GTA

Circa 1994: Jersey City

The realization that your car has been stolen hits you like a Dodgeball in Gym class. It burns. Emotionally, it makes the same THWANG as when the rubber hits your skin. I had walked up and down the block several times, second-guessing myself, convinced I had parked it down the street from my apartment. “…Is it on the next block?” And so, to the next block I walked. Up and down. Several times.

To be fair to myself, it had been a few days since I last drove it. I lived in a city. It was easier to take public transportation than find parking, and everything I needed was within walking distance. It also wasn’t my car; it was my sister’s. My car was a 1968 Pontiac Lemans, Corvette yellow with a black top, and very easy to find. But I hit a pothole on the entrance to the Pulaski Skyway from Jersey City. The car wasn’t fragile. It was a beast. A metallic rattle indicated something was obviously broken or had come loose. Fortunately, I was on my way to visit my parents, and my Dad was mechanically inclined.

“I’ll take a look at it over the weekend,” my Dad said, handing me the keys to my sister’s silver, 1986 Toyota Corolla. He had just given it a tune-up. “She’s got the Nissan; she can use it for a few more days.” The Nissan was a spare car for situations like this. While my sister claimed the Toyota, it was still registered and insured by my Dad. Inevitably, she’d have a problem with me driving “her” car, but she’d have to take it up with him.

I walked up and down the block, scrutinizing every silver car I saw. I didn’t know the license plate. I knew it was a silver Toyota…something, possibly four-door. I peered in windows, hoping to recognize the interior. I had only been inside the car twice, including that drive home. That distinct sinking feeling set in.

The car was stolen.

I walked back to my apartment. I’d need all the info on the car to report it stolen, which meant I had to tell my Dad. I already knew how the conversation would go down, but hoped for the best.

“You left the keys in it!?” My Dad’s Italian temper went from 0-60 before I even finished my sentence.

“No, I didn’t leave the keys in it! I have the keys!” I jingled them next to the receiver.

“Then you left it unlocked!”

“No, Dad. I locked the car.”

“Then how did they steal it?” This was the story of my entire childhood. Nothing could just happen. There were no accidents. Someone had to be held responsible. There were four kids in the house, and yet everything that broke, went missing, or was damaged, all fingers immediately pointed to me. I existed, therefore I was guilty.

I interrupted his lecture, “I need to report it stolen, so whenever you’re ready, can I get all the information on the car?”

“I’m so glad I put all that time and money into making it run great for the thieves.” His sarcasm bit through me as he rustled through papers. I heard my Mom walk into the room. “Kristine left the Toyota unlocked, and it got stolen,” my Dad angrily reported.

“Way to go, Kristine,” my Mom hollered from wherever she was in the room.

“Jesus Christ! I locked the fucking car! I lock my car when I park it. Why would I suddenly forget to lock her car?”

“You just put me in a tough spot,” my Dad snapped. “I only have liability on the Toyota. Theft isn’t covered.”

I should have taken the train. Even walking the 30 miles home would have been less exhausting.

“I’m gonna have to call you back. Your sister has the registration card,” he said, followed by a loud punch to my eardrum from the receiver being slammed down.

I stood in my bedroom, looking at my phone, in emotional and physical limbo. I had to wait for my Dad to call me back with the info, so I couldn’t leave my apartment. I didn’t know whether to be angry or sad that he didn’t believe me, or amused that I, even briefly, had entertained the idea that our conversation might have gone differently.

Before I could settle on an emotion, my phone rang. That was fast. I braced myself as I picked up the receiver. It was my Dad, as expected. “A Detective just called me. They found the Toyota. He wants to talk to you, and I gave him your number.” That was all he said before hanging up.

Okaaaaay. It seemed odd, and I thought back to all the cop shows I had ever watched, trying to remember if Detectives investigated stolen cars. That question was answered when my phone rang a minute later.

“This is Detective Cashio. We found your Dad’s car this morning.” He sounded like every Detective on TV and in movies. “When did you last use the car?”

“Um, three days ago, when I drove it back to my apartment from my parents’ house. I was going to bring it back to them this morning. That’s when I realized it was stolen.” Scenarios played out in my head. They found it stripped somewhere in the Bronx. It was taken for a joyride and sustained extensive damage before being abandoned in an alley somewhere in Newark. “Where did you find it?”

“It was left running in a parking lot in North Bergen.”

“It was running?”

“It was also used as a getaway car in an armed robbery of a liquor store last night. The clerk was shot and killed. You know anything about that?”

I felt a twinge at the back of my skull. “Wait. What?”

“One of the assailants was described as a tall woman, 20s, with dark hair. I’m looking at a copy of your license, and you fit the description to a T. It says you’re 5’10. That’s pretty tall for a woman around here.”

It was as if all the air left my bedroom. “Wait. WHAT?”

“Where were you last night?”

“Um…uh…,” I had to think, what did I do last night? “I had the night off. I was home.”

“You didn’t go anywhere?”

The one night I had off from the bar I was too tired to do anything. “No. I stayed in. I watched TV until I fell asleep.” I ran through the programs in my head. Please don’t make me admit I watch Melrose Place.

“Can anyone verify that you were home all night?”

“…No.” Scenes from more cop procedural shows ran through my head. Not having an alibi was always a problem. Innocent people without them went to jail or were interrogated for hours.

“Did you have any friends in the car, or lend the car to anyone?”

“No.” As absurd as it was, I had to ask. “Am I in trouble?”

“This is a homicide investigation, Miss Bottone. This is a very serious situation…”

The shock suddenly evaporated, and my outrage/audacity/sarcasm kicked in at full throttle. “You’re telling me that you actually think I dropped my car off at my parents’ house in South Plainfield, drove my sister’s car back to Jersey City, and used it to rob a liquor store where someone was killed, ditched it five towns over, and then, what? Took the bus home? No, wait, I took a cab because I had money.”

Evidently, the Detective didn’t see the scenario as ludicrous as I did. “Did you just confess?”

“…What? No! Oh my GOD! I didn’t do any of that! I bartend at Texas Arizona in Hoboken! That place is packed all the time! I make a ton of money! I don’t need to rob a store!”

“I see.” The Detective took a long pause. I had hoped he thought my exasperation was amusing and would tell me he understood, and I was in the clear. Instead, he said, “I’ll need you to come in for a line-up. I’ll call you.”

If it wasn’t for the authoritative tone of the Detective and my Dad making me promise that I didn’t knock over a liquor store, I would have thought the whole thing was a bizarre joke. I walked around in a daze after the Detective’s call. In the meantime, my sister left several scathing messages on my answering machine, accusing me of leaving her car unlocked and listing the items she had left in it, demanding that I replace them immediately.

I never heard back from the Detective. But a few days later, my Dad called and said the Police were releasing the car from impound. Evidently, when they dusted the interior, they got prints from the assailants. The same prints were found in other vehicles abandoned in the same way and tied to other armed robberies. The result was anticlimactic, but I was in the clear, and that was good enough for me. I picked up the police report and bummed a ride to the impound yard.

Once at the impound yard, an employee escorted me to the car. I was expecting it to be trashed, with a broken window and a shredded steering column. I was shocked to find it pristine, except for the black powder coating the interior. The intact windows silently gaslit me. “I know I locked the car! How did they get in?”

“The same way they started it, without jacking up the steering column. They used a key,” the guy said.

“But I have the keys.”

The guy shook his head, amused. “Some of these older Toyotas have similarly cut keys. They must have had a Toyota key and went around trying doors until one opened. And if it opened the door, it could also start the car.”

“Get the fuck outta here!” I looked at the keys in my hand. “And they left it running so someone else would steal it,” I concluded.

“Not necessarily. The key got it started, but the mechanism might not have let it shut off the engine. So they pulled out the key and left it running. A running car without a key is too suspicious to steal.”

“Ah, good to know,” I laughed as I signed the paperwork. I tucked the very interesting but useless info into the corner of my mind and drove the car back to my parents’ house.

I was astounded that most of the things my sister claimed were in the car, CDs, designer perfume, and a gold-plated watch were still there. I suspected the other items were never there to begin with, and she, true to form, was trying to profit from the situation. Even the gas level was only a little under half a tank down from the three-quarter mark I started with. I considered myself extremely lucky. It was a different kind of luck, but it was still luck, nonetheless.

I exchanged sets of keys with my Dad, few words spent between us. I suspected the Detective told him about the universal key theory because the accusations of my leaving the car unlocked ceased. I was vindicated by someone outside the family, but he’d never admit it. I knew, on some level, it burned him. Even without an apology, I took it as a win.

Later that day, my sister called. I let my machine pick it up. I stood there, listening and smiling, as she screamed about how I hadn’t wiped off the black fingerprint powder. That. Was. Everywhere.

Bartender Chronicles: Dodged a Bullet

Circa 2002: The Standard Hotel, Rooftop Bar, DTLA.

It was the afterparty for the Ghost Ship premiere. It was a huge event. There was a rock band with a professional concert stage, media equipment, photographers, entertainment reporters, and private security. Over 500 invitations were sent out. More than 300 people RSVP’d that they were coming. However, all the “extras” to transform The Roof into a Hollywood spectacle came with a cost. It cut down on the square footage; therefore, the 300-person occupancy had to be reduced so the roof didn’t collapse into the 12^th floor. The Fire Marshall maxed the head count at 150 people. And that included Rooftop staff.

The situation was a PR nightmare for the hotel and event organizers. While maintenance removed couches, heat lamps, and anything that would create more room and less weight, the downstairs lounge and restaurant spun into chaos. They prepared for an overflow, not a tsunami. The army of Rooftop cocktail waitresses was cut down to three, and half the bar staff was sent home just so another dozen people could be let in. Looking over the ledge, the line was out the door and around the corner. Half the cast of the movie couldn’t get to the roof.

I was working the main bar with two other bartenders and a barback. It was a small, three-sided bar. We were four deep at every angle, plus service bar. To say we were slammed would be a gross understatement. It was an open bar, but we still had to ring in drinks on the computer for one ginormous production company bar tab, which included an automatic gratuity. Not having to deal with credit cards, tabs, and cash was glorious. We went into machine mode and pounded out endless cocktails.

But the clock was ticking. The machine was starting to smoke.

Customers complained that we short-poured or used cheap liquor instead of what they had asked for, claiming they could taste the difference, despite having watched us build the cocktail right in front of them. Some complained about our beer selection, and so it went. This type of customer abuse was typical for the service industry, but because it was a Hollywood event, the self-entitlement and condescension were next-level and relentless.

The crowd was a blend of young and young-ish Hollywood actors, Socialites, and Hipsters. Fleeting glances into the crowd allowed me to catch a glimpse of Gabriel Byrne and Julianna Margulies giving interviews, Paris Hilton flitting about, and Pam Anderson poised with a champagne flute in her hand, flanked by men desperately wanting to be seen with her. Every other face I served garnered the fleeting thought …Cool, that so and so, followed by, Wow, what a bitch, and God, he’s a dick.

The night was rapidly descending into hell. Then Satan herself arrived and wanted a double shot of chilled Grey Goose.

“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to serve shots, let alone doubles, during the event.” I recognized her immediately. She was one of the girls on Charmed.

“Are you joking?” By the look on her face, even if I was joking, she wouldn’t have found it funny.

“Sorry, it’s one of the clauses in the Rider for the event. Whether it’s from the studio or the PR team, I don’t know. We were told no shots. So…?”

“I don’t give a shit about your excuses. Do you know who I am? Get me a double shot of Grey Goose. Chilled. Now.”

One of the other bartenders within earshot rolled his eyes. I had to fight not to roll mine, and instead, I smiled, “I could chill it and pour it into a martini glass and serve it to you that way.” It was a solution for both of us. With all the crazy and illegal shit that happened on The Roof, the hotel GM routinely scanned the security footage, especially after events. I wasn’t about to get fired because of this pint-sized chick. I attempted to explain that it would only look like a martini and not actually be one. It was about appearances for the camera over my shoulder, and she could still shoot it back.

“I didn’t ask for a martini. What the fuck is wrong with you? Put it in a rocks glass. Jesus. Do your fucking job.”

My interaction with her had already taken too long. She was choosing to be difficult, and I chose to be done with her. “You got it.” I filled a rocks glass with ice and poured in what would fit, which was about a shot and a half. I set it in front of her and tossed her a “Have a great night,” as I stabbed a sip straw into the ice and moved on to the next customer.

“What the fuck is this?”

My arms were already back in motion, making several cocktails simultaneously, but my stern gaze locked with hers. “It’s exactly what you wanted, it’s just in the process of chilling.”

I think it was the mix of contempt and gloating in my voice and the smirk on my face that set her off. She sucked up the vodka through the sip straw and then launched the ice at my face followed by the glass before vanishing into the crowd. Everyone froze, mouths agape, all eyes on me, waiting to see what I would do.

I seethed.

“At least she didn’t waste the Goose,” some guy joked. It broke the tension, but I still glared at him as I brushed water and ice chips off the front of my red tank top and Dickies skirt with my hands. “Too soon?”

“You okay?” one of the other bartenders asked. Her voice held concern but was void of shock. While it was the first time it happened to me, it wasn’t the first drink/glass/stack of napkins to be thrown at a Rooftop bartender.

I think I growled as a response. The glass missed my head, but a good amount of wet ice hit the side of my face and neck. My uniform drank in the beads of diluted vodka.

“I’ll tell security,” said our barback. He handed me a clean bar towel before dashing under the service bar counter flap.

I was livid, but we were too busy for me to walk it off. I had to stuff it down into the mix of all the other microaggressions I endured, pat myself dry, and do my fucking job.

And that’s when the kids from That ’70s Show showed up.

They gathered at the corner of the bar like a small pack. Topher, Danny, Laura, Ashton, with then girlfriend, Brittany Murphy, and Jeremy Sisto. The others in their group huddled behind them. The crowd breached, giving a few of them prime space at the bar counter. They were in good spirits, with positive energy, and all smiles.

All I could think was, Jesus, more fucking actors.

I accidentally made eye contact with Topher, which he interpreted as an opportunity to order drinks and launched into, “Hey! How ya doin’? Can I get a…what kind of beers you got?”

There were at least half a dozen people ahead of him, but nobody seemed to care, so I engaged. He then proceeded to order drinks. One. At. A. Time. For those of you who have never been in the service industry, it went something like this:

“I’ll take a Coors Lite.”

“What else?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Hang on.” He turned back to his friends.

*While he was figuring it out, I got and opened the beer.

“Can I get an Absolute and cranberry?”

“What else?”

“Uh, hang on…”

*I got to my well that I was sharing with the bartender working service, keeping my eyes on him, waiting for him to turn back and give the rest of the drink order. But he didn’t, and I stepped back to him.

As soon as the drink was in front of him, he said, “I need a Stoli and tonic.”

“What else?”

“One second…” Again, he turned to his friends.

*I felt everyone’s eyes on me, and the pressure building. Again, I stepped to the well to make the drink, hoping he’d turn back before I put the drink down in front of him. I could see that he was with a bunch of people and anticipated a decent-sized order. When I realized what was happening, I should have abandoned him. I should have incorporated other customers. But I didn’t. I got tunnel vision and was unable to veer off.

Topher turned back, referring to the Stoli tonic I had just put down, “Can I get another one of these?”

This is when it felt as if someone had flicked my forehead. “Are you kidding me with this one drink at a time shit right now?” I threw my hands up, exasperated. I looked Topher dead in the eyes and said, “You can memorize pages of dialogue and set directions, but you can’t remember a handful of cocktails?”

Topher was flabbergasted, as were his friends who were in earshot. The customers who flanked them were also flabbergasted, but amused because they were still waiting to order.

I made the drink and put it in front of him. “Get the rest of the order together and then come back.” As Topher stammered and muttered ‘Oh my God,’ I turned my attention to the young woman next to him, who then rapid-fired her list of cocktails. I looked at him, pointed at her, and said. “Like that. Just like that. Please.”

As Topher turned away, I heard Laura say, her voice very distinct, “What a bitch. Forget her.”

As Jeremy reached for the beer on the bar top, he leaned toward me and said in a Dad tone, as if reprimanding a child, “What is your problem? Jesus Christ, can’t you be nice?”

Without hesitation, I snapped, “Jesus Christ, can’t you make movies people want to see?”

Shock, insult, confusion, he looked as if I had stabbed him in the chest with a plastic fork before stepping back into the crowd. My next few customers followed protocol to a T.

“Hey, Kristine,” it was the voice of the bar manager from over my shoulder. He leaned across the service bar, “I heard what happened. You okay?” I turned to look at him and said nothing. “Okay! Let’s rotate you out of here. Go to the wine bar by the pool and send them here.”

I immediately left the main bar, marched through the crowd, and up the stairs to the far corner of the deck where the temporary bar was stationed. There were far fewer people and less noise. Everyone was downstairs because that’s where the celebrities were. In contrast, the deck was a completely different entity, a different vibe, a different generation. People mingled about or were paired off in conversations. No one was camped at the wine bar, and when I stepped behind it, the pressure and frustration fell away. I could finally breathe.

Later, Danny Masterson meandered onto the deck and approached the wine bar. I smiled, “Care for a glass of wine?”

Danny rattled the ice in what was left of what looked like a Stoli and tonic. “I’m good, thanks.” He looked around. “It’s quiet up here.”

“Yes, wine doesn’t have the same frenzied popularity as the harder spirits.” I had poured maybe five glasses of wine since stepping behind the bar.

He glanced at the crowd on the lower level. “Yeah, it’s little crazy down there. It’s not always like this, right?”

“Um, yeah. It kinda is just not as condensed or understaffed.” I briefly explained the occupancy issue. “But, it’s a beautiful night and you can’t beat the view.” Standing at only 12 stories, the hotel was surrounded by skyscrapers.

Danny glanced around at the neighboring buildings, illuminated office lights peppered their silhouettes, taking a moment to appreciate the view. “Are those people?”

I didn’t have to look. “Yup.” From the first day the hotel opened, day or night, The Roof was a white-collar voyeur’s wet dream. Celebrities, movie and TV filming, people having sex in the waterbed pods, women sunbathing or swimming naked, it was a wonder anyone in the surrounding offices got any work done. “I’ve seen a bunch with binoculars. We’re definitely in a fishbowl. Feel free to wave.”

“Wave?”

“Wave.” I faced the closest building and waved. Danny didn’t wave. “Seriously, wave with me.” I waved again, and this time he gave a shy wave.

Danny burst into laughter and pointed, “That dude over there waved back!”

“Told ya, fishbowl.” I paused, and then said, “Hey, um, I’m sorry I yelled at your friends earlier. I could have handled that better. Waaay better.” I didn’t go into details about what had happened minutes prior, or Topher’s poor bar etiquette.

Danny shrugged, “It’s not a big deal. We get yelled at all the time on set.”

“Be that as it may,” I mused, “it was a little psycho of me, and I feel bad. Topher didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m sure he’s over it, and you seem sane now,” he mused back with a smile.

“So, we’re chalking it up to temporary insanity?”

“That seems appropriate.” Danny took a sip of his drink and slipped his free hand into his pants pocket. “Can I…buy you a drink?”

I laughed, “Funny.”

He was confused, “Why is that funny?”

It took me a second to realize he was serious. “Um,” I said with a smile. “It’s an open bar. It’s free. I thought you were making a joke.”

“Oh!” He laughed at the irony of his intention. “Then…can I get you something from the other bar?”

“Are you offering to fight your way through that crowd to get me a beverage of my choice, and then fight your way all the way back here?” I put my hands over my heart and batted my eyes.

“If that’s what I gotta do, I’ll do it,” he said with a firm nod of his head.

He’s fucking adorable, I thought. “That’s sweet of you. Thank you. Unfortunately, we’re not allowed to drink during our shifts. Actually,” I said as if I had just realized it for the first time, “we’re not even allowed to come here on our off nights and drink.” It was a hotel rule. Unless we had permission from the MOD, we could get fired. And, if we were on the roof, we had better be in uniform.

“Understood, understood,” he said, his hand still in his pocket. “Can I…maybe on one of your nights off…buy you a drink at a place you don’t work?” He spoke slowly, choosing his words based on the limitations.

He was shy and confident at the same time. There was no ego, no expectations. He was cute, funny, and charming. Except for pouring a few glasses of wine for guests, it felt like we were already kind of on a mini date. I couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Great. Can I get your number?”

“I’d love to give you my number, but I can’t.” This was before cell phones were attached to everyone’s hands, and getting a phone number in a bar required the person to physically write it down on a napkin. “Hotel policy. And more eyes are watching The Roof than the ones in the neighboring buildings.” I nodded my chin to the security camera in the corner.

“I see.” Danny turned to that camera and waved. “Do you want my number?”

“Yes, please,” and I handed Danny a pen.

He wrote his name and number on a napkin, then folded it in half. He hesitated. “Am I allowed to hand it to you, or do I put it down and walk away?”

He’s fucking adorable. I laughed, “You can hand it to me. I’ll put it in my tip bucket and take it out at the end of the night.”

“Cool.” Danny handed over the napkin.

I snuck a peek at it before dropping it into the bucket. It was his first name, his number, and a little smiley face.

Danny was about to say something when an exasperated Ashton appeared at the top of the steps. “Dude! We’ve been looking for you. We’re heading out.”

“Alright,” Danny said casually. “I’ll find you guys in a minute.” Ashton huffed and retreated down the stairs. He turned back to me, “I guess I’m leaving. It was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice to meet you, too. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He nodded with a slight smile, “Looking forward to it.”

I watched him walk down the stairs unhurriedly and disappear into the crowd of people. For the next thirty minutes, I stood there and smiled, mind wandering, until one of the bartenders appeared. My reprieve was over; I was getting rotated back into the mayhem.

As the celebrities began leaving, the crowd thinned dramatically. When the open bar closed at midnight and people suddenly had to pay, The Roof practically cleared out. Regular customers and the diehards who waited all night to get to The Roof finally arrived in one last rush. The place was trashed, and anybody worth seeing was long gone. Last call was a breeze, but the clean-up was daunting. With a reduced staff, it took longer to clean, take inventory, and restock.

One of the other bartenders was tasked with counting tips, which is not as fun as it may sound. Straightening bills, sorting them, calculating tip-outs, cashing in, and dividing is time-consuming and, at times, gross. I completely forgot about Danny’s number until I was handed a stack of cash.

“…There was a phone number on a napkin I actually wanted.”

“Yeah, there were a bunch of phone numbers. I put them in a pile as I went.” We looked over at the spotless, gleaming red Formica bar top. “I don’t know what happened to them. Probably got thrown out. Sorry.”

“Bummer,” I said, and went home. I never saw Danny in person again.

******************************************

*I’m sorry, Topher Grace.

*I’m sorry, Jeremy Sisto. I truly enjoyed May and your performance on Law & Order.

Tales of a Scapegoat

I didn’t see it coming. Usually, I never did. There was a surprise, explosive pain to the back of my head, followed by a weird numbing sensation throughout my body as I was thrown to the floor. Suddenly, my older brother was on top of me. My shoulders were pinned to the forest green carpet by his knees, and he sat on my upper body, eliminating any defense or escape. It was a move he perfected over the years from all the times I got away.

Just minutes before, I was arguing with my younger sister in the living room. She was on the stairs. My back was to the kitchen. …Something about sneakers. Despite being years older and a good foot and a half taller than her, we had the same shoe size. Only once had I mistakenly worn her sneakers; they were by the back door, and I thought they were mine. In a normal family, a simple, “Oh, sorry, my mistake,” would have been sufficient. In my family, it was another outlet. From that day forward, any dirt or new scuff mark on them HAD to be done by me because she believed I was secretly wearing her sneakers.

I wasn’t.

It was dumb sibling bickering.

However, our arguing set off my brother, and I was his target. I was always his only target. The blows to my head started. Repeatedly. One after the other. Not to my face. Never to my face. Well, not since that time he couldn’t explain his way out of why I had a black eye. (He got grounded for a weekend, and I had to say I fell.) Left and right punches to my head, his face twisted with rage while screaming “I HATE YOU” over and over.

I screamed for help, but mostly I just screamed. My parents weren’t home. My grandmother was napping in her room. My sister continued to accuse me of wearing her sneakers.

Five, six, seven, eight. Maybe nine, maybe twenty fists to my head before they stopped, and he put his hands around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t turn my head. I couldn’t fight back. I felt my face getting hot as I heard the thundering of my heart over the ringing in my ears. All sounds became muffled, and my sister, who was still yelling at me about her sneakers, sounded like she was at the end of a tunnel. My brother seethed one last “I HATE YOU” before spitting in my face.

His eyes were black with rage, and a Joker-like grin spread across his face. The panic. The fear. The complete helplessness. My vision dimmed. My thought, he’s really going to kill me this time.

Suddenly, air filled my lungs with one desperate gasp. I glanced up. Behind my brother stood my grandmother with a broom. She was hitting him with it, yelling at him to stop, to get off me, to leave me alone. She whacked him in the face with it, and he jumped up to grab the broom. She yelled, “RUN!” I scrambled to my feet, bolted up the stairs, and down the hall to my room. I locked the door, and as I pushed my dresser across the room, I heard the weight of his body slam against the thin wood.

The lock wasn’t really a lock. It was one of those cheap doorknobs that could be unlocked if you stuck your fingernail in the slit and turned it. But it was enough of a hindrance for me to get my dresser in place that when he got it unlocked, he couldn’t open the door. It was a move I perfected over the years from all the times I got away.

He was mad. Almost rabid. He threw himself against the door a few times, screaming that he was going to kill me, he hated me, and that I was going to pay. I heard the wood crack under each blow. The drawers rattled, but my dresser didn’t budge. I was safe. But I was also trapped. I had a phone in my room, but who could I call? Not my parents, they were at work. I’d get in trouble for bothering them. Not my friends. I couldn’t tell them about the routine violence. It was embarrassing. Besides, all my friends liked my brother. He was popular-ish. Good looking-ish. Funny. Nice. No one would believe me. And, even if they did, there was nothing they could do.

The police? No, no, I couldn’t do that. That would embarrass my parents.

I wrapped myself in my comforter and sat on the floor of my room, trying to sob quietly. A few minutes later, everything was quiet. Too quiet. I knew better. I pictured him hiding in the adjacent bathroom in the dark, waiting, listening for me to pull the dresser away from the door so he could charge in and finish the beating he started. I fell for that before. Twice. The second time, I waited over an hour, convinced he had gotten bored and left. I was wrong.

Because he couldn’t get to me physically, the psychological attack began. An hour would go by, and he’d scratch at the door like a rat, “I’m waiting for you. And I’m going to kill you.” Thirty minutes after that, “The longer you wait to come out, the worse it’s going to be.” Then came the insults, I’m fat, ugly, nobody likes me. I was stupid, a loser, and he’d be doing everyone a favor by killing me. My sister even tried to lure me out by saying he was gone. I fell for that once before, too.

At some point, I fell asleep. Maybe from emotional fatigue, maybe from a concussion, but when I woke up, it was dark. I could hear my grandmother’s TV through our shared wall. She only watches TV after dinner when she retires to her room for the night. That meant my mother was home. As quietly as I could, I pulled the dresser away from the door and listened. I heard noises in the kitchen, confirming my mother was home. I threw open the door and ran as fast as I could down the hall, past the bathroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

That night’s dinner had been cooked, served, and eaten. The remainder of it sat in casserole dishes on the table. The plates and silverware had been cleared except for the untouched setting in front of my chair. My father was still at work, but my mother had been home for hours. She stood at the sink washing dishes.

Her back was to me. I approached from the side, tears welling up in my eyes. “…Mom.” It came out as a raspy whisper with only a hint of my voice. She turned her head to me. I heard her gasp. And, for a split second, I saw her shock before she turned back to the dishes in the sink.

“Your brother already told me what happened. I don’t need to hear it again.” It was her standard dismissive response. He got to her first. He always got to her first with a watered-down version of what happened. He’d confess to just enough to make it sound believable but not enough to get in any real trouble. And she always believed him.

“No, Mom, you don’t know what he did.” She wouldn’t look at me. She couldn’t look at me because if she did, she would see the bruises on my neck or the terror in my eyes, still puffy and swollen from crying for hours.

“Yes, I do. He told me. He admitted it was bad and said it won’t happen again.”

“Mom! He was strangling me! Ask Gram! She saw it! She stopped him!”

“She’s old. She doesn’t know what she saw. You always do this. You always make things bigger than what actually happened. And you know how he gets. Why do you provoke him?”

For as long as I stood there trying to tell my side of what happened, my mother continued to wash dishes without looking at me or responding. She had made up her mind and tuned me out. This, too, was another lesson I had learned.

As I headed back to my room, my mother said over her shoulder, as if an afterthought, “And don’t go to your father with this. He works hard and doesn’t want to hear any of this crap when he gets home.”

I went back to my room defeated and exhausted. Since I wasn’t allowed to wedge the dresser against the door at night in case of an emergency anymore, I set up my DIY booby traps to wake me up if someone opened my door while I was sleeping. It was the only protection I had.

*The provocation for my attempted murder was because, while arguing with my sister, my “big mouth” interfered with my brother watching TV in the adjacent wreck room.