Et Tu, Brian, 1

Et Tu, Brian?

To JJW: The muse and inspiration for this project.
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Calpurnia was a whore, but she was my whore, and I hated her with every fiber of my soul. As children, she wrote her name in as a contender for the role of my best friend. Though she remained the uncontested candidate, I’d have nothing of it. Still, she clung to me like the pesky fungus she’d become, entwining her flimsy arms around my neck and kissing my cheeks with such innocence that I’d fling her to the ground. She’d roll around and giggle in the mud, failing to notice that I’d left her there to wallow in filth and squalor.

It didn’t stop there. Through grade school, she remained a horrid nightmare, torturing me to acknowledge her existence, coercing me to watch her skip rope, climb monkey bars, and build towers in the sand. It seemed that the more I detested her, the more she fawned on me. I could do nothing to be rid of her, and thus, succumbed to tolerate her as much as any person could. She was a ray of sunshine in my world of rain, and, quite frankly, I preferred my own personal brand of Seattle to her California Coast.

I suppose it’s best to begin this oh-so-tragic tale at its start. After all, how else will you even come close to understanding me and everything I am about to tell you? I don’t want you to draw your own conclusions about a damn thing. I don’t want you to try and evaluate what I’m going to say on a deeper, philosophical level – especially if you’ve got some smarmy professor requesting you to do so. It is what it is, and that’s exactly what I say it is. Don’t go looking for a deeper meaning when there isn’t one to find. This is my story, our story, and I’m in no way proud of it.

I know you’re bound to judge. It’s only human nature and I don’t give a shit. Most people don’t even have the gall to be as brutally honest as I am about to be. That being said, you owe me some amount of credit and respect. Yes, I’m a heartless bastard, yes, I’m a selfish prick. You don’t think I’m aware of these things, already? In any case, here’s the truth, so now you can hate me. But, please, do so with the utmost conviction and cause. Really, there is no other way to express such a powerful emotion without carrying it to the fullest extent. I’ve learned that through the course of my lifetime, all thanks to her.

She and I happened to be born on the same year, in the same hospital, and grew up in the same neighborhood. How we ended up so terribly different has always been an enigma to me, but not one that I ever cared too much about to really ponder. Our mothers became good friends, both being new to the game and, at the time, the only two with children in the neighborhood. They relied on one another for support and friendship, particularly since neither one of them had a goddamned clue what to do with us.

They’d sit for hours on our porch, sipping tea, discussing their latest discoveries on child rearing, clipping coupons, and trading recipes and gossip. They left me and Calpurnia to our own devices, sometimes with a set of blocks, play dough, or coloring books. Every single time I wanted to go off on my own with one of those toys, Calpurnia would begin to cry, wailing at the top of her lungs until I returned to her side. I only did it to shut her up. Truthfully, I could not have given a shit less if she feared abandonment. Apparently, that was something that would be bound to haunt her forever. It seemed that no amount of attention could suffice her, and because of that, I found myself permanently by her side. The two of us were inseparable, but not by choice. I would have much preferred my solitude, but she needed me. She needed me, and I absolutely loathed her for it. She had become a parasite, sucking the life from me because she could not survive on her own.

My father installed a swing set in our backyard one spring. Somehow, the carefree swaying soothed me, and swinging became a daily ritual of mine, rain or shine. I can’t tell you how furious I grew the moment my parents invited Calpurnia over to share it with me. She had infringed upon my time, my therapy, my escape. Mother stood barefoot and full-bellied on the porch, waving and smiling at us. She insisted that I be a gentleman and push the lady on the swing. I cannot convey to you just how livid it made me. Calpurnia laughed and screamed as I pushed her higher, higher, harder, harder. I wished she’d fly off of the damned thing and break her neck, but, of course, she never did.

“Brian, stop! No more! Too high! Wanna come down!” she’d yell, once she’d had enough. I kept pushing her until my mother hobbled down from the porch to stop me and give me a harsh scolding on my behavior.
“Sweetie, not so hard. You don’t want her to fly away, now, do you?”
I simply scowled and folded my arms across my chest. Calpurnia hopped off of the swing and ran to me, squeezing my midsection with fervor and burying her face between my shoulder blades.
“I was scared!”
“Say you’re sorry, sweetheart. Are you all right, Cally? Brian, apologize.”

I said nothing and refused to do so. Apologize? Whatever for? For something I’d felt strongly enough about to do? Never. My mother frowned and crossed over to me, pinching my ear, fiercely.
“Brian, apologize!”
I flinched only slightly, but my spirit remained inexorable. She turned to Calpurnia and smiled softly.
“Sweetie, why don’t you run inside and wash your hands? I’ll get you a juice box, okay?”
Calpurnia smiled and nodded before running off and up the stairs into the house. My mother took hold of me and dragged me across the gravel driveway until she was capable of sitting down upon a stair. She lifted me up onto her lap and looked me over, sternly.
“I will give you one more chance to go in there and say you’re sorry. You could have really hurt her, Brian. That is not acceptable. Will you go in and apologize, please?”
I said nothing. My mother sighed and flipped me over, pummeling my backside with the fierce palm of her hand. I did not cry or make a sound. I bit my lip with fervor as she smacked harder, but refused to succumb to the pain. I looked up onto the porch and saw Calpurnia there, crying in silence as my mother spanked me. A few moments later, she lifted me off of her lap and placed me on the gravel. It took her a moment to get off of the step, being so full with child, but she made her way up and noticed the girl standing there in tears.
“Oh, it’s okay, honey. He was being a bad little boy. That’s what happens to bad little boys. Now, come on, let’s dry those tears and get you some juice.”

She ushered her inside and closed the door, leaving me outside alone to stew over my so-called mistakes. I went back to my swing and let the motion carry me away. I watched the sun fall behind its curtain of sleep, painting the sky with an illustrious myriad of majestic wonders. I must have been out there for quite some time to have witnessed it all. I hopped down off of the swing and took one last look at the bright oranges, pinks, and reds above me before walking up the gravel driveway to the house.

My mother sat in the kitchen reading as a pot boiled on the stove. I crossed with caution to wash my hands, one habit she had fully instilled in me. To this day, I blame her incessant speeches on germs and hand washing and keeping things tidy for my obsessive compulsive disorder. Sure, she’d only meant well, but truly took it to an extreme.
“Daddy’s going to be late. He needed to stay later on watch duty,” she said, not even looking up at me from her reading. I made no response as I soaked my hands under the hot water. In a way, I somewhat enjoyed the excessive heat. When it nearly burned my skin, it offered a pleasurable tingling sensation, leaving my skin a lovely shade of red. I watched the steam rise off of the water as the temperature continued to climb too high even for my liking. I turned off the faucet and stepped down off of my stool. My mother remained engrossed in her reading and said nothing more to me until dinner was ready.

That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, allowing my mind to reflect on the day. I closed my eyes and listened to my breathing and the muted beating of my little heart. I was free of her, that pretty little leech that refused to release her grasp on me. These were the moments I valued most. I fell fast asleep and slipped off to dreamland, my haven, my escape. I knew, damn well, at 6:30 on the nose, she’d be back again: smiling, laughing, taking my hands in hers. She was every little boy’s worst nightmare, a pretty little blonde doll, always dressed in pink, with wide blue eyes full of wonder, and a heart of gold. Yes, she was somethin’, all right. I think I may have dreaded that moment more than death itself. Scratch that. I did.