"Jamie, will you help me? It hurts so god damned much."

I said, "Go get mom to do it, you stinker."

But his eyes got big and he shook his head. "No, she's sleeping you have to do it, Jamie."

I took him into the bathroom and I washed off the blood and put some bactine on it and a band-aid and gave it a little kiss because I could always read the book again anyway. My dad gave me that book. "What were you doing, farting around with dad's tools?"

"No!" he said, which meant he had been. But he looked at me and his little boy eyes said, "Please don't tell dad or he'll give me more of the same." And how. We had lots of bactine but not that much. So I hit him on the rump like dad does to mom sometimes before they go to bed and told him to scoot, and I pretended I was still a little mad so he wouldn't do it again. But that's different because he was my little brother and he shouldn't get cuts when I'm reading. Those people at the counter, though, that's their job, and I want to tell them to do it so god damned much.

I like that expression. So god damned much. it's a good way to say a lot. I learned it from my dad, "Damn it Jamie! Why do you cry so god damned much?" My dad is the coolest man in the whole world. Once I told him he was the neatest dude ever, and I think he liked that so god damned much, it didn't even hurt when he hit me and said, "Don't talk like a god damned hippie." He wasn't pee-ohed, he was just being dad.

I know the people behind the counter at the CAC hate me so god damned much, and not just a little, because the way the treat me is so nice. "Jamie, don't be fooled by kind words," my dad used to say, and I believed him. They say to me, "Good afternoon, sir, can I help you?" But I know better. Once I replied. "No one calls me sir except Jake." But that's a lie because that's what Jake called dad and I did too. I just wanted to be called sir, and I wanted them to say it like they meant it. "Say it like you mean it, god damn it!" My dad had a big moustache, and it always wiggled when he yelled. But they don't say it like they mean it, so why would they say it if they weren't trying to make me a fool? "I'd like a half-pound of plain m+m's, please." I shouldn't say please. They hate me so god damned much! But it always slips out. "I'm sorry, daddy," I whisper under my breath for saying that. I should say, "You know what I want," that would be cool.

"Here you go! That'll be two-ten." I always give them exact change, because once when I was eleven I had to get change back from an old lady and her fingernails scratched my palm. Do they ever thank me for that? "Thanks, Jamie, for making my job easier." No, because I bet they're thinking "Why does this guy eat so god damned much." They say, "Have a nice day," but I know better than that.

My mom was beautiful, and she cooked all the time. Sometimes I'd take that Humphrey Bogart book into the kitchen and read it while she made a roast or some potatoes. "Go on, get out of my kitchen." So I'd sit in the doorway, and try to smell her perfume over the onions and the pepper. I ate every bite she put down in front of me, and sometimes when dad was extra mad she'd cook me something special and I'd eat every bite of that too. But Jake didn't. When Jake got sad he'd just go to the basement and cry, because nobody can hear you when you sit next to the heater in the basement. And dad hated criers. Whenever I miss my mom or Jake in the middle of the day or even my dad I just go and eat something, and I always feel better.

Dad ate more than me, usually, but he wasn't fat like I am. "Go on, punch me as hard as you can."

"Stop it, Ken, you're scaring him."

"Shut up, Dana. Go on, Jake, give me all you got."

But Jake never did. "Let me do it, daddy,"

"All right, Jamie," he'd say, poking out his belly. "Give me one, right in the gut."

"OWCH!" His tummy was as hard as iron.

"Ha-ha-haa!" Then he'd give me one right back, and I'd fall down, curled around it. "You're too god damned soft, Jamie." Mom frowned at that, but I was okay, and I'd even get up in time for bed, so maybe I was as tough as dad sometimes.

Those people at the counter, they mess things up on purpose. My dad taught me that nobody does nothing they didn't mean to. Like the time I fell down with the gravy boat, and spilled gravy on his boots. Mom was pee-ohed because she had to beat it for a long time to get the lumps out. But dad was madder. Jake screamed at him, "Stop it! It was only an accident!" But our dad was the smartest man in the world, and he told me, "Nobody does nothing they didn't mean to. You spilled that gravy on my boots on purpose, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?" I finally told him I did, because I must have. Mom sat and watched the whole thing, and then dad taught Jake not to talk back, and Jake never did again.

So why do you think their was peanut salt all over my m+m's? Do you think it was an accident? DO YOU? I don't. They hate me so god damned much. If I didn't think they'd stop selling me my candy, I'd teach them a lesson. Like when Bogie slaps that foreign guy around for being girlie. I'd grab up a luger pistol and shoot them in the gut and then I'd pull down their pants and give them a whuppin' like they'd never ever forget. My dad was like a big hit man. Hired guns are kind of noble and my dad would always say, "Damn it, Jamie, I love you so god damned much," and he'd raise his belt way up high like a cop in a gunfight and he'd hit me square and never miss. My dad never missed, not with his boots, not with his hands, not with nothing. When the police came my dad didn't miss three of them: two got broken noses for it. I know it was broken, because it swelled up big and turned red, like my mom's did that time she walked into the door.

"Why's mom got a big red nose?"

"She's a reindeer now you little stinker." My dad's moustache wiggled when he laughed, too.

"Really?"

"No, Jamie, I just walked into the door and broke my nose, I guess"

I think Jake wanted to cry when he saw it but he knew he'd better not. Knights of the round table never cry, and neither do Ken's boys.

Maybe I ought to break their noses. "A broken nose never killed any one." Because I know how they did it. They're always snacking on those peanuts when I walk up, and sometime they keep right on chewing when they get me mine. I bet they see me coming so they go and get themselves some more peanuts on purpose. I bet they leave the salt on the dispenser on purpose too, so it mixes with my m+m's. They cheat so god damned much. I bet they don't even give me a whole half pound, so they can eat the rest themselves. I know all about being a lazy good for nothing. I know all about being a sneaky weasel. My dad used to say, "There's nothing lower than a sneaker snake." That's what happened. He said, "Jake, you been messing with my tools?"

"No sir," he said, while he stared at the gravy stains on dad's boots.

"Ain't nuthin' lower'n a sneaker snake, Jake," he said. "Get me the belt, Jamie." I didn't move too quick, and he cuffed me for it. "Why are you so god damned slow?" I ran quick to get it. Big and black, like a tommy gun, with a shiny silver buckle. They left marks of manhood on you. But when I got back, Jake was gone. Dad ripped the belt out of my hand. "If you didn't dawdle so god damned much this wouldn't happen!" I got one across the chest for that. Then he went downstairs to the basement. Jake always hid in the basement. He was a stinker at hide and seek cause there he always was, behind the heater, next to dad's tools.

But I'd better not do nothing cause then they'd send me to jail, and nobody ever comes back from jail. But if you're tough like my dad you can survive it. I just wish these were the days of Bogie so I could slap them in the face with my piece and say, "Shut yer trap." Then they wouldn't mess up my chocolate anymore. Of course, things can go wrong in a bust too, but at least the good guys win. When Bogie gets through with them they're as good as dead. Good thing Jake wasn't a bad guy, so he didn't get killed. "Nuthin' lower'n a sneaker snake, Jake! Nuthin' lower'n a sneaker snake, Jake!" You could even hear him over the heater, and over Jake screaming.

I guess they all don't hate me so god damned much. Sarah's nice. She's in my psychology 104 class, the one with Professor Fenley. Last week, she walked up to me while I was waiting for the bus. It usually takes a long time.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Umm, You're Jamie, right? From Fenley's psyche 104 class?"

"Yea."

"I'm Sarah,"

"Hi. you work at that counter, huh?"

"Yea! .I'm supposed to tell you that we charged you too much."

At first I didn't believe her because I thought they were playing a joke on me, like when dad came out of the basement and I went down to take care of Jake, but he wouldn't move this time. "What's wrong with Jake?"

"He's playing possum, Jamie, now shut up and turn on the god damned t.v."

But dad was tricking me, because mom went down to get Jake herself and then she ran back upstairs and called the ambulance. That's when the police came. Sarah wasn't playing a trick though, and after she gave me my change back we went and had a coke and talked for a while. But I didn't tell her about Jake. That's when I lost my Film Noir book, and I thought, "Cool! I can search for it like the Maltese Falcon." But I really didn't feel like it. I didn't really feel like coming to college, either. But mom made me go. "I got to be the man of the house now, dad said so."

"That was five years ago, Jamie."

He went to jail, just for hitting the cops and for breaking Jake's legs. And now that all these snack counter people are trying to mess up my m+m's I really don't want to be here. I wish Sarah worked today, but she doesn't.

I told Jake all about her when I went home for lunch yesterday. "Is she your girlfriend?"

"No, you stinker, she's got a boyfriend named Billy."

"I bet he's a loser."

"No he's not! He's got a belly of iron, just like dad- he even let me punch it the other day."

Jake looked up at me. "Did he hit you back?"

"No."

Jake just hung his head, picking at the velcro on his leg-braces. "I hate him so god damned much, Jamie."

So today I was going to cheer him up with some m+m's, but now I can't because they've got salt all over them. If Sarah was working today, she could take care of it for me- but her and Billy had to go into the city to take some tests. I never heard of that before. Sometimes on Saturdays mom and me take Jake to the park in the city and we walk around the soccer fields and tell Jake to try harder and that soon he'll get those braces off. Then he could go in to see dad, maybe. I was supposed to go last week, but I forgot.

I've been forgetting a lot lately, I mean, so god damned much. Dad doesn't seem to notice though, even when I told him it was because school was so hard. Maybe I'll drop out, like dad said he did. Humphrey Bogart didn't go to a university.

"Did you ever go to college dad?"

"Yea. You bring those smokes like I told you?"

"Sure." But Dad can't hit me, cause he's behind bars. "What was you're major?

"I didn't have one, Jamie, I dropped out."

"How come?"

"I was too smart for them, I guess. Now give me those smokes."

But if I drop out, I won't get to talk to Sarah anymore. And even though everybody else hates me so god damned much, I am learning a lot from Professor Fenley. We learned all about how dogs drool when you ring a bell at them, and how a rat can learn to find cheese in a maze, even with a broken foot. My other classes are boring but psyche is fun. Maybe I'll be a psyche major like Sarah is if I don't drop out like dad did. Or a history major- mom says that since I like movies so much I should study sociology. But I can't decide. Jamie would tell me to stay in. I don't know what dad would say.