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FUN HOUSE
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I was dumb enough to tell the doctor about it. He wanted to know why I couldn’t breathe. He let me talk on, with the expression of a man who knows all about ghosts and monsters. I was so surprised that someone was listening to me that I probably exaggerated at little, just to prove I wasn’t afraid of ghosts, or black ladies, or the moon. He must have told my mother everything. Next visit, he tied me to a chair with leather straps, and while a nurse held my head, he pulled out my tonsils cold. I can still see his fake smile in the round mirror. Through the hole, he stared down into my gaping mouth forced open by a metal bit. He tried to fool me by telling me it wasn’t going to hurt, that I had to be a man, that there were worse things in life. But it hurt, it hurt a lot. I gagged on his forceps and bloody drool poured out of my mouth. In triumph, he showed me a tonsil. At the bottom of the enamel spittoon, red splatters were mixed in with shiny black clots, iodized gases, rust spots, and the blood-streaked dark blue of a tonsil. The other tonsil was missing; I must have swallowed it in a gagging fit. It was a terrible punishment, but it taught me a lesson. Funniest of all, my brother suffered the same treatment, right after me, and for no good reason. It’s the family tradition: punish all the pests and never try to find out who’s at fault.
My big brother isn’t bad, but you can’t push him. Sometimes he looks sad, even lost. That’s when he wants me to play with him or watch the street. But my stories bother him, and soon he loses interest and tries to change them his way so they’ll be more fun. I resist at first, but then I give in; we’re not talking about my story any more. That doesn’t matter. As long as time passes. He does the same thing when we play. He mixes things up in no particular order: toy soldiers with animals, cars with ships, as if he couldn’t concentrate and follow one story at a time. As soon as he gets a hankering for something, it’s got to be satisfied right away, and if he decides to march his horses through the airplanes, no one can protest. I try to point out that the two don’t go together. He says there aren’t enough cut-out pictures of cars, but plenty of nice horses or bicycles, or Christmas trees, whatever. All his pictures have to be a part of the game. If he gets mad, he’s likely to hit me. Or worse, stop playing completely. He just can’t get caught up in something like I can, he doesn’t take anything seriously. That’s why our games never last long. He’s learned how to string me along, maybe by watching me play alone. He knows I’m having fun even if it seems strange to other people. There’s nothing I can do about it. Sure, it bothers me. Sometimes I wish I was as casual as him, and could break off the game just because someone won’t give me one of his pictures. Next time I’ll surprise him, I tell myself. But he always loses interest first. Or else I give him an excuse by stupidly refusing to share or trade my things. Still, he’s the one who gets first choice every time. Because he’s the eldest, as our father says. That’s the way it is in life: he’ll have to look after the family if ever our parents aren’t there. Not now, he’s too young, our aunts or the maid tell us what to do when our parents are out. Later, though. Later, he’ll do great things, that’s what everybody says. So it’s normal that he gets first choice. Anyway, when he’s through with something, he hands it on to me, right? His old clothes don’t bother me, but when it comes to his pictures and cigar boxes, I pretend not to be disappointed. I’ve got lots of boxes anyway, and an enormous collection of beer-bottle caps, so I never come out on the losing end when it comes time to divide things up.
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