Butchblog

I was born in the city of Philadelphia and didn’t know that I’d ever be able to leave. It didn’t occur to me that anyone could move away from where they were born. My whole extended family lived in the city, most of them nearby. I never heard of anyone who left—apart from Uncle Jack and Aunt Esther, who moved to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, which was right across the Ben Franklin Bridge. Mom said they had moved to the country, but when we visited, their house was on a street with a bunch of other houses that all looked the same.

            My horizons extended only to the Jersey Shore. We did take a trip to New York City one winter to see the sights and eat at some special restaurants my parents knew about, like Katz’s Deli and Ruby Foo’s, a Chinese place. It was pretty exciting, but I never imagined being able to move there. Wherever you were born, I figured, that’s where you stayed. Which is odd, when you think about it. I mean, all four of my grandparents traveled thousands of miles to get to Philadelphia—from Russia, Hungary, Poland, and Romania. There had to be some vagabond blood in our veins. When I asked my Polish grandmother about this, she laughed and said, “We didn’t travel, boychik, we ran.” I didn’t know exactly what she meant, and none of the grandparents seemed willing to talk much about their time before landing in the USA, so I figured I was stuck where I was.

            It wasn’t till college loomed on the horizon that I spied the possibility of escape. My parents expected me to apply to a college in Philadelphia. “That way you can live at home and not have to pay for a dorm room and all that,” my mother said. I tried not to let my feelings show. I knew if I told Mom I wanted to get away, she would take it as a betrayal. And maybe it was. I’d always suspected that I didn’t quite fit the mold my family wanted to put me in. If not a rebel, I was clearly a malcontent. I applied to the University of Pennsylvania just to appease them, and was surprised and distressed when they accepted me, and also a little bit proud. Of course, Mom was quick to point out that “It’s only because your father went there. You’re a legacy.”

            “Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.” I said.

            After that, with the horror of staying in my same childhood bedroom for the next four years threatening, I quickly applied to another school, a place I knew nothing about, other than it was 400 miles away in Ohio, which I also knew nothing about. All I did know was that it was time to go, now or forgetaboutit.

            Of course, college didn’t work out the way I hoped it would. Sure, I got away from Philadelphia. Problem was, I didn’t know where I now was.

            Marietta College was a small, liberal arts college, without much distinction that I could tell. During freshman orientation week (when we were all made to wear Marietta College beanies) most of what I heard about were the various fraternities and why I would be foolish not to rush their houses. I didn’t understand what rushing meant. I imagined slamming myself into heavy front doors. The whole thing struck me as absurd, a bunch of boys who had their own big house where they ate special dinners, had parties where there was (apparently) a lot of drinking, and tried to recruit my fellow freshmen to join them.  I decided I didn’t want to “rush.” I was in no hurry. Probably the fraternities wouldn’t have wanted me anyway. They seemed to be mostly interested in the popular guys, the handsome ones who wore khaki pants and played varsity sports. Those guys were not me.

            As the school year progressed, I found myself more and more isolated and angry, though I couldn’t say why. If I had had to put my feelings into words then I might have said: “I don’t know who I am or where I’m going and I’m fucking scared.” But nobody ever asked me how I felt, not even my parents. Instead I swallowed all those thoughts and feelings and trudged through my days in black clothes and a black mood. I know now that I was deeply depressed and needed help—professional help. But I didn’t know it then, and even if I had, wouldn’t have known where to go to get such help.

            By June and the end of the school year, I was ready to leave and not come back. I passed most of my classes with undistinguished grades, but I couldn’t think of one thing I’d actually learned. It was all a waste. I needed to quit college and figure out how to really get away, if that was possible.

            Soon after I got back to Philly and had the difficult talk with my parents, where they expressed their extreme disappointment in me, I called one of my old high school friends, Billy Wilson, to see if he wanted to hang out. Billy and I had been close all through high school, though I couldn’t tell you exactly why. Think it had something to do with our differences. I took all honors classes, while Billy took shop and trade classes. My dad was a doctor; Billy’s dad was a plumber.

            Back then, Billy showed me how to shoplift. We went to the new Acme Supermarket on Chestnut Street. “Just do what I do,” Billy said. “And make sure no one is watching.” Billy went straight to the meat section, and as I watched with a mixture of excitement and fear, he picked up a slab of pink steak and quickly slid it down the front of his pants. Then he smiled at me, expecting me to follow suit. I’d never done such a thing before, never even stole a candy bar, but I didn’t want to disappoint Billy. I poked around at the various pieces of plastic-wrapped beef as if I was a real customer, looked around to make sure no one was watching then rammed a steak down the front of my sweat shirt. We stopped at the check-out counter and Billy brazenly plopped down a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and smiled at the cashier. I felt the raw meat dripping on to my bare chest, sure that at any minute a security guard would appear. But none did, and Billy and I resisted the urge to run out of that store. But once out, we broke into shouts and laughter. I knew then why people steal. It was the rush, the feeling of escape from the ordinary. I gave my steak to Billy. No way, could I bring home an unexplained hunk of beef. Only later did I feel guilty about the whole thing. We robbed the Acme store a few more times after that.

            Billy and I met at a hoagie shop near our old high school. He looked the same, maybe a little more serious. He told me he was now working for his father, an apprenticeship. I said that was good. Billy nodded. “Yeah, pretty soon I can join the union and make some sweet money. Then I’ll get my own place.”

            “Cool,” I said.

            “What about you?” Billy asked.

            “I don’t know, man. Still trying to decide.”

            Billy looked at me like he couldn’t quite remember why we were friends. I felt the same way. We ate our hoagies and talked about the other kids in our class and what they were doing, and then had nothing much else to say. When we left neither of us bothered to pretend we would meet again.

            I was glad Billy had found a way to move forward with his life. At the same time I felt sorry for him. It’s not that I thought I was better than him in any way. I wasn’t sure I was better than anybody, but what I did know, was there was no way I could stay in Philadelphia. Philly was my past, someplace else would have to be my future.