Vanilla 8, chocolate 18, strawberry 23: Story of My Life
Title: Story of My Life
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Vanilla 8 (my mentor/idol/hero), chocolate 18 (confinement), strawberry 23 (boots), malt (hi_falootin's truth or dare: how Danny fits in to the story).
Word Count: 1502
Rating: PG.
Summary: Danny reflects.
Notes: Final leg of the cross-country marathon and a gold medal for Team Inconvienent Fire Drill! Inspired by Katy Pfaffl's song "Story of My Life."
The first thing I remember is being locked up.
Funny, huh. There was so much that happened to me before that. I fell off my high chair and got a scar on my chin. My brother was born with too-brittle bones. My mother left, then came back again. My father came back, then left again.
But the first thing I remember is being locked up.
It was my brother's doing somehow, I'm sure. Michael was always acting out, trying to get in trouble. He could never manage it, though, because our parents tended to blame me. I was the elder, they would say. I should keep Michael safe. I should teach him right from wrong, and keep him from getting hurt. If I couldn't, then I should be punished.
You know. Bullshit like that.
I don't think Michael knew how it went until he got older. I do know that he stopped trying to get into trouble when he was about five. He grew up too fast, did my little brother. So did I, but I expected that. I wish I could've protected him, though.
Anyway.
There was a basement, in our second house. It was full of boxes my parents had never bothered to unpack, full of clothes and books and the like. I don't remember the first house, where we lived before Michael was born. I don't remember most of the second house, actually, but I remember those boxes, the feel and shape of them in the dark, the edges of cardboard against my cheek. There was a pair of old boots I used to sit on. They were green rubber, with daisies painted on them. Did I ever wear them? I don't know. They were a comfortable seat, much better than the concrete floor. I'd sit on them for hours, my knees drawn up to my chest.
I never bothered trying to get out, after the first time. Kids learn quick. Michael did. I did.
I wonder where Michael is now. The last I heard he was in Quebec, speaking French like a native, touring Montreal and enjoying himself hugely. Montreal's not that far from New York. He could have come to visit me. I would have introduced him to Nathan.
But Nathan comes later. Much as I wish he'd shown up this early.
I want to make it very clear that I do love my brother. But Michael and I had very different childhoods. We were both in prison, but his was a gilded cage, full of stuffed animals and presents and smothering attention. Mine was stark and empty, the walls made of cardboard boxes and the only sound scoldings. Different sentences, different crimes: his being born sick, mine being born healthy.
Michael and me. He used to share the candy our relatives would give him, hiding lollipops and chocolate bars under his pillow or in his constant casts. Once, during a heatwave, the Hershey's bar melted all over his sheets, and I got spanked for making him hide candy for me. He cried for me, then, my baby brother, and I would never let him share again.
Funny how I always think of Michael as infinitely younger than me, an infant where I am ancient. He's only two years behind but it feels like forever.
My childhood was split between protecting Michael and hating my parents. I mean, I hated Michael a little bit too, but it was only a little bit. He was a kid, he couldn't help it, and he was such a good-hearted kid that it was hard to even stay angry with him. Maybe if he hadn't been born with fragile bones it still would have been my fault.
I didn't go to college. Just another thing I did wrong. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, or to go into research and figure out how to cure Michael. Michael wanted me to be free. I wanted me to be... I don't know what I wanted me to be. I didn't have time to think about me, because I couldn't leave until Michael got out. You don't do that, when you grow up like I did. You don't leave a comrade behind.
Michael left when he hit eighteen. I was twenty then, or just about, and we left at the same time. Didn't go to the same places, of course. Michael hopped the two AM Greyhound, heading to New Jersey or some such place; I gave him a gentle hug and told him to take care of himself, then went right downtown and joined the Navy. When my parents came looking, it was too late. Michael was gone and I belonged to Uncle Sam.
Whenever I tell people this, they look at me funny. Like, you went from the strictest household you can ever imagine to the Navy? Isn't that worse? But I talked to Olivia once, about my parents and her mother, and she understood. She knows the crazy things you do just to get out. Things like steal money-- that wasn’t me, it was Michael, but my parents blamed me anyway-- things like hopping the first train that comes along.
When you're drowning and someone throws you a line, you don't quibble too much about whether it's rope or twine.
It comes down to this. The Navy was there for me when I needed them. When I was young and angry and lost, when I didn't have Michael to take care of and didn't know how to take care of myself, they saw to it I learned. They gave me rules, structures, reasons. They gave me pride, and strength, and the knowledge that I could have both. They gave me a new understanding of myself.
They gave me a hero. They gave me Nathan.
It happened like this. The commander, George Torrence, he told me we had a vet coming in to look at some of the buildings we had, maybe plan us some new ones. They were expanding the base, you see. And they detailed me to look after him. Which was great, you know, some old fart coming in to putter around the buildings and reminisce about the glory days, and all you gotta do is escort 'em, look pretty and put up with all the stories about rigging ships uphill both ways barefoot in the snow or whatever it is the vets tell you they did back in the day.
I remember I was wearing boots that day. Wasn't regulation, but the vets didn't usually care, especially if they weren't in uniform themselves, and Nathan wasn't. Slacks, button-down shirt under a sweater, sneakers, he looked pretty typical, you know? Mid-forties, with a wedding ring; I thought he probably had two point five kids, a dog, and a white picket fence around his house.
I told him that later, and he laughed. "Three kids and a cat, actually," he said, and I laughed too. No picket fence, because he lived in New York City, with his family.
He was different, though, and I knew it right away because he told me to knock it off when I saluted. That's my best memory, right there, when he told me to knock it off. He said he wasn't anybody special for me to salute him, and I knew right off he was wrong, because it's always the special people who don't want you to acknowledge it. They want to just go on being special in peace.
My parents always wanted to be told they were saints, how much they must go through, how wonderful they must be. Says a lot, doesn't it?
I probably sound like I was in love with him, but it wasn't like that. You don't love the people you want to be. That was how it was with me and Nathan. I wanted him to be proud of me, straight off, and I've never wanted anyone to be proud of me before, not even Michael, not even my commanding officers. I wanted to impress him, and later, when I met his family, I wanted to impress them too. I wanted them to like me. I wanted to be like them. I wanted in on what they had.
And the thing I will always be grateful for, the thing Nathan gave me without a second thought, without even blinking: I got it.
I won't bore you with what happened next, because let's face it, the happy ending's never the most interesting part of the story. Just know that I had a happy ending, and that everything was for the best.
Michael says every good story has a moral, so I'll make some up for him. Rubber rain boots make good cushioning. Don't ever leave a man behind. Take what help you're offered, because you don't know if you'll get any more. Don't make assumptions.
When you find the person you want to be, hang on to them. They won't mind.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Vanilla 8 (my mentor/idol/hero), chocolate 18 (confinement), strawberry 23 (boots), malt (hi_falootin's truth or dare: how Danny fits in to the story).
Word Count: 1502
Rating: PG.
Summary: Danny reflects.
Notes: Final leg of the cross-country marathon and a gold medal for Team Inconvienent Fire Drill! Inspired by Katy Pfaffl's song "Story of My Life."
The first thing I remember is being locked up.
Funny, huh. There was so much that happened to me before that. I fell off my high chair and got a scar on my chin. My brother was born with too-brittle bones. My mother left, then came back again. My father came back, then left again.
But the first thing I remember is being locked up.
It was my brother's doing somehow, I'm sure. Michael was always acting out, trying to get in trouble. He could never manage it, though, because our parents tended to blame me. I was the elder, they would say. I should keep Michael safe. I should teach him right from wrong, and keep him from getting hurt. If I couldn't, then I should be punished.
You know. Bullshit like that.
I don't think Michael knew how it went until he got older. I do know that he stopped trying to get into trouble when he was about five. He grew up too fast, did my little brother. So did I, but I expected that. I wish I could've protected him, though.
Anyway.
There was a basement, in our second house. It was full of boxes my parents had never bothered to unpack, full of clothes and books and the like. I don't remember the first house, where we lived before Michael was born. I don't remember most of the second house, actually, but I remember those boxes, the feel and shape of them in the dark, the edges of cardboard against my cheek. There was a pair of old boots I used to sit on. They were green rubber, with daisies painted on them. Did I ever wear them? I don't know. They were a comfortable seat, much better than the concrete floor. I'd sit on them for hours, my knees drawn up to my chest.
I never bothered trying to get out, after the first time. Kids learn quick. Michael did. I did.
I wonder where Michael is now. The last I heard he was in Quebec, speaking French like a native, touring Montreal and enjoying himself hugely. Montreal's not that far from New York. He could have come to visit me. I would have introduced him to Nathan.
But Nathan comes later. Much as I wish he'd shown up this early.
I want to make it very clear that I do love my brother. But Michael and I had very different childhoods. We were both in prison, but his was a gilded cage, full of stuffed animals and presents and smothering attention. Mine was stark and empty, the walls made of cardboard boxes and the only sound scoldings. Different sentences, different crimes: his being born sick, mine being born healthy.
Michael and me. He used to share the candy our relatives would give him, hiding lollipops and chocolate bars under his pillow or in his constant casts. Once, during a heatwave, the Hershey's bar melted all over his sheets, and I got spanked for making him hide candy for me. He cried for me, then, my baby brother, and I would never let him share again.
Funny how I always think of Michael as infinitely younger than me, an infant where I am ancient. He's only two years behind but it feels like forever.
My childhood was split between protecting Michael and hating my parents. I mean, I hated Michael a little bit too, but it was only a little bit. He was a kid, he couldn't help it, and he was such a good-hearted kid that it was hard to even stay angry with him. Maybe if he hadn't been born with fragile bones it still would have been my fault.
I didn't go to college. Just another thing I did wrong. My parents wanted me to be a doctor, or to go into research and figure out how to cure Michael. Michael wanted me to be free. I wanted me to be... I don't know what I wanted me to be. I didn't have time to think about me, because I couldn't leave until Michael got out. You don't do that, when you grow up like I did. You don't leave a comrade behind.
Michael left when he hit eighteen. I was twenty then, or just about, and we left at the same time. Didn't go to the same places, of course. Michael hopped the two AM Greyhound, heading to New Jersey or some such place; I gave him a gentle hug and told him to take care of himself, then went right downtown and joined the Navy. When my parents came looking, it was too late. Michael was gone and I belonged to Uncle Sam.
Whenever I tell people this, they look at me funny. Like, you went from the strictest household you can ever imagine to the Navy? Isn't that worse? But I talked to Olivia once, about my parents and her mother, and she understood. She knows the crazy things you do just to get out. Things like steal money-- that wasn’t me, it was Michael, but my parents blamed me anyway-- things like hopping the first train that comes along.
When you're drowning and someone throws you a line, you don't quibble too much about whether it's rope or twine.
It comes down to this. The Navy was there for me when I needed them. When I was young and angry and lost, when I didn't have Michael to take care of and didn't know how to take care of myself, they saw to it I learned. They gave me rules, structures, reasons. They gave me pride, and strength, and the knowledge that I could have both. They gave me a new understanding of myself.
They gave me a hero. They gave me Nathan.
It happened like this. The commander, George Torrence, he told me we had a vet coming in to look at some of the buildings we had, maybe plan us some new ones. They were expanding the base, you see. And they detailed me to look after him. Which was great, you know, some old fart coming in to putter around the buildings and reminisce about the glory days, and all you gotta do is escort 'em, look pretty and put up with all the stories about rigging ships uphill both ways barefoot in the snow or whatever it is the vets tell you they did back in the day.
I remember I was wearing boots that day. Wasn't regulation, but the vets didn't usually care, especially if they weren't in uniform themselves, and Nathan wasn't. Slacks, button-down shirt under a sweater, sneakers, he looked pretty typical, you know? Mid-forties, with a wedding ring; I thought he probably had two point five kids, a dog, and a white picket fence around his house.
I told him that later, and he laughed. "Three kids and a cat, actually," he said, and I laughed too. No picket fence, because he lived in New York City, with his family.
He was different, though, and I knew it right away because he told me to knock it off when I saluted. That's my best memory, right there, when he told me to knock it off. He said he wasn't anybody special for me to salute him, and I knew right off he was wrong, because it's always the special people who don't want you to acknowledge it. They want to just go on being special in peace.
My parents always wanted to be told they were saints, how much they must go through, how wonderful they must be. Says a lot, doesn't it?
I probably sound like I was in love with him, but it wasn't like that. You don't love the people you want to be. That was how it was with me and Nathan. I wanted him to be proud of me, straight off, and I've never wanted anyone to be proud of me before, not even Michael, not even my commanding officers. I wanted to impress him, and later, when I met his family, I wanted to impress them too. I wanted them to like me. I wanted to be like them. I wanted in on what they had.
And the thing I will always be grateful for, the thing Nathan gave me without a second thought, without even blinking: I got it.
I won't bore you with what happened next, because let's face it, the happy ending's never the most interesting part of the story. Just know that I had a happy ending, and that everything was for the best.
Michael says every good story has a moral, so I'll make some up for him. Rubber rain boots make good cushioning. Don't ever leave a man behind. Take what help you're offered, because you don't know if you'll get any more. Don't make assumptions.
When you find the person you want to be, hang on to them. They won't mind.