Everything Is Wrong with Me

by Jason Mulgrew

  Yes, I could sell these fireworks.

  And yes, I could make a lot of money.

  Holy crap.

  But there was a problem: I was, for all intents and purposes, a shit dude. In the great social hierarchy of the neighborhood, while I wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel, I certainly wasn’t sitting at the top. I was not athletic, so I didn’t garner popularity in that way. I had no older siblings or cousins, so no one my age outside of my friends knew my name or my family. And I was a model student, getting good grades and never causing any trouble at school, so I wasn’t what teachers would call a “bad seed,” which was a surefire way to gain notoriety in the neighborhood. Thinking about this in terms of a business plan, I knew I had friends whom I could sell to, but outside my circle of a dozen friends and another dozen acquaintances, I was unknown. If I wanted my new business to be successful, I would need more costumers than just my closest friends. And I wasn’t popular enough to pull this off. I also figured that this illegal selling of fireworks would be hard work. My dad had bought me a lot of fireworks, and I would need help moving all of it. I could do it alone, but it would take up all my free time, time I needed for video games and listening to Guns N’ Roses, Bobby Brown, and Tone Loc.* In short, I needed to take on a partner. And so I turned to my best friend David.

  David is one of my oldest friends. Whenever we go drinking together today, if our level of intoxication is firmly in the “beer-soaked nostalgia” zone, we reminisce about his birthday party in first grade when I bought him a Big John Studd WWF wrestling figure—one of the thick rubber ones that I was immediately reminded of many years later when, for the first time, I stuck a dildo into a stripper at a friend’s bachelor party—when he already had one, committing my first of many future party fouls. Back then, David was a small kid with giant ears but with street smarts to rival the older kids. Though we were both similar in our ability to BS people, David had a significant advantage where I didn’t: older relatives. He had an older sister who hung around with the “older heads” (guys a few years older than us), as well as an older cousin who was a tough dude. Therefore David had immunity from getting picked on. Add in the fact that he played basketball very well and was known on many corners of Second Street because of this, and the choice was easy.

  David was, in essence, the ideal partner for this business venture. Since he was small, quick, well-known, and well protected, he would be the runner/front man for the operation. The face of the business, he’d take care of the grunt work, being out on the street, taking orders, getting paid, driving his bike around with a backpack full of fireworks at all times. I, on the other hand, would be the Kingpin. Since I was larger, slower, less well-known, and much less protected, I would be the brains behind the operation. It would be my job to work the books, keeping track of all the orders and monies, while running the show from behind the curtain. The other reason this role was suitable to me was that should anything “go down,” David would be the one taking the fall. I could easily get rid of notebooks that kept the names and corners of the customers. I could also get rid of the stash of fireworks that was hidden most excellently under my bed. If anything were to happen, I would get away scot-free, unless David ratted me out, which of course he would never do.*

  We divided the partnership 75-25. The reason for the imbalance was simple: he needed me much more than I needed him. And there was the whole matter of how my dad bought the fireworks. We were running on profits because of his money. But David, like myself, had an enterprising spirit and so didn’t put up an argument, as he was interested only in getting involved in a scheme.**

  In less than a week, we ran through the $60 worth of fireworks my dad had first bought and made an astounding $140. Since we spent nothing, that was $140 in pure profit, $35 to David and $105 to me. Make no mistake, $105 for an eleven-year-old is an ungodly shitload of money. I was, for all intents and purposes, fucking filthy rich. Once David and I started making money, just like our customers who were purchasing our fireworks, we were hooked. Having spending money, enough to buy whatever struck our fancy (mostly slices of pizza and sodas), meant that David and I became instantly cool. David had been popular before, but for me this taste of fame was new and tantalizing. I had gone from the nerd who had won the spelling bee and cried when he finished second in the geography bee to the Guy Behind the Guy, Mr. Fireworks himself, the one who was so cool that he dealt not with his buddies—that job belonged to David, my assistant—but presumably with the adults and/or gangsters who sold him the fireworks. Word spread like wildfire through the neighborhood that Mulgrew and Floody were selling fireworks, and soon David was driving his bike as far away as Second and Reed to sell to some friends of friends up there. Business was booming (pun entirely intended).

  But there was a problem. We were out of the goods and needed more. This presented a major bump in the road. I knew I couldn’t ask my dad to buy me more fireworks. The paying part was not the problem, since David and I now had money and were willing to invest it. It was my dad’s permission that would be difficult to get. I could only manipulate the postdivorce guilt so much, and telling him that I already went through $60 worth of fireworks in a week and needed more might raise some suspicions.

  I realized that I’d have to go straight to Henry. I didn’t know much about Henry, but he seemed like a nice guy. And he seemed…trusting, good-hearted. The only other thing I knew about Henry was that he smoked like a goddamn chimney. I thought my dad was bad with his two-pack-a-day habit, but this guy made my father look like a fourteen-year-old girl catching a smoke after geometry class. This was all I had to work with on Henry as I devised a strategy to get more product to keep the business going.

  Finally, I had it. The following Saturday, David would follow me up to my dad’s street, when I knew my dad was at work. Henry would be sitting on his porch, smoking a cigarette, like he always did. I’d act like I was dropping off something at my dad’s house, but stop by to say hello. I’d tell him also that I had bought him a gift to thank him for the fireworks, a pack of Marlboro Reds. Henry, softened by my act of generosity, would then not bat an eyelash when I asked if, since I was here and all, I might be able to buy some more fireworks.

  I realize that it might seem odd for an eleven-year-old to be gifting a pack of cigarettes to a fifty-year-old man, but at the time I saw nothing wrong with it. My friends were just starting to smoke at my age and I had been buying cigarettes for my dad since I was old enough to walk to the store alone. So buying a pack of cigarettes for an older guy wasn’t a big deal. Hell, every year for his birthday, from the age of eight until high school, I used to buy my dad a carton of cigarettes—until I realized that I was helping him to slowly kill himself and that was probably a bad thing.

  David waited around the corner and I headed up the block where, sure enough, Henry was on the porch having a smoke. “Hey, Henry.”

  “Oh—hey, Jason.” He sat up from his reclined position and put out his cigarette. My dad did the same thing whenever he greeted someone. He sat up, put out his cigarette, and said hello. Then Henry, like my dad did, immediately lit another one. Why didn’t he just put the first down? Wasn’t that wasteful? “What are you up to?”

  “I was just gonna drop some stuff off at my dad’s, but I’m glad I saw you.” I reached into the brown bag I was carrying. “I brought you something to say thanks for the fireworks.” I handed him the pack of Reds.

  Henry smiled. “Well, ain’t that nice. That’s nice. I’ll have to tell your father about that.”

  Crap. I hadn’t prepared for that. My dad knowing that I was here would seriously ruin my plot. But it was too late to turn back now. If I stopped or stumbled, the whole plan would fall apart.

  “I was wondering if I might be able to buy some fireworks.” I was rattled—I didn’t mean to blurt this out like I did. I didn’t stand a chance of scoring now.

  “Well, I don’t know.” Henry smoked a third of his newly lit cigarette in one drag. “Does your
dad know about this?”

  “Yeah, he knows.” I figured, what’s one more lie? “He’s just working a lot and he’s gonna be working a lot over the next couple of days, so I figured I’d ask you.”

  The moment of truth. Henry took another third-of-a-cigarette drag, smiled, and said, “C’mon in.”

  In moments, I was walking out of Henry’s house with plastic bags full of fireworks. I met David around the corner, and we stuffed our backpacks before heading off to the neighborhood. Like two junkies, we ripped into the brick of jumping jacks and lit some on the way home, even though it was daytime, just to feel the magic. And the magic, it was good.

  And once again, FM Enterprises, what we called our business using the initials of our last names, was up and running. A start-up, we only sold the basics: firecrackers, jumping jacks, bottle rockets, and Roman candles, keeping simple to build capital and maximize profit. The order I got from Henry was the same order that my dad had gotten. He was surprised that I had the cash to buy $64 worth of fireworks, but I told him that it was recently my birthday and this was part of my present. $64 bought us:

  One brick of firecrackers (40 packs) for $9

  One brick of jumping jacks (48 packs) for $13

  Twelve packs of bottle rockets for $7

  A case of Roman candles (24 packs of 6 candles each) for $35

  Our wholesale costs per item were then as follows:

  One pack of firecrackers: 23¢

  One pack of jumping jacks: 27¢

  One pack of bottle rockets: 58¢

  One pack of (of 6) Roman candles: $1.45

  When we sold packs individually, we charged:

  Firecrackers: 50¢

  Jumping jacks: 75¢

  Bottle rockets: $1

  Roman candles: $3

  It figures that it was this part of the business I loved, the nerdy side. Before embarking on selling the original load of fireworks, I had guesstimated the cost per item based on what I thought he had paid for them. After buying our own, I learned that I was right and the prices we set on the first batch of fireworks were correct and sound. Finally, all that stupid math had a practical purpose.*

  With the second shipment of fireworks secured back at my house, David and I were overjoyed and went about gettin’ that cash. Sales continued to be high, as David made hourly bike runs to and from my house, dropping off money and picking up more fireworks. I kept all the cash in a “safe,” which was actually a broken jewelry box that I picked out of the trash. It didn’t even have a lock on it, but I continued to call it a safe and be secretive about it to give David the impression that I knew what I was doing and I was a professional. Image is important in any new business venture.

  As the money continued to come in, I started dreaming big. I figured that this would go on forever and David and I would be millionaires around sophomore year in high school. In the meantime, I was planning on going to Tower Records to buy every CD they had. In a month or so, I’d ask my mom about getting a cable line in my room, so I could get a TV—“Jimmy’s family was getting rid of one” would be my reason for the presence of the television, when in reality I was going to head to Sears up on Oregon Avenue to buy the sweetest TV they had. And of course, my Sega Genesis would be hooked up to that gorgeous television, which I would play for approximately six hours a day. Video games, music, a giant TV—this was the life.

  Or it was going to be. I never physically sold fireworks—that was David’s job. At first, we were selective about to whom we sold. We didn’t want some idiot getting hurt or some moron getting caught and ratting us out to his parents. David would only sell to friends or friends of friends whom we could trust. But the lust for more money and power made us sloppy. And by “us,” I mean David.

  If you wanted fireworks, you had to order them from David. David would come to me and I’d fill the order. Then he’d go out only with that order, get paid, and come back and give me the cash for safekeeping. Whenever he went out on runs, David carried only the fireworks necessary to fulfill the order. In this way, if anything happened to David (that is, he got beat up or otherwise lost the fireworks or money), we’d only lose that particular order. We didn’t just set up shop on a corner and offer fireworks for sale. We were a serious business, not a fucking lemonade stand.

  On a Thursday afternoon, David came by my place to make a run. I gave him the stuff and off he went. I was expecting him back in a half hour, probably less. But when an hour had passed and he hadn’t returned, I grew agitated. I set off on my bike to head to Second and Mifflin to the schoolyard where David made the deal, but there was no sign of him. I went around the Park and couldn’t find him there. I drove by his house and knocked. No answer. I went back to my house and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Nothing from David. But instead of going out again, I figured I’d stay in the house, in case he was trying to find me and we kept missing each other.

  Around dinnertime, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re lucky you answered the phone, boy, and not your mother.”

  It was David’s mom, Eleanor.

  “My son came home earlier today to get a Lunchable and guess what I found?”

  “Um…”

  “Let me tell you something,” she said, on fire: “If I ever catch you and my son selling any more fireworks, I’ll shove those fireworks right up your asses and light them! Do you understand?”

  Fuck. “Yes.”

  “Now I’m not gonna tell your mother about this, because I know how upset she would be. But that’s it. You got it?”

  Fuck. “Yes.”

  “Good.” She hung up.

  Fuck.

  A Lunchable, a Lunchable, my kingdom for a Lunchable.

  And with that, FM Enterprises closed up shop. While I can’t say that the remaining fireworks were destroyed, I can say that they were not sold. Mine and David’s friendship remained strong, though to this day I don’t understand why he couldn’t have gotten the damn Lunchable after dropping off those fireworks. But then again, Lunchables are certainly delicious, so I can’t blame him that much.

  This is my grandpop.

  And somewhere, my grandpop watched the rise and fall of my little empire, laughed, shook his head, and took a sip of his Manhattan. Jasper…so much to learn.

  Chapter Seven

  Uncle Petey

  Uncle Petey moved to my block when I was eleven years old. He wasn’t my uncle, but that’s what I and all of my friends called him. I realize that anytime the moniker uncle is applied to a man, it conjures up all sorts of different images: an unshaven middle-aged man in a raggedy cardigan who promises you Skittles but instead gives you the ol’ pat-down in his car; a Sopranos-esque goomba with tacky jewelry who yells a lot and strings together incoherent phrases like “bragadadooche!” and “madadeesh!” a confirmed bachelor who shows up at holiday parties in neatly pressed clothes with his “roommate” Jonathan and uses adjectives like “delicious” and “gorgeous” while talking to your mom and the women in the family about a great new moisturizer he’s using, while Uncle Joey and Uncle Eddie get into a shoving match in the living room over who was the better Eagles quarterback, Jaws or Randall.*

  But Uncle Petey was none of these things. In many ways, he was your average nineteen-year-old kid. A little on the short side, with a slightly high-pitched voice and mousy features, he had an easy laugh and a thick South Philly accent. We called him Uncle Petey because he actually was the uncle of one of the kids I hung around with, my buddy Screech. ** Screech would talk about how cool his Uncle Petey was so often that the name stuck in our circle of friends. We, even his own nephew, never called him “Uncle Petey” to his face, but rather only when referring to him in the third person. As a matter of fact, I’m sure that Petey would have been pretty weirded out if he knew we called him “Uncle Petey.” What nineteen-year-old wants a gang of kids calling him “uncle”? I’m starting to feel a little uneasy even writing about it.

  Petey was m
ore like an older brother to us than anything else. A big part of being Irish Catholic is having an intense disdain for your siblings. I would guess that this disdain is directly inverse to the income of your household; the less money you have, the more you despise your siblings. One bathroom and two bedrooms between three or five or seven brothers and sisters isn’t going to ease the tension any. Those of us who had siblings were not close to them—especially at that age. We no longer viewed our brothers as friends, teammates, or partners in crime as we did earlier in life, but rather as potential foils, pains in the asses, and Mommy said get out of the bathroom—I have to poop!

  But in Petey we found that older brother. It was only a matter of time after he moved onto the block that Screech would take us over to his place, where we could hang out in peace, without our parents or brothers and sisters bothering us. His house was an escape for us, where we could go to get out of our own homes, listen to music, and talk about things that interested us (especially sports and these fascinating things called “tits” that were starting to appear on the older girls). While we did most of this in the room that Screech claimed as his own, we hung out with Petey quite a lot, too. Petey was like us in many ways—a big kid who liked to play video games, curse, and break balls. But in other ways Petey was what we aspired to be: a man who knew about shit. To be a man who knew about shit or a man who knew shit was the neighborhood ideal, someone who was respected and who could dole out advice on any number of topics. Petey fit this profile. He knew a lot about sports. He knew (or claimed to know) a lot about women. And he knew a lot, a whole lot, about gambling.