The Truth. Neil Strauss

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Chicago, Twenty-Six Years Earlier

      Take off your shoes.

      I know, Mom.

      And put them on the mat, not the carpet like last time.

      Yes, Mom.

      Now go wash your hands before touching anything. It’s too hard for me to keep cleaning your dirty fingerprints off the walls.

      Okay, jeez.

      And don’t forget: Dinner is at six o’clock sharp. Don’t be late or you won’t get dessert.

      I walk to my room to wash my hands. There is no television there, no phone, and no technology except a small stereo. It used to be the Beatles whose music soothed me, but now that I’m a little older and my voice is starting to change, hardcore seems to fit my temperament better.

       I’m in the mood to play the Damned’s “Smash It Up,” but I smashed the record in a fit of anger after I was grounded for a weekend for putting my feet up on the kitchen counter. So instead I crank Suicidal Tendencies as loud as I can without getting into trouble: “They just keep bugging me and they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside.”

      And I wash my hands. Like a good son.

      A few minutes before six, I hear my mom’s voice:

      Dinnertime.

      I enter the kitchen and see her sitting at the far end of the table, my father on her left, and my brother at the end closest to me. I’m the last to arrive, as usual. The black sheep. I sit down in my appointed seat.

      Neil, elbows off the table. Ivan, you too!

      Her voice is gentle for me, but harsh for my father. He is the blacker sheep. I feel bad for him. But my mom constantly tells me, “You’re your father’s favorite,” as if that’s a bad thing, so I try not to show him any sympathy.

      You’ll never believe what your father did to me this time. He told Robin in his office that we were going to Sarasota for vacation. I have half a mind to just cancel the trip. You two haven’t told anyone, have you?

      No, Mom. Of course not. But it isn’t …

      When everyone in school brags about where they’re traveling for Christmas break, it’s hard not to tell them where I’m going. But my mother forbids it. She’s worried that while we’re gone, someone will break into the house. Before every trip, she hooks up lights to timers to fool all the criminals she imagines lurking outside. My father and I then leave the house and pretend to wave goodbye to my mother and brother. Afterward, they wait until the coast is clear, then sneak into a taxi to follow us. Even at my age, I know we have very little to steal: just two small television sets, two stereos, and one VCR.

       I’m also not permitted to know my mother’s age, where she went to school, what her past jobs were, or why her leg is deformed. And I’m not allowed to have keys to the house—and never will be—because she’s worried I’ll lose them. However, my brother is sometimes trusted with the keys to the house. It doesn’t seem very …

      … fair. Sam’s going to Jamaica and he’s allowed to tell everyone.

      I’ve always been jealous of Sam. His parents are divorced and he’s a latchkey kid, which means he gets the keys to his house. He can also stay up as late as he wants. Until recently, my bedtime was seven thirty.

      Well, Sam’s parents don’t care what happens to him. And he’s just like his parents. I don’t want you hanging out with Sam, Neil. He has a big mouth. Anything you tell him, everyone in the neighborhood is going to know. Do you understand me?

      Yes, Mom.

      He’s not your real friend anyway. Now what did I tell you about switching your fork to your other hand after cutting your meat?

      …

      That’s better. Who’s your mother who loves you very much?

      You are.

      As I write the family rules on my timeline, I suddenly realize: No wonder I hate monogamy. It’s just another irrational rule I have to put up with.