Later that week, at a corner store, Henry picked up an Auto Shopper magazine. In the evening he sat in bed and perused the car ads while Esther finished the dishes. Endless junkers cried ‘dependable,’ but he wasn’t interested. She came in and sat next to him. “I like this one,” he told her, pointing to a sporty seventies Toyota with tinted windows and chrome rims.

“That’s a thousand dollars,” she said. “How much do you have?”

“I have one thousand four hundred,” he said proudly.

“Maybe you should buy a cheaper car and save the rest, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” He put the Auto Shopper down.

“Well, I was thinking…” she said. “I was thinking maybe you could… I don’t mean to ask for money but maybe you can contribute a few dollars here and there for rent.”

“Oh. Esther, I’m sorry. I completely forgot. I was going to offer to pay some money.”

“No problem,” she said, sincerely. “Sorry I had to bring it up.” She picked up the magazine and began thumbing through it. “What about this one? Six hundred dollars.”
He examined the ad. It was a long, white, four-door car. “What? I’m not driving around in that thing. I’ll look like a grandmom.”

“It’s a more practical car than the one you’re looking at. And it’s newer so it should last longer too.”

“I don’t know.” He flipped through the pages to the other ad. “The Toyota looks newer to me. See how shiny it is,” he said, touching the ad.

Henry went out to the living room. “Hey man,” he said to Willy, who was watching T.V.

Willy nodded without turning to Henry.

“Hey man,” Henry said again, holding out the Auto Shopper magazine this time. “I’m gonna get this car and maybe we can cruise around and stuff.”

Willy looked at the ad while Henry held it. “Really?!” Willy asked. “That’s a nice fuckin’ car!”

“Yeah,” Henry looked at the ad again. “I think I’m gonna buy it tomorrow.”

“Damn motherfucker!” Willy jumped up and extended his hand to Henry. “I like how you operate.”

They shook hands.

Henry woke up several times throughout the night, imagining himself driving the Toyota through Trenton. He pictured himself pulling up at Columbus Park with Esther and picking up Willy. He imagined letting other Latin girls in tight jeans and Wigwams slide in the back with Esther. They all laughed and danced and bounced around to the fast dance rhythm and heavy beat as Henry sped through the streets of Trenton.

In the morning, he called the number in the Toyota ad and made an appointment. Later that day he went to Center Street to see it—on a long block lined with rows of homes. The car wasn’t as shiny as it seemed in the picture, and there were a couple spots where the paint was chipped. But it was spotless inside and out, and had three “Vanillaroma” air freshener trees hanging from the mirror. A Puerto Rican flag hung there too.

“I’ll remove the flag,” the guy said.

“Nah. That’s cool.” Henry reached inside the car and touched the tinted window in the back. “You install the tinting?”

“Professionally installed.” The guy opened the back door. A large speaker lay across the seat. “Kicker” was written on it in block letters.
“Whoa.” Henry ran his hand over it. “I bet that kicks the fucking beats.”

“Oh, I should have told you, the Kicker doesn’t come with the car.”

“Okay. Can I hear it anyway?”

The guy got in the driver’s seat and turned on the stereo. It was the same fast rhythm and dance beat Henry heard before. A man sang passionately.
Henry immediately felt the music move him. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Stevie B.”

“Oh yeah. Freestyle, right?”

“Exactly.”

“My girlfriend is half Puerto Rican … so … you know … I know …”

“You know… what?” the guy asked.

“I meant… oh … nothing. Can you turn it up?”

When the guy turned up the music, the speaker in the backseat boomed and the world around them stopped. A man on the street stopped to take a look, and cars slowed down as they passed by. Henry saw all the attention the car was getting. He made some muted dance moves for a few beats.

Then, the guy turned down the stereo. “As I said, the Kicker’s not for sale. It’s going in my new car.”

“Come on, man. How much you want for it?”

“No. Sorry bro.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Henry said, rubbing his fingers together to indicate cash.

“You really want it, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Hell, yeah. It belongs in this car.”

“Three hundred,” the guy offered.

“How about two hundred?”

“Deal!” He patted Henry on the back. “Twelve hundred dollars for the whole package!”

“Can I have the Stevie B. tape?”

“I’ll throw it in for thirty more!”

When Henry was a block away from home, Esther heard the thump of the bass. As it got closer, she heard the rhythm and the words. Stevie B. sang “Diamond Girl.” She heard the horn honk but didn’t realize who it was. When she heard it a second time she ran to the window. Henry was standing next to the car with a big smile on his face.

“What do you think?” he called up to her.

Willy came to the other window. “Nice!”

Esther laughed and shook her head.

Later, while sitting in the passenger seat, Esther took the Puerto Rican flag off the rearview mirror. “It’s funny seeing you in this car,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean it’s strange for me. I picture you in like, a different car—maybe a truck.”

He laughed. “Oh, like I’m a country boy or something?” Henry pulled the rearview mirror toward his face and tried to imagine what he looked like sitting in his new car. He played with his hair.

Then, Willy popped his face in the driver’s side window, startling both of them. “You the man, Kreiser,” he said. He extended his hand to Henry.

Spotlight on American Spaz in Spaz Magazine

“This month I am shining my SPAZ spotlight on Greg Kieser, the talented man behind the novel AMERICAN SPAZ. After reading the title, I spazzed out and knew it would be more than appropriate to feature this novel on my site. I wanted to dig deeper and find out what the story was behind the title. Sure enough, I came into contact with the writer who shared his inspiring story. Greg Kieser tells Spaz Magazine all about American Spaz the novel, his personal journey, and even gushes about fashion! This is one read you don’t want to miss guys!!”.. .READ MORE.

Interview of Greg Kieser by Man In The Mirror

“The world is full of liars. The news media presents us with arguments that conceal truths so they can make a given point. Pop stars create fictional lives and expect us to buy it. We do. Reality shows are not real. Memoirists lie about facts of their life so that they can write a more entertaining story. I believe fiction can convey more truth than non-fiction often can. I wrote fiction because I wanted to convey the truth of my story not necessarily just to present a list of things that happened to me . I wanted to have an honest dialogue with my readers.” READ MORE.

Amazon.com Reviews

American Spaz, not just a novel, but a time machine I recently finished reading AMERICAN SPAZ The Novel by Greg Kieser. This was a fun and fast read that brought back many memories of the eighties. Kieser has a refined prose that cuts to the point and doesn’t linger too long before pushing his readers to the next marker of his journey, his life. The characters are so well developed they feel real, and I suppose that’s part of writing a biography, but this novel makes the 80s, the crazy situations and each and every character seem like your best friends and family, not just Mr. Keisers. When I read the back cover’s tag line: A coming of age story with GIRLS + LOVE + DEATH + FISTS + KNIVES + GUNS, I thought it was just a fun play on words, but I would say if 6 words could sum up the novel, these would be it. I would possible add one more: COOL.
February 7, 2012 By Tom Firestone

Review of American Spaz, The Novel, by Greg Kieser released on December 2011. A fictionalize story, that is beautifully written and emotionally moving filled with realistic characters — the author examines death, grief, healing and the continuance of life when he surprisingly finds humor and love on this journey. A family struggles in dealing with complex unresolved feelings of guilt, anger, loss, prejudice and love in an attempt to stay together. Henry, one of the main characters, in attempt to find himself and a girl –rebelliously crosses the bridge to an environment that seems tantalizing at first. This is a quick and compelling read.
December 21, 2011 by Isabella

Authentic coming of age story Moving, touching,shocking and utterly honest story, extremely powerful and poetic. beautifully told, well written with detailed musical and visual cues set for the screenplay. for anyone who’s interested in love, family and growing up, american spaz fits the bill.
By pamrey -

A family of words In American Spaz, Greg Kieser paints the story of an American family as they come to grips with staying together after hurt, loss and anger. If great story telling is habit forming, Kieser must be an addict.
December 28, 2011 by J. Cooper (New York, NY)

Gripping story of an exceptional youth While the time and setting are familiar (suburban America in the ’70′s and ’80′s), the trials and journey of the young protagonist, Henry, are anything but. Henry’s feelings and the love of his family are always relate-able, and the book captures the pressures and confusion of the middle school years painfully accurately. The debut novelist writes with great empathy about his young character in this very personal story, creating a vivid portrait of a searching youth wrestling with his identity in troubled circumstances.

January 2, 2012 By E. Mulkowsky (NYC)

Bursting with feeling While the story of adversity that this book tells is remarkable, it was the the clear-eyed honesty of the young narrator that left the strongest impression on me: his energy, angst and emotional turmoil burst from the page and grab a hold of your heart. Kieser taps into that vein of adolescent anxiety and confusion in a way that is uncomfortable, and true. The picture he paints in the last scene is pitch-perfect but left me wanting more!
January 24, 2012 By D. Archer-Rosenthal (Brooklyn, NY)

Couldn’t put it down American Spaz is a wonderful story – beautifully written with loveable characters . I couldn’t put it down and enjoyed every minute.
By lrgam – January 5, 2012

A Great Novel This is a coming of age story about a young boy, dealing with the struggles of adoselence: sibling rivalary, young love and finding your true identity. As the reader you are brought along on this journey and meet all sorts of interesting characters along the way. The author does an incredible job of allowing the reader to feel everything that the young character feels. I loved the book and would definitely recommend it.
February 23, 2012 by Molly B

Awesome read! This book takes you on an emotional journey with a young man challenged with the pressures of society. Read it and be blown away. I was.
January 19, 2012 By HeyNaenay

From Goodreads.com

I really enjoyed this book. Henry’s story tugged at my heart strings and I rooted him on from the first page. Simone, Feb 7, 2012

“American Spaz The Novel” is a coming-of-age story with girls and love and death – fists and knives and guns. After going through double tragedies as a child Henry Kreiser grows into a teenager he does not want to be. It starts in 1978 in a suburb of Philadelphia and continues on the farms of a rural boarding school for disadvantaged children. It ends on the tough streets of Trenton, New Jersey in 1988.

**Read Excerpts From The Novel**

American Spaz is auto-biographical fiction by Greg Kieser and chronicles a decade of his life – from 7  to 17 years old - during which time he lost both parents, moved from place to place, and did whatever he needed to do to survive.  As the youngest of six children, he had many opportunities during that decade to rely on, and sometimes reject, the love of family.

**Read the Reviews and Press**

On the surface it’s a coming-of-age story about a grieving, angst-filled teen. As you read on, though, you will find it’s very much an adult novel that gives plenty of time for the character’s feelings to bubble, boil and simmer. It has a strong rhythm and a terse, musical style. And at intensely emotional moments Kieser explores that style even more, to the point it  becomes beautifully abstract. The character’s deep relationship with music during these moments is also on display, as songs by Madonna, Billy Idol, EPMD and more, provoke Henry to look at his life in new ways. Sometimes the music elicits melancholia. Other times it’s euphoria and violence. It’s engaging on many levels. To top it off, American Spaz is rife with hilarious, and sometimes, cringe-worthy moments. The sum total of these elements – the style, the exploration of fears/wants/needs, the relationship with music and the humor – makes for a novel that is not only fast and gripping but modern and relevant.

Below is an interview of Greg Kieser by Man in the Mirror.

Man in the Mirror: Thanks for allowing an interview today.  I understand you don’t grant many so we certainly appreciate it.

Greg Kieser: Thank you for agreeing not to ask stupid questions.

MITM: (laughs) So, congratulations on the release of the novel and the short film. It has started to show up in bookstores and amazon reviews are looking great. People love the short film – especially those who have read your book and really get the whole spaz thing you’ve created. The question that comes up often is regarding your choice to self-publish. Can you talk a little about that?

GK: That’s kind of the whole point of being a spaz. You don’t get on your knees and beg agents and publishers to take your story to the world. You forge out on your own and tell your story yourself. Early on in writing American Spaz it became clear to me that it wouldn’t be wise to use traditional agents and publishers. I had sent my last novel, which I have shelved for the moment, to a bunch of agents and all I ever got were a automated messages of denial. I figured it would be the same with American Spaz and,  given the deeply personal nature of the project, I didn’t want to take that path. Traditional agents and publishers are a very small minority of people deciding what the vast majority of people are reading.  It seems to me the industry is not keeping up with technology, that allows writers to connect more easily with readers, and the way they edit, develop, market and sell books is done as it was 100 years ago. I wanted to put American Spaz out into the world in a more modern way and let it be judged by my peers, not by “the industry”. Enter self-publishing, which comes with its own set of challenges – marketing, editing, distribution.  But these are challenges my inner-spaz was prepared and excited to take on. It’s given me an opportunity to express myself through every facet of the project – not just the words on the page.

MITM: You’ve never been published before. Aren’t you concerned critics will pan it and nobody will read it?

GK: Not really.

MITM (pause): Not really?

GK: At this point it’s out of my hands and it’s of no use to worry about things like that. I know I have a good story. I have some skills with the written word. But most importantly I am writing from an honest place talking about things I know and doing so in a voice that is mine. Does that mean I’ll sell books? Who really knows? It does mean, though, that I will connect one on one with each and every person who does read American Spaz. And that to me is more important than anything else. So, yes, I want to sell books, but that’s secondary to connecting with each reader in a meaningful way.

MITM: Can you tell us a little… what is the story about?

GK: Its about a boy who suffers multiple tragedies as a child. He grows into a young man who is physically not the person he wants to be. Its a story about how he deals with this reality.

MBITM: Is he a spaz?

GK: He is.

MITM: Are you a spaz?

GK: I am.

MITM: Is this your story?

GK: It is.

MITM: So that leads me to another question that has come up often. Why did you choose to write a novel about your life rather than a memoir.

GK: The world is full of liars. The news media presents us with arguments that conceal truths so they can make a given point. Pop stars create fictional lives and expect us to buy it. We do. Reality shows are not real. Memoirists lie about facts of their life so that they can write a more entertaining story. I believe fiction can convey more truth than non-fiction often can. I wrote fiction because I wanted to convey the truth of my story not necessarily just to present a list of things that happened to me. I wanted to have an honest dialog with my readers. Also I wanted to protect the privacy of friends, family and foes, to give flesh to conversations I didn’t quite remember, and to ensure a good story flow.

MITM: But, what percentage is true then?

GK: A very high percentage.

MITM: Fifty, sixty percent?

GK: More.

MITM: How much do you estimate? Give me a number.

GK: Ninety or ninety-five.

MITM: So, you’ve wrote a story based on your life. That must have been easy.

GK: No, in fact it wasn’t easy. Not because of technical reasons – getting words on the page. But, I struggled for nearly a decade on other writing projects, essentially trying to write the same story – my story. And I surely had some issues that were holding me back.  I was trying to write something brilliant, deep and philosophical and getting tied up with intellectual ideas of what a novel should be. But then a little more than a year ago I went through a significant transformation and it all came together. And I finally realized that all I needed to do, for my own health and happiness, was tell my story.

MITM: Okay. Who were your influences while you wrote the novel?

GK: I’m still obsessed with the writers from fifty, a hundred and even a hundred and fifty years ago – like Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, James Joyce and Pasternak – and I will likely spend my life trying to achieve what they did. But it’s movies and especially music that really inspire me today.

MITM: Thanks for giving us your time. We can’t wait to read American Spaz.

That afternoon, at Grandmom’s house in Magnolia, New Jersey, the boys were exhausted—emotionally and physically. The old-people pace of life was evident immediately; it was torturous and magnified their pain. Just to take a pee Henry waited thirty minutes by the door while Mr. Cluskey flushed three times and exited the bathroom slowly with a newspaper tucked under his arm. The boys scrunched their noses at the smell of mothballs. Henry sat uncomfortably on the Victorian furniture. Byron flipped through Reader’s Digest under a lamp made of purple glass.

A sunny, late afternoon lunch was prepared—peanut butter and honey on white toast. Grandmom and Mr. Cluskey sipped Lipton tea. Two poodles, one black and one white, sat at the foot of the table. Mr. Cluskey took his tea into the living room and sat down at a Wurlitzer. He began playing a happy song and singing for the kids. He smiled gaily at them with an air of pomp.

“He does that on TV, boys,” Grandmom said. “Have you ever seen the Al McCain show?”

Henry nodded. He spread peanut butter and struggled not to tear the toasted white bread.

Mr. Cluskey looked into the kitchen at Henry and stopped playing suddenly. He walked over and grabbed the knife from Henry. “That’s not how we spread, Henry. It’s like this—across the bread. Spread evenly so you don’t break the bread.”

For a moment Henry stared at Mr. Cluskey standing above him. “Okay,” Henry said, turning to Grandmom, “I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry, dear. You can’t.”

“I. Want. To. Go. Home.” Henry stood.

“Shhh,” Byron said.

“I want to go home!”

“Grandmom,” Byron said. “Can you tell us what’s gonna happen? When are we going home?”

She took Byron’s hand in hers and pulled Henry over by her side. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Henry and Byron settled in at Grandmom’s house. Weeks passed, and boredom rose. Light summer evenings gave way to cool autumn nights. They started classes at a new elementary school. As the trees began to shed leaves, Henry spent hours looking out the window. A bare sky let the cold light come.

One Saturday, while watching kids on their bikes from the living room window, Henry took his glasses off, put them on the coffee table and walked outside to make friends. Over the course of the following weeks, he befriended two boys in particular—a pair of twins, named Ron and Don, who were the biggest kids in the pack of mostly eight to ten year olds. While the twins systematically trained the other kids in their pack to respect their rule, Henry was in no mood to be bossed around, and he invariably stood up for himself. As a result, in a short amount of time, he became one of the top dogs.

On the day before Halloween, Henry put his eyeglasses on the coffee table and yelled from the front hallway, “Going with Ron and Don to the woods!” He ran out the door.

Grandmom went to the living room window and watched him walk off with the pack of boys. She noticed them all looking around and conspicuously passing something back and forth. Worried they were up to no good, she decided to follow. She grabbed Henry’s glasses from the coffee table, took her jacket, and ran out. She followed the pack of boys down the street and into a nearby wooded area, where she hid off behind a tree. She saw no inappropriate behavior and started to leave. But then, a puff of smoke rose into the branches above the boys—and another soon floated slowly upward. When she took a closer look now, she spied Henry taking a long drag of a cigarette. She headed down the path towards them immediately. On seeing Grandmom walking rapidly down the path all of the boys escaped into the surrounding woods—except for Henry, who, without his glasses, didn’t see her coming.

He blew smoke. “Where you guys going?!” He coughed repeatedly then turned to see Grandmom was just a few yards away. Henry froze, with several smoldering cigarette butts at his feet. She grabbed him by the collar and slid his glasses on his face.

Back at the house, Henry was seated at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pencil.

Grandmom looked down at him. “Henry! You are on a very bad path. Do you realize that?”

He nodded his head.

“One hundred times. ‘I will never smoke again.’”

After Grandmom left the room, Mr. Cluskey came in. He watched Henry begin writing and shook his head in disapproval.

Henry shook his head too and mimicked Mr. Cluskey’s pursed lips sarcastically before he started writing again.

Mr. Cluskey leaned over and whispered in Henry’s ear. “Your mom is rolling over in her grave. Do you realize that?”

Henry froze and put down the pencil. As the words echoed in his ear, they seared the image on his soul.

Henry barely spoke a word in the following weeks. He avoided all contact with Mr. Cluskey. At church on Sunday, Henry and Byron sat on either side of Grandmom. Along with the congregation they got up, they sat down, and then they kneeled and got up again. Henry sang the hymns mechanically. Then the priest released the incense—frankincense and myrrh. Henry sniffed. It provoked a memory; his mother’s coffin there. He looked to the front. The image of her rolling over inside of it tangled his imagination in knots and stole his breath away. He shook his head to make the image go away. He pushed his way to the aisle, knocking a woman back in her seat, and ran outside.

When Byron came out, Henry was sitting on the steps. And then Grandmom came out. “Let’s go,” she demanded, heading for the car.

When Henry and Byron arrived back in Levittown, they found that Kate and Jack had bought a small home. It was in a section of Levittown where the homes were a bit smaller than the one they grew up in. Theirs was a pleasant green house with asbestos siding, among others in blues and yellows. Dinner was on the table before long—beef stroganoff, broccoli with Cheez Whiz, stuffed potatoes, and Wonder Bread with butter.

“Are we going to see Dad?” Henry asked.

“He’s coming tomorrow,” Kate said. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Henry watched the front drive through the kitchen window the next morning. A mystery man on a motorcycle arrived and sat in front of the house. His helmet stayed on his head, but Henry could see a beard. He watched the man smoke cigarettes, one after the next, until finally; Kate went out to talk to him. Then, as the helmet came off, Henry connected the dots and recognized the man—it was Dad.

“Dad!” Henry ran out, followed by Byron. They hugged and smiled and patted Dad on the back. Henry ogled the bike—a cruiser with a wide black seat and sissy bar for a passenger. Henry went to touch the chrome muffler but Kate grabbed his hand to stop him. “Its hot!” she warned.

“Take me for a ride,” he said to Dad.

“No,” Kate said. “Motorcycles are dangerous.”

“Get on,” Dad said.

Henry jumped on as Kate shook her head.

“We’ll be back for you, young man,” Dad said to Byron. He put the helmet on Henry’s head.

Henry wrapped his arms around Dad’s waist and held on tightly. Dad’s leather jacket smelled of cigarettes and motor oil. They rode through suburbs, on highways, and on quiet streets. When they stopped at a traffic light Henry leaned forward. “Where do you live now, Dad?” he asked.

Dad didn’t answer.

“Will you stay with us tonight?” Henry asked a few minutes later.

“I’ll stay.”

They rode through some hills and passed a lake. At a golf course, Dad stopped the motorcycle. They got off, and Dad pulled a brown paper bag from under the seat. “See that tree?” Dad asked, pointing to a wide old tree in the middle of the golf course.

“Yeah?”

“That’s the means to our survival.”

Henry stared at the tree. “What do you mean?”

“Nourishment,” Dad said. “It grows and produces fruit for our nourishment.” He started off toward the tree. Henry paused for a moment then followed.

 “What are we doing here?” Henry asked as a golf cart passed nearby.

“I already told you Henry.” When Dad climbed the tree to shake the branches, Henry stood below. He caught some pears, while others hit the ground. One fell and knocked him on the head. After stuffing dozens of them in the brown paper bag, Henry and Dad and each ate a pear. When two golfers rode by in a cart, Henry saw one stare. He took another bite and stared back.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Yes.” Dad was looking off in the distance as he scavenged every ounce of flesh from the pear with his front teeth.

“Do you go to church?”

Dad tucked the pear core under a leaf. He turned his attention to Henry. “Of course I don’t.”

“Why?” Henry asked.

“Don’t ask me that question.”

“Why not?”

“Because, your mom asked me to go every week. I never went and never will because I don’t believe.”

“But why don’t you believe?”

“The question is, why do you believe?”

Henry stood and threw the core of his pear at a flag on the green. The golfers watched and shook their heads.

“I asked you a question,” Dad said. “Why do you believe?”

Henry shrugged. “Because God made us.”

“He made us? Are you sure?”

“Yes. It says so in the Bible,” Henry declared.

“Did you learn about evolution yet?”

“What?”

“Evolution. That’s what made us,” Dad corrected Henry, who was becoming confused.

“So evolution is something God made, then?”

“No, Henry. Evolution was made by nature. It proves God doesn’t exist. We made God.”

“Ha! How did we make God? We’re not that powerful.”

“With our imaginations, Henry. We are primates.” He held up his thumb. “We only grew smart because of our thumbs. And we developed consciousness. We got too curious for our own good and painted ourselves into a corner. That’s when we created God to ease our curiosity.”

Henry walked around to the far side of the tree, barely listening to Dad. He slowly returned, kicking leaves, and grabbed another pear from the bag. He fiddled with it in his hand. “What does that have to do with God?”

“Religion is just a way to govern people. Jesus Christ, Henry …”

“What?”

“I said, Jesus Christ, who you know about, was not necessarily the son of God. He was just a smart guy in the right place at the right time with good ideas about how to help people get along.”

“Huh?” Henry tossed the pear in the air. “So you don’t believe in God, but you believe in Jesus Christ?”

“I believe he was a man. A smart man, like you will be some day.”

Henry held the pear out in one hand. He tried to process all that Dad had just told him, but it just added up to rambling nonsense. He pressed his thumb into the pear. “I believe in God.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twelve.”

“Someday you’ll understand.” Dad approached Henry, put his hand on his shoulder and reached to take the pear from his hand. “You’ll understand to believe only in what you see and feel—like the nourishment this tree just provided you.”

“No.” Henry held the pear from Dad and squeezed it harder.

“You will.”

“No!” The pear broke apart in his hand.

“Why’d you do that?” Dad asked. “We’re going to eat these pears.”

“Because you said you were going to try to bring us back together again, and we’re still not together.”

Dad grew silent and picked up the bag of pears. They walked back across the golf course to the motorcycle.

“You have to understand, Henry, my plans change as I learn more and more about what I have to do,” Dad said as he packed the bag of pears on the motorcycle. “I’m certain one day you will understand but I realize now it might be difficult for you.”

“What do you have to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I know I’m figuring it out.”

As they passed through the next town, a police car followed behind them. Dad watched in his rearview mirror as he turned slowly into the A&P grocery.

“Damn it,” Dad said. Henry saw flashing lights in the rearview mirror. He turned and saw the police car had pulled in behind them.

“No helmet today, sir?” the officer asked as he approached the motorcycle.

Dad shook his head. “As you can see, I’m letting my son wear the helmet.”

“I see. Whose bike is it?” the officer asked as he walked around the bike. “No license plate?”

Dad stepped up to the officer and took him by the arm. “I needed to see my son,” he said, moving into the officer’s comfort zone. “I’m sure you understand.”

The officer stepped backwards and pulled Dad’s hand off of him in one movement. “Sorry, sir. The law doesn’t allow us to make exceptions. We’re going to have to impound your bike.”

“Do you realize by taking the motorcycle you are reducing our ability to move freely?” Dad asked the officer.

The officer looked in Dad’s eyes and saw unblinking seriousness. He didn’t know how to respond. “You can retrieve the motorcycle at the station on Main Street,” he told Dad. “You’ll need to pay a ticket and show registration and insurance.”

A truck soon arrived to take the motorcycle.

Dad and Henry had no way to get back to Kate’s with their bag of pears so the police took them in the patrol car.

That evening, back at Kate’s house, Dad set up camp out back. In a Crock-Pot plugged in between a hedge and a garden hose, he prepared the pears. Henry, Byron, and Kate came out after dinner. They sat on the grass with Dad and ate warm pear sauce as they looked across the backyards of the other homes.

Near midnight, Henry got out of bed and looked out the living room window. Dad had set up a lean-to with a blue tarp and a flash light glowed underneath of it.

In the morning, Dad was ready to move on. Kate lent him her bicycle and Dad methodically strapped on all of his possessions. After a quick hug Henry and Byron watched him ride away, struggling to control the bike with all the weight on it, until he turned the corner down the road. Then they sat on the lawn.

Kate came out and sat down with them. “Dad is brilliant. You know that?” she said.

“He seems lost,” Byron said. “Why doesn’t he have a car?”

“Well sometimes intelligence leads to crazy ideas. And those ideas make people do crazy things. He doesn’t believe in owning a car.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Henry was still staring down the road where Dad disappeared around the corner.

Kate tapped Henry’s shoulder to get him to turn and face her. “He’ll come around.” She put her arms around them. “We’re his children. He’ll do what he needs to do to make our lives right.”

They went to church with Kate that morning. Henry praised God vigorously; stood up, sat down. He clenched the hymn book, always opened to the right page, and sang from deep inside his chest. During a moment of silence, he prayed: Dear Lord, please help my dad. Help him stay alive. Help him see the light of your love. Amen.

That year, Henry’s physicality changed. He experienced a growth spurt, which made him appear skinnier. Pimples flourished in his face. His eyesight grew worse, and he had to get thicker glasses.

While walking in the hall one day, he passed a group of older boys. They turned to watch as Henry walked by.  One of them coughed loudly, and Henry thought he heard something under the cough. Then another one of them coughed, and Henry knew immediately that the boys were saying something – a single word that they were concealing under their coughs. When the third boy coughed, Henry finally understood the word: “nerd.”

Henry stopped going to the Catholic church and threw himself into science. It was isolating and lonely, but he relished the social silence and cherished the acquisition of knowledge. The seed planted by The Origin of Species flourished into an ecosystem of scientific facts that rationally made little sense but brought him peace of mind.

In a mid-October science class, as the boys and girls took their seats, one of the boys who called Henry a nerd a few weeks earlier now approached him.

“Kreiser, can I ask you a question about the homework?”

Henry didn’t answer or even look the boy in the face. He just turned over the paper on his desk to conceal his work.

The teacher pulled down the screen. “So … primates, including humans, are highly social. Their well-being, their social status, and therefore the likelihood they will pass on their genes is highly dependent on their ability to socialize.”

As the teacher moved to the projector in the back, Henry shot his hand up. “Henry?”

“Right. But when humans developed thumbs they became different.”

“Yes. Well, it’s not exactly like that.” The teacher turned down the lights.

“Yes, it is,” Henry insisted. “They developed thumbs and then got bigger brains, which means they acted differently.”

“No, Henry. That’s only partially right. But it’s off topic anyway. We’ll discuss how evolution gave rise to these things later in the year.”

“Yeah. But that’s how we—”

“Henry! May I play the movie?!”

Everybody looked at Henry. He blushed from the sudden attention. He looked at Sally, who stared at him in disbelief for a second then turned away, embarrassed for him.

On the screen the jungle came alive. Gorillas picked and preened each other. Then, in a battle, they beat on their chests. Behind a tree, two adults moved in unison. Their pelvic movements led to grunts. The kids in class laughed. Henry, still reeling from the teacher’s reproach and Sally’s scorn, shifted in his chair, turned to the side, and looked at Sally’s side—at the area where her waist curved inward. Then more gorilla grunts. Henry grew angry and wanted Sally to commiserate with him, but she ignored him now. The film’s British narrator explained the gorillas’ sexual intercourse with the most clinical words possible. Henry saw Sally’s shirt buttons straining under puberty’s growing influence. She shifted back in her seat and put her hands in her lap. He looked at where her hands had fallen and watched her slide them between her thighs to cozy up for the movie. Henry gasped. He looked at the screen, and then back at her, and then back at the screen again.

At the barn, the boys started the milkers on the inside as Henry took to the lot outside. Manure piles were now twice as high as they were the day before, and the cows had stamped them into hard, clotted piles. As he began, the scraper dominated his hands. It seemed heavier and was unmanageable. His sore arms were ineffective rubber bands. On first push, he felt blisters that had formed overnight. And within minutes, they burst painfully. When he saw a stripe of blood from a blister on the scraper handle his frustration grew. He looked through the barn windows and saw Byron, McGlinchy, and the others messing around and having fun as they performed their barn duties. He let out a frustrated sigh and slammed the scraper on the ground.

McGlinchy burst out of the barn. “What are you doing, Kreiser? You don’t even want to try?!”

“My arms are sore! I have blisters!”

“Good. So you’ll get stronger. Your hands will callous if you let them. Pick up the scraper.”

“I’ll never finish.”

“You’ll finish, or your brother has to help you!” McGlinchy started back toward the door.

Henry picked up the scraper and began to scrape again. “Ouch!” he yelled. He slammed the scraper down again.

McGlinchy turned. “Your choice!” He approached the barn door and called for Byron. “Kreiser, get your ass out here! You’ll scrape the lot. Your brother’s in the pit.”

Byron came out. “Dumb-ass,” he said to Henry. “I told you to stay on his good side.”

McGlinchy came back with two buckets. “Over here,” he told Henry. He took him over to the conveyor belt, which was dripping with manure. Under it was the pit—five feet deep and half full of liquid soup of manure from sixty cows.

“In there?” Henry asked.

McGlinchy handed him a bucket. Henry lowered himself into the muck, squeezing under the conveyor belt. Liquid manure came waist high, and the conveyor belt was so low that he had to stay hunched.

“I want it empty,” McGlinchy said. “Clean. I should see the concrete bottom.”

Henry started, but it was slow-going. His arms were so sore he could only lift half-full buckets.

Byron scraped the lot and finished in twenty minutes. Within another ten minutes, he had shoveled all the manure into the spreader. Putting down the shovel, he approached Henry and saw that little progress had been made. “You have to fill the buckets all the way because you lose some each time. I think you’re working backwards.”

“I can’t pick them up. My arms are sore.”

“Don’t be a wuss.” Byron went back into the barn.

Henry filled a bucket to the brim. He lifted it slowly and felt the pain. His arms shook. Then it slipped from his hands and plunged into the liquid manure. A splash reached his mouth and gave him a taste. It was on his glasses and speckled his cheek. Again, his frustration rose. He climbed out of the pit and found a hose nearby. Cool, clear water washed his mouth. It splashed his face and cleared his glasses.

McGlinchy rushed out. “What are you doing!? Back in the pit!”

“I got some on my face and my glasses. I can’t see.”

“Once in the pit, you stay in the pit until you’re finished!”

Henry put his glasses back on. He lowered himself back in. Liquid manure was still waist-high.

McGlinchy now focused all of his attention on the impressionable, young Henry. He stood close by to watch. Henry started again, but McGlinchy’s presence made him nervous. He banged his head on the conveyor and stopped again. He closed his eyes.

“What are you doing? Get to work!”

Henry breathed heavily, as if he was going to cry.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” McGlinchy asked.

“No.” Henry wiped his eyes. “Just shit in my eye.”

“Don’t cuss.”

“Oh my god,” Henry said with a whiny tone in his voice. “Byron told me I should say ‘shit’ instead of poop now you’re telling me the opposite?”

“Oh my god.” McGlinchy mocked Henry’s whiny tone.  “Well Byron has been working in the barn for two years. You just got here and have to earn the right to say ‘shit’.”

Henry started again as McGlinchy watched.

“Henry, have you ever heard of a black sheep.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m gonna tell you. Most sheep are white. The girls and boys in the flock have sex and make babies and sometimes a black baby is born. The flock unknowingly produces a black one to increase the likelihood that the whole flock will survive and pass on their genes. You see, the black one is bait. It’s a weak one for the wolves. The wolves eat the weak one, so the rest of the flock goes on surviving.”

“Yeah? I know about stuff like that. It’s from evolution.” Henry struggled with a full bucket.

Byron watched McGlinchy and Henry through the window.

“Yeah, smarty pants,” McGlinchy said. “And you know what I think?”

“No. What?”

“I think you’re the black sheep of your family. You have skinny arms. Your brother doesn’t. You have bad eyesight. Your brother doesn’t. You have crooked teeth. Your brother doesn’t. You have pimples and he doesn’t. You’re bait for the flock. You are the weak, programmed to fail. That means others are going to single you out and pick on you. So it means you are going to have to work harder to show them that you’re not the black sheep. You understand what that means?” McGlinchy reached out with his finger and flicked a wet piece of manure off a ledge.

The manure flew and stuck on Henry’s glasses and in between his lips. Henry stared at McGlinchy and gritted his teeth. He spit the manure off his lips. He watched McGlinchy go in the barn and saw Byron watching from the window. Piece of shit, Henry thought. Shit pile. Shit cow ass. McGlinchy. McFuckin Pinchy in the ass. Shit cow ass head. Henry dipped the bucket down quickly. He yanked it back up. He dumped it. He dipped, yanked, and dumped fast now. He felt no pain. Twenty minutes later, the pit was empty.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he paused and examined his flat-topped curls.

“Sir,” the barmaid said.

Henry touched the top of his hair, not hearing her.

“Sir,” she said again.

“Oh. I was just … What?”

“I asked if I could get you something.”

“Coke is good.”

As the party and beats took on a quickened tempo, Henry’s excitement grew. Once the dance floor had a half dozen people on it he stepped on to join them. He worked his unconventional dance style then quickly turned it into the Running Man. But it was an even wilder Running Man—the one he learned from Hammer. He went face to face with a black kid—slapping, pumping and twirling his hands. He threw his signature pelvis thrust and the crowd cheered him on.

After a long session on the floor, Henry took a break and leaned on the bar to catch his breath. And that’s when he saw her again—the Fotomat girl—on the dance floor. She saw him, too, at the same moment. He stepped back on the floor and danced in front of her. She turned to him and moved with him. She examined him from top to bottom, his pants, his shirt, and his hair. She leaned toward him with interest. But when he clumsily poked his glasses back she stopped suddenly and walked away. Henry froze and had difficulty finding the beat, so he stopped and left the dance floor.

After getting a Coke, he spotted her near the bar with a bunch of friends, mostly Latin guys and girls. Henry slid along the bar, sneaking up next to them. Some of the guys soon left for the dance floor, leaving just the Fotomat girl and her friend standing there next to him. Henry moved even closer and tried to make eye contact. Her friend turned away from Henry, and at the same moment, when he thought the Fotomat girl was about to walk away also, she approached him.

“What’s up?” he said, extending his hand to her.

She looked at it. “Listen. I’m not interested. Okay?”

Henry froze and looked down at his Coke as she walked away. Henry watched the ice bobbing in his Coke for several minutes then sipped it until it was gone.

“Can I get you another one?” the barmaid asked.

Henry looked at her without saying anything then turned his head down in embarrassment.

A new song with a heavy beat started playing.  As he was standing there, wallowing in embarrassment, the beat reached him. It shook his glass and jingled the ice. It penetrated his wallowing. He turned to the dance floor and saw the crowd going wild. Their joy suddenly angered him. He ran to the dance floor and grabbed the arm of a small white kid wearing overalls.

“That’s not how you do it, weirdo,” Henry said.

“What?” The kid was startled.

“Nothing.” Henry shook his head. He started dancing. In one swift movement, he yanked his glasses from his face and put them in his pocket. First he danced the jump-and-pump and then the twirl-and-throw. Then, the Running Man came alive. He danced face to face with several people, but he did so aggressively. He got in their faces and pumped his fist. He twirled and hopped. And each time he went face to face, a circle started to form. But before the crowd could encircle him, he pulled away and moved on to a new person. Tension rose around Henry. A Latin boy in extraordinarily baggy pants stopped dancing and brought his girlfriend’s attention to Henry.

Once Henry felt the tension rise to an almost explosive level, he turned inward. He stopped going head to head with others and then danced with himself. He kept his eyes closed and held his arms high. For the next hour, he danced that way. Neon Nights was crowded that night, but Henry was alone. He threw in one pelvis thrust after the next. He was slopped in sweat. When the lights came on, Henry walked for the door, ramming his shoulder into anybody that was in his way.

That weekend Henry drove across the Route 1 bridge to Trenton, New Jersey. Following written instructions, he pulled off the highway into a neighborhood of row homes—some small and modestly maintained and others small and falling. Latin music with big bass pumped from little Toyotas with tinted windows. With each one he passed, the bass shook Henry’s car windows. He pulled down Bayard Street, lined with quiet brick and vinyl-sided two-story homes, and struggled to parallel park the Subaru. A teenage boy with gelled black hair, and gold chains laying over top of a turtleneck, sat on a stoop—watching Henry back up and pull forward a dozen times. He laughed when Henry was finally in place—the Subaru protruding out into the street.

Henry approached a brick home and rang. He was startled when Esther opened the door. Her black dress, ruffled down to her knees, showed her curves. Her calves exposed olive skin and hair was wet and black, like oil. Henry extended his hand nervously but she looked at it, giggled then leaned forward and gave him a hug. In the living room, a black kid was watching TV. “That’s my foster brother,” Esther said. “Willy, meet Henry.”

Willy, who wore a bandanna and a gold chain, looked up and nodded.

Henry stood speechless for a moment. He saw a tattoo of a spider on Willy’s neck. “I’m … I’m Henry. Nice to meet you.” Henry stared at him, as if he expected the conversation to continue.

Willy shot him a look. “Need something from me?” he asked.

“I… was… just… nothing.” Henry went with Esther into her bedroom. He sat on the bed while she excused herself for a minute. He looked out the window, which was covered in clear plastic, at a brick wall. Esther returned with two glasses of iced tea, and put some music on. The song had a fast dance beat and passionate lyrics—a style Henry hadn’t heard before.

“Who’s that kid out there?” he asked.

“I told you, he’s my foster brother. My mom took him in a few months ago but she is never here so I’m stuck feeding him and keeping an eye on him.”

Henry nodded. The chorus of the song began. The fast rhythm and vocals excited Henry. “Who is this?”

“Oh, this? It’s T.L.R. You haven’t heard of freestyle music?”

“No, I did. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” He stood and danced a little bit. “They’re great.” The beat was not what he was used to dancing to, so he tripped a little.

“Like this,” she said. “Don’t bounce.” Her movements were more fluid than his and she froze for a millisecond on each beat before continuing.

He tried to move with her but continued to bounce.

“Don’t bounce,” she said.

Then, he moved his hips in a kind of sexy way, mimicking her movements. While he was dancing his gaze lowered to her waist—which moved back and forth and up and down. He bit his lip, trying to focus on dancing but her waist was having a hypnotic effect on him and was provoking pangs of lust. He started to reach for her.

“Guys aren’t supposed to move like that,” she said.

He stopped dancing and pulled the needle off the record. “Just let me dance.”

“Well, you can’t do it like that,” she laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“You’re funny, Henry.” She gently touched his nose with her finger. “Let’s go for a walk.”

As they walked past the living room, Henry looked in at Willy. They stepped outside and walked down the street to Columbus Park. “That’s where I buy my Wigwams,” Esther told him, pointing to a store on the corner with colorful sweaters in the window. They crossed and went into the park.

“What are Wigwams?” Henry asked.

She laughed. “Socks! You know… thick ones that you wear outside of pants? You have a lot to learn.”

They sat down on a bench.

“No– I mean I forgot that they were called Wigwams.”

“It’s okay; you’re still in high school.”

“So? That doesn’t matter.”

She giggled. He moved in on her quickly, kissing her lips. He spun around her. His novice lips danced a bit too much so she bit his lip gently. He slowed down. She nibbled him more and played with him. Her dancing tongue made him spin.

He took a deep breath, looking in her eyes. “I love you,” he said. He leaned in to kiss again.

She stopped and pulled back. “What?”

“I love you.”

“Oh,” she said with surprise. “Really?” She looked over at the Wigwam store. “Who are you?” she asked, inching away.

“Who am I?” he glanced at her waist to try to understand if she was just shifting in place or moving away from him.

“Yeah – who are you, Henry Kreiser? Why are you so serious about starting something with a Trenton girl. You’re a good-looking guy… aren’t there girls in Pennsylvania?”

He shrugged, annoyed at the change of tone in her voice. “Don’t ask that. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well,” he shifted toward her closing the gap and pressing his chest against her shoulder. “I know you’re beautiful. What else do I need to know?”

“Aw.” She kissed him.