindy had their happy, fulfilling lives and barely even noticed I was there. Dad noticed, and I wished he didn’t.

“NOOOO!” I screamed.” YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH HIM!” Time stood still as my heart pounded in my ten year old chest. Mom froze with one arm tucked into her red Christmas jacket with fur trim and fancy buttons. Cindy stood like a statue in her new fuzzy sweater, and Dad took another swig of beer as he rotated in his red leather chair. The sound resonated in my body and made me nauseous.

Then there was silence, a moment of silence that felt like an eternity. Mom dropped to her knees and cradled me tightly in her arms. I clung to her for all of the times I wanted to speak. “Baby, you can go to the movies when you’re Cindy’s age,” she said. Dad said nothing. Cindy said nothing. “HE’S HURTING ME!” I screamed.

I don’t remember much of the next several weeks, but I know Dad left the house, and Cindy hated me. She left as soon as graduation was over and never came back. Mom didn’t talk about anything, but she cried a lot.