My Greatest Hits

The most memorable times I got in trouble often started from what I thought were my some of my greatest ideas at the time. These are a few of my greatest hits.

1986: I decide to randomly point at people in the mall and scream, “HA HA LOOK AT HIS SHIRT” or “LOOK AT HER HAIR, MOM!” Alright, this seems intentionally cruel. But I wasn’t trying to be mean, though I’m not entirely sure what the motivating idea was behind this. And yet, it was my first taste of power and intimidation. Strangers were understandably horrified by a six-year-old pointing at them. They looked flustered, and then shifted their eyes away nervously. One woman even touched her hair, checking for the imaginary thing I pointed at. I relished my power.

I began to point at someone else, but my mother tackled me from across the store, and swiftly bolted us from the mall, and into the parking lot where I was immediately sentenced to twenty years of hard labor in a Chinese prison camp.

1987: I drop a flashlight on my sister’s face. That sounds quite barbaric, but I was thinking of a spotlight. I stood over the foyer, and she stood at the bottom of the stairs. The idea was that the spotlight would shine on her face just like in a stage play. Next, I would drop the flashlight, and as it fell toward her, the light would shine like a shooting star. She would catch the flashlight before it busted her face open.

Therefore, it was actually her fault when her face did bust open after not catching it. And that’s precisely the argument I used when my mother’s face turned purple upon seeing my sister’s red bloody face. I always have been a great arguer.

1988: I decide to wear every single shirt I own. After dinner, I begin furiously putting them on in my bedroom. My Ocean City shirt, my favorite blue shirt, the orange shirt that always smells funny. The Mickey Mouse shirt, my sleep shirt, even the nice striped shirt that itches and I don’t like it.

I walked into the room where my parents watched television and announced, “look I got fat!”

I expected a rowdy laughter and applause, but instead my mother looked at me in a very scary way, her eyes narrowed, and quietly asked, “do you know that I wash and dry and fold your clothes every week, after working all week and making dinner for you?”

That’s the day I learned how to fold clothes.

1989: My number one single. My greatest hit. I destroy my bedroom.

I was bad at keeping my bedroom clean. I always had my toys all over the place and scattered across the floor. Loose figures and race track parts and the whole setup from when my sister and I played Dinosaur vs. Barbie Smackdown. We were planning to continue it one day, if only we could remember where we had left off. The stegosaurus stood on naked Barbie, and the T-Rex was over by the pond–which was the dog’s water dish, where Ken had drowned. We always killed Ken first, because he was a wimp, and all the dinosaurs and other Barbies knew it.

Sure, I had a closet and a toy chest to organize my toys in. But I liked to keep the toy chest empty, because it was also a coffin when we pretended my room was a Haunted House. Or it could be a roller coaster when my room was Disneyworld. Even the closet was something, a secret cave—or a place to put the dog and listen to her pace and pant and try to get out.

My room was awesome. The walls were painted blue. I had secret stickers stuck to the inside of my desk that my mother didn’t know about. My bed had Super Mario sheets. My bed was a good trampoline. It could also be a boxing ring that my sister and I stood on and punched each other. After I watched Indiana Jones, I realized the toy chest could also be a mine cart.

Christmas was the worst. I had to clean my toys up for Santa? Christ, what a nightmare. I had homework to do, chores to do, television to watch, dinner to eat. And I didn’t have any time on my schedule next Friday–no, we were spending the night at my grandmother’s. I had no time. NO TIME. Time was seriously running the fuck out.

There was one solution. I could just shove all the toys under the bed. One year, maybe I actually looked stressed, because my mother sighed, and said it was fine.

“And you don’t think Santa will know?”

“No, I don’t think so. But you better clean your room afterwards to make space for the new toys he brings.”

“Okay. I will. I promise.”

Santa was a sucker.

At some point my mother decided that I should keep actual clothes in my closet, so my father installed shelves in the bedroom as additional storage.

“But how will I reach my toys?”

“You can still enjoy them by looking at them on the shelves. We’ll put the ones you don’t play with up there,” my mother explained.

So we arranged dumb bears and board games and cans of Play-doh artfully on the shelves. Maybe there were a few stray Lite Brite bulbs on the carpet or the odd ViewMaster reel on the desk, but my room was clean. Even I could see that the shelves were a great idea. With the extra space, the closet was an even bigger cave with even more room for the dog, and possibly the cat, too.

And then I made a most important discovery–that my brand new shelves were also a mountain. In fact, it was Mt. Everest. I began to map out an expedition. I grabbed my sister and told her my idea. I wanted to be a Mountaineer. Mountaineer, mountaineer.

“The shelves will fall down,” she said.

“Are you dumb? They’re nailed to the wall,” I said, fully confident in my father’s craftsmanship.

Anyway, expeditions had purposes. And quite clearly, I wanted to play the Operation board game that was on the top shelf. And I wanted to play it NOW. Didn’t she want to play, too? DIDN’T SHE?

“Not really,” she said.

We traded roles regularly over who was the more reckless vs. cautious one. Some days, she was totally willing to do the triple-cartwheel high-kick back-flip out of the Radio Flyer as I pushed it down the hill. Other days, it was me who decided to climb Mt. Everest in my bedroom. And today, I would have to go it alone. Great expeditions and astral journeys were a noble, but unforgiving pursuit.

I stood on a milk crate and reached up to the first shelf, pulling myself up. I began my ascent. I could see the second shelf already, where a teddy bear in a Christmas sweater eyed me suspiciously.

My mother was always getting free bears with the purchase of fifteen Hallmark cards, or a new credit card account at Macy’s. “And he’s wearing a little red sweater!” she would exclaim. I hated sweaters, on me and on bears.

I reached for the third shelf, which was coated in a thin layer of dust. A toy bus was parked there. WOW LOOK AT ME. I looked down, where my sister watched uneasily. From my vantage point, she now seemed miles and depths below. I took another step up. LOOK AT THIS. JUST LOOK.

The third shelf had puzzles. I hated puzzles. I never had the attention span to attach more than three pieces. I looked up to the fourth shelf, where the Operation game was in sight. And also, the ceiling. I imagined myself sitting up there, between the shelf and the ceiling.

I looked back to my sister again, to look if she was looking, to see if she was seeing the awesomeness that I was accomplishing. However, she was not awe-struck. She looked red-faced and terrified. I hated that look. It’s not that she was scared I was going to hurt myself. Hurting yourself is impossible when you’re eight. No, she knew this was punishment-level stuff I was doing. And she also knew she could be found guilty by association from being in the room.

“I’m going to play in my room now,” she declared, as I reached for the fourth and final shelf. Oh, right. She had been playing with her My Little Ponies in her room the whole time. A likely story.

Whatever. I was having way more fun, anyway. I bet there wasn’t as much oxygen up here, just like in space.

She left, and I defiantly moved my feet up to the third shelf. I could touch the ceiling now. My fingers grazed the ceiling, and a white powder covered my fingers. Maybe it was paint or dust–or maybe it was moon dust. No kid had even been this high up before. Some men see things as they are and say, ‘Why’? I dream of things that never were and say–

Suddenly I heard a crack. A sickening sound. The crack was rapidly followed by another. The metal bars pulled from the wall. My heart raced. I shifted my weight and the shelves leaned back. The teddy bear slumped over.

Me and the shelves held on by a very fine balance of centrifugal force, so delicate, it was almost poetic. I looked below. I was about to die.

“Help,” I said, in a surprisingly small voice.

The parked bus rolled off and hit the floor.

“Help,” I said, forcing my voice louder. But my sister was in the other room. Maybe she could have held the shelves up long enough so I could climb down. Then we’d both run to her bedroom, playing with the ponies, as the shelves unsuspectingly came down in the other room. WHAT. MOM. I LOVE PLAYING PONIES. SO WHAT.

It wouldn’t work. I had just one option. A desperate one. If I let go, taking the shelves down with me, I would be hurt. My mother would be less severe if I was bleeding from the head. Head wounds were dramatic. They were gushers. She would definitely take pity.

I took one last look at the teddy bear. He looked scared, too, in his stupid sweater. I let go. The crash was incredible. I brought down the entire set of shelves and all the toys. The lids tore off board games and puzzles, dice and pieces raining. Books crashed to the floor. The bear landed with a soft plink.

I heard my mother’s booming steps through the house almost immediately. I desperately checked for blood. There was none. Crap. I still had both my eyes. None were missing. Double crap. I prayed my back was broken. My sister stayed her room, innocently playing with her ponies.

My mother stopped in front of the bedroom, horrified at the mess. Maybe she thought what I was thinking. With this kind of mess, Santa was never coming. Again.

“Owwww,” I moaned.

But my mother must have had some psychic ability for knowing when I was actually hurt–just like when she could tell when I was fake sleeping–because I don’t think she scooped me up in arms and nursed me back to health. Instead, I learned a new string of curse words that came from her mouth.

I’m pretty sure I was sentenced to spend the rest of my life in Chinese prison camp. I heard they ate fried dogs there, and served eyeballs on plates. And that kids had to carry bricks across deserts with no rest or water. And I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I deserved it.

But I also knew that it had been worth it.