Seven days a week

We eat the donuts at the bar and talk. Perry may well talk. He looks like a lawyer in court. Until, in the middle of a sentence of fifteen minutes, suddenly silent and the man behind the counter asks: Are you day and night?

Yes, the man says.

Seven days a week?

Yeah.
Three hundred sixty-five days a year?

Yes.

Why are there locks on the door?

We turn around and look at all. What a brilliant question! I start laughing so hard that I spit out my donut. The regenboogsprinkels fly like confetti out of my mouth. I think this is the funniest, smartest remark ever. In any case, the funniest, smartest remark ever made these Winchell's. Even the guy behind the counter gives a smile: Son, this is a smart remark.

Oh, that's life, says Perry. Loaded with Winchell's locks and other inexplicable things.

You're right.

I always thought I was the only one who saw things. But this guy does not just things, but says that. When my mother comes to fetch me and Tami, I regret that I say goodbye to my new friend Perry. Even his polo shirt, I think now less disgusting.

I ask my father if I may sleep at home in Perry.

Damn no, he says.

He knows Perry's family did not agree. And he trusts no one he does not know. My father distrusts everyone, especially the parents of our friends. I do not bother to ask why this is so, because not wasting my energy. I just question whether Perry wants to come with me one night stay.

Perry was incredibly polite to my parents. He's kind to my brother and sisters, especially against Tami, though she kindly rejected. I ask if he just wants to see the house. Sure, he says, and so I let him see the room I share with Philly. He laughs at the white line in the middle. I show him the tennis court behind the house. He fights against the dragon for a while. I tell him how much I hated the dragon, I thought it was a living, breathing monster. He looks sympathetically. He has seen enough horror movies to know that monsters of all shapes and sizes.

Perry also because of horror films, I have developed a surprise for him. I have a copy of
The Exorcist
scored. Now I saw how scared he was with
Visiting Hours
I can not wait to see how he responds to a real horror classic. Once everyone is asleep, we put the film on. Every time Linda Blair's head turns, I get a mild heart attack, but Perry never once deterred. He trembles like a leaf in
Visiting Hours,
but
The Exorcist
let it cool? I do not understand.

Afterwards we sit chatting and drinking.

Perry and Perry

I feel guilty perhaps, but Perry is pissed. Soon I hear through the grapevine Vegas: Take care, Perry, who want to ass. He tells everyone that I was rude to him and he gave me the next time will take to graze.

Weeks later, Tami says that everyone is a horror film, all the older children, and she asks if I meewil.

Perry goes that too?


Maybe.

Yes, I'll do.

I love horror movies. And I have a plan.

Our mother brings us to the cinema early so we can buy popcorn and candy and the best seats to find out, right in the middle of the middle row. I'm always right in the middle of the middle row. The best place. I let Tami left me down and keep the seat beside me occupied. And yes, there is the posh, ball-like Perry. I jump up and swing. Hey Perry! Over here!

He turns around, send. I see that he was surprised that I'm so friendly. He tries to assess the situation, wondering what to do. Then he smiles and I see that he decides not to be angry. He saunters down the center, is our drive and leave in the empty chair beside me fall.

Hi Tami, he says to me along.

Hi Perry.
Hi Perry.

Hi Perry.
Just before the lights go down and the first film appearance, we look at each other.
Peace?
Peace.

The film is
Visiting Hours
. He is about a psychopath who stalks a journalist, her house enters her maid murder, then for one reason or another attracts a dress and jumps out as the journalist comes home. They can losworstelen and the police come just in time. They bring the woman rushed to the hospital, where she feels safe, but of course that the psychopath is in hospitals hidden chamber of the journalist tries to find and kill him for anyone in your way. Slap story, but nice and creepy.

When I am afraid, I am like a cat in a room full of dogs being thrown. I stiffen, do not budge. But Perry is apparently the sensitive type. If it is exciting, he starts to vibrate, fiddling and soda spilling. Whenever the killer jumps out of a closet, Perry jumps from his chair. A few times I look with rolling eyes to Tami. But I hate Perry with his behavior. I even say anything about when the lights go on. I will not break our fragile peace treaty.

If we are out of the theater, we conclude that the popcorn and cola and candy were not enough. We go to Winchell's across the street and buy donuts. Perry takes a chocolate on it.

Las Vegas Country Club

I participate in a tournament in Las Vegas Country Club for a chance to go to the state championship. My opponent is a guy named Roddy Parks. The first thing I noticed about him is that he has a unique father. Mr. Parks is wearing a ring with an ant in amber solidified. Before the game begins, I ask him about it.

You know Andre, when the world ends in a nuclear disaster, only the ants survive. So I want my soul in an ant arrives.

Roddy is thirteen, two years older than me. He is big for his age and has a military stekelkop. But it seems like I can handle him. Immediately I see flaws in his game. But some way he knows who to compensate, and he wins the first set.

I talk to myself, saying I must attack, more needs to run. I take the second set.
I practice more pressure,'m smarter, faster. The finish line is in sight. Roddy is mine, he can shake it. What is true for name, Roddy? But I lose a few points now and Roddy puts his arms in the air. He has won the third set, 7-5, and the match. I look at the stands, my father. He has beaten his gaze, is concerned. Not angry, but concerned. I am also concerned, but also damned angry, and sick of self-hatred. I wish I ant in Mr. Parks' ring was.

I make snide remarks to myself while I wrap my tennis bag. From nowhere appears a boy who interrupts my thoughts furious.

Hey, he says, do not worry. It just was not your day.

I look at. The boy is one year older than me, a head taller, and looks in a way that I do not like. There's something about his face. His nose and mouth are not in a straight line. And he wears a shirt with a gay man that is playing polo? I want nothing to do with him.

Who the hell are you? I ask.

Perry Rogers.

I turn back to my tennis bag.

He does not understand the hint. He goes on about it just not my day, that I am better than Roddy, that I will defeat the next time, and so on. He tries to be nice, I guess, but he acts like a know, like a Bjorn Borg Jr. and so I stand up and try to look cheerful. The last thing I need to have his comforting words that are pointless than a consolation prize, especially when those words come from a kid with a man playing polo on his chest. I wave my tennis bag over my shoulder and ask: What the hell do you know about tennis?

I feel guilty later. I did not mean to be. I hear that he plays tennis, that he is the same tournament. I hear that he has a crush on my sister Tami, especially so of course he talked to me. In order to get closer to Tami.

Philly promise

I moved as fast . He listens to the last nasty comments Pops, look how sorry I am and gives me a nod as appropriate. Half a nod to basic fears. A whole nod with a patented wrinkle-Philly for great anxiety. Even standing on his head to Philly with a nod more to say than most people an entire letter.

One night he asks if I want something Philly promise.

Sure, Philly. Everything.

Pops never leave pills.

Pills?

Andre, listen to what I say. This is really important.

Okay, Philly, I hear you. I listen.

The next time you go to the national championships and Pops will give you pills, you should not take them.

He gives me all Excedrin, Philly. Excedrin for a match I have of him, because so much caffeine.

Yes, I know. But the pills I'm talking about, are different. These pills are small, white and round. Do not take them. Never.

And if forcing me Pops? I can not tell him no.

Yes, it is. Wait, I thought for a moment.

Philly closes his eyes. I see the blood flow to his head, see that it is purple.
Okay, he says. I know. If he forces you to swallow the pills, then you play a bad match. Express loss. Then, when the job is, you say that you are shaking so much that you could not concentrate.

Okay. But Philly, what are these pills?

Speed.
What is that?
A drug. Get a lot of energy. I just know that he will try to give you some speed.
How do you know, Philly?

He has also to me.

And yes, during the national championships in Chicago, my father gives me a pill. Hold your hand, he says. This will help you. Take.

He puts a pill in my hand. Small. White. About.

I swallow the pill and feel fine. Not really different. A little more alert. I do it just like I'm completely different feel. My opponent, an older boy, is not a challenge, I can at him, but I make that point a long time and give him different games gift. I make sure the match it looks heavier than he is. If I get the job, I tell my dad that I do not feel that I want to withdraw. He looks guilty.

Okay, he says, and rubs his face. That's not good that was once but never again.

After the tournament I call Philly and tell him about the pill.

He says: See, I knew it!

I did what you said, Philly, and it worked.

My brother sounds like a father should sound.

Proud of me and at the same time afraid of me. When I get home, I embrace him. We spend the first night together in our room, we whisper white line on the back and celebrate our victory on rare Pops.







Shortly after I play against an older opponent and defeat him. It is a practice party, nothing special, and I am much better than my opponent, but I help him a little, I make this too long time points, different games give him a gift, just like I did in Chicago. After this match on court three at Cambridge - the same job as when I'm playing Mr. Brown - I feel terrible, because my opponent look terrible. I should have let him win. I hate to lose, but I hate this time also to win because the opponent is defeated Philly. Does this feeling that I have no killer instinct? Confused and sad, I wish I could find that old guy, Rudy, Rudy or the other before him, so I could ask them what it all means.

Protect Islander

I see Philly losses and think: Bad habit plus accident, a deadly combination. I look at him when he comes home after a heavy defeat. You can tell by his face that he fed himself and my father reinforces that feeling again. Philly is in a corner and turn himself over the head because he has lost, but at least that's a fair fight, one against one. Then my father there and he helps with the Philly hurling at Philly. It is abused, beaten.
So should Philly be a Jitterbug. It would be logical that he does hate me now, is bullying. But the opposite is true, because after all verbal or physical attack on him by himself or by my father-he is caring for me. Protect Islander. Gentler. He wants his fate saved me. He might be a born loser, but I see why Philly as the ultimate winner. I'm glad Philly my older brother. He encourages me, gives me directions, gives me, never showing signs of jealousy or rivalry. Happy because you have an unfortunate elder brother? Is that possible? Is that logical? Again a typical contradiction.

Philly and I have every free moment together. He picks me up from school with his scooter and then drive through the desert to go home and talk and laugh over the hum of the engine. We share a bedroom at the back of the house, which is our haven for tennis and Pops. Philly is as exactly as I have stuff on mine. So he pulls a white paint line through the middle of the room, which is divided into its side and my side, ad court and deuce court. I sleep in the deuce court, my bed is closest to the door.
At night, before we turn out the light, we have a ritual where I really attaches. We are at the edge of our bed and whisper over the line around. Philly, seven years older than me, talking the most. He pours his heart out, talking about his lack of confidence and his disappointments. He talks about that he never wins. He talks about being a born loser. He talks about his need to borrow money from Pops so he can continue to play tennis, try to remain professional player. Pops, which we agree is not a man to have against you.

But Philly is particularly worried about his hairline. Andre, he says, I'm bald. He says in a tone as if he tells you that the doctors have told him that he was only four weeks to live.

But without a fight, he will not lose his hair. Baldness is an opponent who can handle Philly. He will do everything to defeat him. According to him, he is bald because not enough blood flowing to his skull. Therefore it every night during our conversations on its head. He puts his head on his mattress and goes on his head, his feet against the wall. I pray that it will work. I beg God that my brother, the born loser, this one will not lose his hair. I lie to Philly and say that I can see this miracle works. I love him so much that I would say anything to him feel better. For my brother, I myself have all night to stand on my head.

My Dad a Favor

You're right, says Philly on a sad tone. I'm a born loser, I was born a loser.

Yes, you! You feel sorry for your opponent. It does not matter if you're the best or not!

Philly does not bother to go against it. He plays well. He has talent. But he does not strive for perfection and perfection in our house is not a goal, but law. If you are not perfect, you're a loser. A born loser.

My father decided that Philly born a loser when he was about the same age as I was and competed in national championships. Philly not only lost, he did not even try to argue as an opponent cheated, so my father reddened and began to shout curses Iran.

As my mother puts herself there in Philly down, but occasionally explode. The last time this happened was in the kitchen. My father was a tennis racket to racket, my mother was ironing and Philly sat on the couch watching TV. My father was in Philly bars, ruthlessly, on his game during a recent tournament. Suddenly, in a tone that I had never heard him use guild Philly: Do you know why I do not win? Thanks to you. Because you called me a born loser!

Philly started to cry. My mother started to cry.

From this moment, said Philly, I will behave like a robot. How about that, huh? I act like a robot, I feel nothing, get the job and just do whatever you say!

My father stopped stringing of the racket and looked happy. Almost peaceful. Jesus Christ, he said, finally understand you.

Unlike Philly, I always have to argue with my enemies. Sometimes I wish I like Philly all unrighteousness could slip past me. If an opponent like I cheated and Tarango said that my ball just came out, I run red. Often I take revenge to the next point. When my deceitful opponent a ball hits the middle of the road, I call him out and look at him with a look like I say: Now we're even.

I do not care about my dad a favor, but that's what happens. He says: You have a different mentality than Philly. You have all talent, all spirit, and all happiness. You were born with a lucky penny in your pocket.

He says that once a day. Sometimes he says the confident, sometimes admiring, sometimes jealous. I feel uncomfortable when he says that. I'm worried that I'm Philly's lucky that I've taken away from him. That Philly, because I a lucky penny in my pocket was born with a dark cloud over his head was born. When Philly was twelve, he has while riding his wrist broken in three places and that was the beginning of a long series of unpleasant events which seemed to be no end. My father was so angry that he forced him to Philly to play tournaments with his broken wrist, so that wrist was worse and his game was ruined forever. In order to spare his broken wrist.

Lets the stroty begins

Team sports, I decide, are you from.

My father does not mind that I football because he thinks it's good for my footwork on the tennis court. But recently when I play soccer a strained muscle in my leg and so I can not play tennis noon. My father does not like. He looks at my leg, then at me as if I've hurt myself on purpose. But an injury is an injury. Even he can not argue with my body. He stamping his foot out of the house for work.

Moments later my mom looks at my calendar and see that I have a football game that afternoon. What do we do? she asks.

The team counts on me, I say.

She sighs. How do you feel?

I think I can play.

Okay. But dress.

Do you think Pops angry?

You know dad. He has no reason need to be angry.

She drives me to the game and turn me off. After a few times I ran around the field, my leg feels good. Surprisingly well. I dive between the defenders, easy, elegant, call for the ball, laugh with my teammates. We are working towards a common goal. We do this together. This feels good, it feels good. This feels like me.

Suddenly I look up and see my father. He stands at the edge of the parking lot, watching the football. He says something to the coach. Now he yells at the coach. The coach waving at me. Agassi! Off the field!

I run off the field.

Get in the car, my father says. And pull your football clothes.

I run to the car and see my tennis clothes in the backseat. I pull them on and walk up to my father. I give him my soccer clothes. He walks over to the coach and throws the football clothes against his chest.

As we drive home, my father says, without looking at me: This is the last time you played football.

I beg him for a second chance. I tell my dad that I do not like being alone on the tennis court to be huge. Tennis is lonely, I tell him. You can never hide if something goes wrong. No dugout, no sideline, not a neutral corner. You're on your own there, naked.

He cried really hard: You're a tennis player! You are number one in the world! You are a lot of money. That is the plan and that's it.

That was the plan for Rita, and Tami Philly, but if it never came. Rita rebelled. Tami was not better. Philly had no killer instinct. My father always says that about Philly. He says to me, to Mom, even from Philly, right in his face. Philly just gets his shoulders and proving once again that he has no killer instinct.

But my dad says far worse things against Philly.

You're a born loser, he says.