Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [36]
I don't even think my brother ever figured it out. He'd usually be two sheets to the wind and fall asleep with the headphones on and some shitty music rejiggering his brain cells and wake up with greasy hair.
And the other odd time, ears that felt like they were on fire. I imagined him making a mental note to turn the bass down before he got under the sheets.
Oh the pure joy that brought me. What did I learn? Revenge, folks. And, of course, how to fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Here's a funny story that sums up my kidhood relationship with my brother. I was playing football in the school yard with some older kids I barely knew. I was covering this kid who went up for a pass and as I blocked it I also accidentally hit him in the face and as we both tumbled to the ground the guy starts punching me. A lot.
As I was trying to defend myself and/or grab a hold of his hands WHOMP! he was hit with blunt force and suddenly disappeared from view.
I sat up to see my brother sitting on top of the guy and holding his head against the ground by the neck and saying: Nobody touches my little brother except me, okay asshole? Hah? Ya got it? Hands off. Then he stood up and walked away. The guy lay there, desperately sucking air. I didn't know what to do. So-confused-I said That's right, asshole. Only he can beat the shit outta me! Then I turned to all the other guys-who also looked confused-and said Everybody hear that? Okay, then. Puzzled, they all nodded yes. Then we played more football. There were many many You okays? and Lemme help you ups from then on.
One more bully story: my good friend and writing partner Peter Tolan (Rescue Me, The Job, Analyze This, America's Sweethearts, Too Many Other Credits To Mention Not To Mention Some Insane Amount Of Emmy Nominations And Three Actual Emmys) was born in raised in Scituate, Massachusetts, in much the same circumstances as me including Irish (American) parents, nuns, priests the whole nine yards. We're both about the same age.
Peter's bully was a kid named Billy Noonan who would stand out in front of his house and refuse to let anyone pass unless they gave him money. He made threats and swore and spit and acted like a tough guy and pretty soon everyone was forking over their loose change and lunch money just so Noonan wouldn't kick their asses. His reputation grew. He killed a guy. He skinned a cat. He invented a new kind of Kung Fu (hey, I told you-Kung Fu was EVERYWHERE back then).
In order to get to school, Peter and every other kid had to walk past Noonan's corner-there was just no other way without walking an extra couple of very very long blocks so most kids just decided to give in and pay the vig and accept their fate. Then-one winter morning-there was a huge snow and ice storm. Walking the streets was like skating on a huge outdoor rink. Noonan put on a big, brand-new gangster-type overcoat and stood outside his house-as always waiting to taunt and spit and collect. As Peter made his regular turn onto the corner-along with a bunch of other kids-Noonan yelled "Hey Tolan-where's my money?" Peter sighed and very carefully-making sure not to slip and fall-turned and looked over at Noonan's outstretched hand. "C'mon, faggot. Fork it over."
Peter tossed a look at the other kids, shook his head in disgust and sauntered gingerly across the ice toward the bully. Then-something snapped. Peter had finally had enough. In his mind things had come this far and would now go no further. He was going to stand up to Noonan once and for all. Tell him where to go and how fast to get there. But there was only one problem-speaking of speed. Peter's feet were moving so fast in an attempt not to slip that he realized he was in fact gaining a great amount of gusto-too much gusto-he was heading straight at Noonan with no