Boyhood
by Jordan Hofbauer
If Mom hadn’t been sick, I might have resented her for not warning me. There were plenty of ways she could’ve tipped me off—a whisper while I fell asleep in my crib, or a hint as she helped me bathe. Wash behind your ears, honey! Make sure you act just so, honey… And grow up to be just right… Your father expects these things.
That might’ve been helpful.
But she didn’t. Or maybe she couldn’t. And now, on the morning of my sixth Christmas, I’m used to keeping the door closed against Dad’s tirades and random projectiles. That way he won’t catch me dancing. He can’t see me spinning and twirling. Floating along the curls of my shag carpet. A soft cloud beneath my bare feet.
My older brother, Jerry, is at the top of our bunk bed. Beeps and boops sound from up above. It’s his turn on the Gameboy Color we’d opened this morning. I, patiently waiting my turn, am grooving to the rhythm and love sounds from NSYNC. MTV’s Total Request Live is playing a Christmas edition.
I don’t really understand but I’m drawn to something about the group. Justin’s blonde curls and JC’s black turtleneck give me energy. I want to look like them.
I mimic their moves. The sidesteps and cabbage patch wiggling of their hips. A strong step forward followed by a confident victory pose. My hips are free, but my feet are freer.
“It’s gonna be me!” I sing. Or probably scream, because between my heavy heaving, my chest is hot and heavy.
Mom stands in the doorway. Her eyes sunken and purple while she watches me. Is she tired? On Christmas morning?
Evens so, she claps. A standing ovation. There’s happiness there. Even if she’s in pain from every movement in her arms. When I get older, I’ll learn that was from the MS.
Dad appears next to her. An XL glass of something that looks like R-Cola in his hands. But his rosy cheeks suggest there’s probably Fireball in his cup, too.
“What is he? A queer?” Dad says.
I’m not sure what he means. I’m only six. I’ve never heard this word.
Mom’s smile stays bright, though. Not even a wince. So, whatever the word is it can’t be that bad. After a while Dad walks back into the kitchen. He curses as he stubs his toe on an open gift.
I don’t hear the word again until a year later. I’ve saved up a collection of World Wrestling Federation Magazines in my closet. I keep them hidden inside my Xbox packaging, stored at the top of my closet near the Calvin and Hobbes comics.
I like to look at the magazines. Not for the wresting but for something else. I can’t put my finger on it.
I specifically like Triple H. He’s got a flowing mane of hair, tummy muscles and hulking boulders for shoulders. A God. I don’t understand why, but I like to look at his hands.
Mom is gone now. Buried near Stockton. I’ve visited her twice since we put her in the ground, sprinkling Sunflower seeds on top of her grave both times. Like Mom used to do on Grandma’s grave.
It’s just me, Jerry, and Dad in the house. Our door remains closed. Dad has traded Fireball for Jim Beam in his XL cup.
One day, Dad comes into the room while we’re playing video games. The door is locked. He yanks on it, and the frame cracks violently until it s-s-s-SNAPS!
Jerry drops our Nintendo DS—the Gameboy’s giggling successor—from the top bunk. It falls, missing my head by inches, and slaps onto the carpet. Luckily, it’s the same fluffy shag, or else the DS would have smashed into a thousand plastic pieces.
We watch as Dad hunts without hesitation. He barrels straight for the closet.
“Hey!” Jerry yips as dozens of Calvin and Hobbes books fall to the floor.
Dad yanks the Xbox package from the top shelf with enough force to trip himself over his heels. He falls backwards and fumbles into the aluminum ladder of the bunk bed. CLANG! His head hits metal, but he doesn’t notice.
“Do you like this?” Dad growls, grabbing my World Wrestling Federation magazine from inside the box. He rips Triple H’s head in half. Only a few locks of his thick hair remain, but the muscles of his stomach are still intact. Ripped, just in another sense of the word.
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
“Do you like this?” Dad demands again.
I look to the spot in the doorway where Mom had stood a few years ago. It’s empty.
I don’t understand what I’m supposed to say. How I’m supposed to answer… I can’t look him in the eyes, so I’m forced to stare at his wet, slimy mustache.
“DO YOU FUCKING LIKE THIS!?”
I scream. Noooo!
The roaring engines of different car models. My Datsun roadster to his GMC pickup--
Trembling, Dad crumples the magazine and stuffs it back inside the Xbox packaging. Then he shoves the box back in the closet before stomping out of the room.
When he’s gone, Jerry hops down and picks up the Nintendo. Beep-boop sounds return. Dad doesn’t.
I don’t look at my magazines for a long time after that. The coast isn’t clear. And mom isn’t here. I sit on my bottom bunk and wait for my turn on the Nintendo, making sure to keep my eyes off the ripped scrap of Triple H, still lying on the carpet.
That might’ve been helpful.
But she didn’t. Or maybe she couldn’t. And now, on the morning of my sixth Christmas, I’m used to keeping the door closed against Dad’s tirades and random projectiles. That way he won’t catch me dancing. He can’t see me spinning and twirling. Floating along the curls of my shag carpet. A soft cloud beneath my bare feet.
My older brother, Jerry, is at the top of our bunk bed. Beeps and boops sound from up above. It’s his turn on the Gameboy Color we’d opened this morning. I, patiently waiting my turn, am grooving to the rhythm and love sounds from NSYNC. MTV’s Total Request Live is playing a Christmas edition.
I don’t really understand but I’m drawn to something about the group. Justin’s blonde curls and JC’s black turtleneck give me energy. I want to look like them.
I mimic their moves. The sidesteps and cabbage patch wiggling of their hips. A strong step forward followed by a confident victory pose. My hips are free, but my feet are freer.
“It’s gonna be me!” I sing. Or probably scream, because between my heavy heaving, my chest is hot and heavy.
Mom stands in the doorway. Her eyes sunken and purple while she watches me. Is she tired? On Christmas morning?
Evens so, she claps. A standing ovation. There’s happiness there. Even if she’s in pain from every movement in her arms. When I get older, I’ll learn that was from the MS.
Dad appears next to her. An XL glass of something that looks like R-Cola in his hands. But his rosy cheeks suggest there’s probably Fireball in his cup, too.
“What is he? A queer?” Dad says.
I’m not sure what he means. I’m only six. I’ve never heard this word.
Mom’s smile stays bright, though. Not even a wince. So, whatever the word is it can’t be that bad. After a while Dad walks back into the kitchen. He curses as he stubs his toe on an open gift.
I don’t hear the word again until a year later. I’ve saved up a collection of World Wrestling Federation Magazines in my closet. I keep them hidden inside my Xbox packaging, stored at the top of my closet near the Calvin and Hobbes comics.
I like to look at the magazines. Not for the wresting but for something else. I can’t put my finger on it.
I specifically like Triple H. He’s got a flowing mane of hair, tummy muscles and hulking boulders for shoulders. A God. I don’t understand why, but I like to look at his hands.
Mom is gone now. Buried near Stockton. I’ve visited her twice since we put her in the ground, sprinkling Sunflower seeds on top of her grave both times. Like Mom used to do on Grandma’s grave.
It’s just me, Jerry, and Dad in the house. Our door remains closed. Dad has traded Fireball for Jim Beam in his XL cup.
One day, Dad comes into the room while we’re playing video games. The door is locked. He yanks on it, and the frame cracks violently until it s-s-s-SNAPS!
Jerry drops our Nintendo DS—the Gameboy’s giggling successor—from the top bunk. It falls, missing my head by inches, and slaps onto the carpet. Luckily, it’s the same fluffy shag, or else the DS would have smashed into a thousand plastic pieces.
We watch as Dad hunts without hesitation. He barrels straight for the closet.
“Hey!” Jerry yips as dozens of Calvin and Hobbes books fall to the floor.
Dad yanks the Xbox package from the top shelf with enough force to trip himself over his heels. He falls backwards and fumbles into the aluminum ladder of the bunk bed. CLANG! His head hits metal, but he doesn’t notice.
“Do you like this?” Dad growls, grabbing my World Wrestling Federation magazine from inside the box. He rips Triple H’s head in half. Only a few locks of his thick hair remain, but the muscles of his stomach are still intact. Ripped, just in another sense of the word.
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
“Do you like this?” Dad demands again.
I look to the spot in the doorway where Mom had stood a few years ago. It’s empty.
I don’t understand what I’m supposed to say. How I’m supposed to answer… I can’t look him in the eyes, so I’m forced to stare at his wet, slimy mustache.
“DO YOU FUCKING LIKE THIS!?”
I scream. Noooo!
The roaring engines of different car models. My Datsun roadster to his GMC pickup--
Trembling, Dad crumples the magazine and stuffs it back inside the Xbox packaging. Then he shoves the box back in the closet before stomping out of the room.
When he’s gone, Jerry hops down and picks up the Nintendo. Beep-boop sounds return. Dad doesn’t.
I don’t look at my magazines for a long time after that. The coast isn’t clear. And mom isn’t here. I sit on my bottom bunk and wait for my turn on the Nintendo, making sure to keep my eyes off the ripped scrap of Triple H, still lying on the carpet.
Jordan Hofbauer lives in Los Angeles and is a writer for the University of Southern California. His writing is informed by a wealth of professional and life experience. He’s worked as a commercial TV actor, carpenter, track and field athlete, legal intern, higher education professional and even dance club manager. When he’s not scribbling stories, he’s most likely jamming out to '80s club anthems.