I Am Not Joey Pigza

by Jack Gantos

  Mom was always out of the house because, as she said, once she had the baby she was not going to have the time to shop as much as she liked. When I asked about school she said she was counting on me to help out with Heinzie because Charles wasn’t good with diapers. That left Freddy alone to do whatever he felt like doing, and that was the problem. I guess that once you give up who you are, you can become anybody, because I was far different from who I had been a few weeks ago. There just seemed to be something missing within me and I became an unthinking thing stalking the grounds and doing dumb stuff all day long.

  From my bedroom window I shot at squirrels as they scampered from branch to branch. Outside I ambushed Mom in the minivan and shot the hubcaps so that they looked like the spin art you make at carnivals. I stretched out flat on my back and shot straight up into the air so they would come down and hit me. I even tried to catch them with my mouth. If a bird flew by I tried to hit it. I threw diner china up into the air and shot at it like a Wild West cowboy. I made a zigzag obstacle course of snowmen and women and children then drove around them in my ATV and shot them up until they looked like orange slush. “Freddy is very aggressive,” I said slyly as I roared in circles.

  I even stood in the diner bathroom and shot myself in the small mirror—right where I thought my heart might be, but it didn’t hurt one bit. When I became Freddy I must have left Joey’s heart behind and I didn’t know if I’d ever get it back again. Even though I understood that not being myself was bad for me, I couldn’t stop. I had become someone I didn’t know and someone I couldn’t say no to.

  And then I went too far. One Sunday morning I was sitting in a living room chair with the paint gun on my lap because I had given myself a time-out. I was trying to settle down because when I was outside I really wanted to shoot at passing cars. I kept aiming at them but knew that if I pulled the trigger it would lead to police trouble, so I ran inside the house and threw myself into a chair. I started counting silently to one hundred while I breathed slowly and tried to think nice, calm thoughts when the next thing I knew I aimed the gun and shot the star off the top of the Christmas tree. In the blink of an eye there was an explosion of orange paint as the star hit the ceiling, clattered off the wall, and crashed to the floor, where it split into pieces. “Wow!” I cried. “Shooting star! Make a wish!”

  Mom had not left the house yet and the look of fury on her face was pretty scary.

  “Give that to me,” she demanded.

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” I whined, and hugged my paint gun. “I was just fooling around.”

  “I thought you were mature enough for this,” she said, gripping the gun. “But clearly I was wrong.”

  “I’ll change my ways,” I said, pleading. “I won’t fool around with it anymore.”

  “Fooling around has made a fool out of you,” she said sternly, and yanked it away from me. “You are soon going to be a big brother so you better start thinking about being a good example. But keep this up and I’ll boot you off to military academy.”

  I began to cry. “Please, please,” I begged. “Please give me another chance.” I wiped my big, shiny eyes and peeked up at her. “Besides,” I squeaked, “the tree has been up for a month already. It needs to come down.”

  “That’s not the point!” she bellowed as she leaned over me. “Now, you better straighten up or you will never see this gun again. Go take a bath and think about being a little more mature.” She pointed the paint gun at my feet. “Now march!” she ordered.

  I stood up and marched stiffly toward the bathroom like the wooden Nutcracker. As soon as I touched the doorknob a paintball whizzed by my ear and splattered on the door. I whipped around and crouched down in fear.

  “That was an accident,” she cried out. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  I knew it was an accident. That was the whole problem. Once you got that paint gun in your hands you just couldn’t keep your finger off the trigger.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I know the feeling.”

  I had taken so many baths over the past weeks there was a permanent orange paint ring around the tub. The hot water helped soothe the welts on my skin. After Dad and I shot each other up on Christmas I was covered with welts the size of quarters. My chest, belly, and the front of my legs were the worst. My face was okay because of the mask and neck protector. But he did plant a good shot on my ear, which made it swell up and turn as purple as a plum.

  I didn’t think Dad’s behavior was very mature, but that wasn’t the point. Mom was right, I had to think of my own behavior because I was going to be a big brother and I had to set a good example for little Heinzie no matter what example Charles Heinz was setting for me.

  When I got out of the tub I dried off and dressed and walked over to the diner. I thought I might clean it up a bit and practice some recipes or do something other than shoot paintballs. When I arrived Dad was pacing back and forth across the length of the diner floor.

  “Oh God,” he moaned the moment he saw me, and kicked at the confetti of losing lottery tickets. “I am sooo bored! Bored out of my gourd.”

  “We could cook together,” I suggested. “I want to make a secret sauce and call it Freddy’s Funky Flavor. Or we could make magic food that turns people into our zombies and they give us their wallets. Stuff like that. What do you think?”

  “I hate cooking,” Dad groaned. “I’ve decided I only like to eat. Cooking means cleaning and I don’t like to clean anymore either. I just want fun, fast food, lots of money, and no hard work.”

  “Wow. Now that’s an example of good living,” I said. “How do we do that?”

  “You know,” he said on an upbeat note, and looked toward me. “I always think best when I’m having fun.” He glanced up at the paint-smeared clock. “If we hurry we can get to Quips Pub and catch the Steelers’ playoff game. What do you think of that?”

  “Right on,” I said. “Give me five.”

  He smacked my raised hand. “Go tell your mom that us boys need to chill out for a while and we’ll see her tonight and not to cook dinner.”

  “She hasn’t cooked in months,” I reminded him. “Since going on maternity leave she pretty much shops all day and brings home takeout.”

  “Shopping is fun,” he said in a dreamy way, then suddenly made an unpleasant face. “But you have to walk around and look at stuff. I just want to go sit on my butt and hire people to shop for me.”

  “Hey, can we bet on the game?” I asked. “Then we can make money while sitting around watching TV”

  Dad looked down on me and smiled, then he poked me on the shoulder. “That is a Heinz-size idea,” he said proudly. “You got any money? I’m cash-short today.”

  “I have about a hundred,” I said, happy as a puppy.

  “Well, let’s go put that nest egg to work,” he cried out cheerfully. “It’s just sitting around doing nothing when it could make itself useful so we can be sitting around doing nothing.”

  “I’ll go get the money and tell Mom,” I said, heading for the door.

  “I’ll be in the minivan, warming it up,” he replied.

  When I went into the house I thought Mom might still be mad at me. But when I told her I was going to Quips Pub she perked up. “I like it when you guys do grownup things together. Remember, you will be Heinzie’s role model. So what you learn from Charles you will teach the baby. Now go out and have a great time together.”

  I could hear Dad beeping the horn.

  “Can I bring anything back for you?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she chirped. “They sell those extra-extra-large Quips Pub jerseys. One of those would be nice.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And if they have a matching one for the baby, get that too. And when I was there a few weeks ago they had Steeler bobbleheads. If there are any left get some of those, too. We can start a collection.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “And bring me back one of their big pretzel
s with the chunky salt all over it,” she said, and sucked on her finger as she thought about what else she might want.

  “What if I just bring you back one of everything?” I suggested.

  “That’ll do,” she said, smiling. “Have fun.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” I added. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key to my ATV. “You can have this,” I offered.

  “For what?” she asked, puzzled.

  “In case you have to get to the hospital,” I explained. I pointed to her belly. “For Heinzie.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” she replied, smiling. “Pregnant women don’t drive themselves to the hospital on an ATV.”

  “Well, if you go pretty fast we are only like ten minutes away from the Lime Street emergency entrance at the hospital.”

  “I’ll call a taxi,” she said. “But don’t worry. Now go.” She waved her hand at me like chasing off a chicken. “Go,” she repeated. “And have some fun with your dad.”

  When we arrived at Quips there were a lot of disappointed men milling around outside because the pub was already full. But Dad was one of those guys who knew that money changed sadness into happiness.

  “It’s reserved seating only,” the doorman explained to Dad when we reached for the front door.

  “Give me a twenty,” Dad whispered to me, and stuck out his hand. I gave him the bill.

  “I believe you have a reservation for Heinz,” Dad said to the doorman as he slipped the folded bill into the man’s hand.

  The doorman smiled. “Right this way,” he replied to Dad, who then waved to me and we were escorted into the jam-packed pub, where we inched our way through a tight crowd until we arrived at the back wall of the room where there were two empty bar stools.

  “Quick, give me fifty bucks,” Dad said, and stuck out his hand. “I have to place a bet before kickoff.”

  I passed him the money and he elbowed his way through the crowd. Once he was out of sight I began to wonder if knowing how to bet on a football game would make me a better or worse older brother for Heinzie. And then I wondered if not going to school would make me a better or worse brother. And then I thought what if I shot little Heinzie like I shot Quesadilla? What if I shot the baby on his little padded diaper as he crawled down the hall? And then I thought, Why is Freddy so trigger-happy anyway?

  I was still thinking about it when Dad returned and sat on his stool. “I put down the fifty for them to win and beat the ten-point spread. What do you think?”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking!” I said, shouting loudly as the fans screamed their lungs out.

  “Yeah,” he said, intently peering toward the TV

  “What if you had walked into the Turkey Hill Mini Mart that lucky day and instead of seeing Heinz ketchup you had first seen a Snickers bar or Slim Jim or something? Would you have become Mr. Snickers?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I guess,” he replied, distracted by the game because every few seconds he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the TV

  “But what if you ended up becoming something you didn’t like?” I asked. “Like Cap’n Crunch? Would you be calling me Little Crunchie?”

  “Wouldn’t happen,” he said firmly, and pointed toward the TV “Look at the stadium. They don’t call that Snickers Field. Or Slim Jim Stadium. No, that’s a special place called Heinz Field and I’m a special guy. It’s my destiny to be Charles Heinz.”

  “But your destiny might not be the same as my destiny. Did you ever think of that?” I asked.

  “Nonsense,” he said.

  “But what if you ended up becoming something you didn’t like?” I asked.

  “Or,” he said testily, “what if you ended up becoming something I didn’t like. Now watch the game.”

  “But I’m upset with myself,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean Freddy is not nice. Mom is not happy with him and she wants me to be more mature and be little Heinzie’s role model, but all I do is hang around with you and do what you do.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” he asked. “Being like your old man is the best thing that could happen to you. Stick with me and you will be a winner.”

  Just then the Steelers scored and the bar crowd stood up and cheered. “Yell your lungs out!” he hollered. “Steelers rule!”

  “Steelers rule!” I screamed about ten times in a row.

  “See,” he said hoarsely when we sat down. “Feels good to holler like a man.”

  That was true, because while I was screaming I wasn’t thinking.

  “Hey, Dad,” I asked when I stopped screaming and started thinking again. “Is finding yourself different from making yourself up? Or is it the same?”

  “Why are we having this discussion in the middle of a football game?” he asked.

  “Because it is on my mind,” I replied.

  “Well, winning the lottery is on my mind,” he shouted in my face. “Owning a theme park. Living in Miami. Buying a yacht. But I’m not talking about it right now.”

  “But it’s important for me to understand who Freddy is. He confuses me and I need to figure him out before Heinzie joins us. I want to be a good older brother.”

  “Just go with the Freddy flow,” he said, only half listening to me.

  “I did,” I said. “I went with the flow and that’s when I became the evil Freddy. Like I really loved shooting you.”

  “I’ve got news for you,” he said, glancing toward the TV then back at me. “I really loved shooting you, too, and believe me, when Heinzie is old enough he’ll enjoy shooting you, too.”

  “Can’t I just stop being Freddy and be someone else?” I suggested. “Maybe someone nicer? Like I could be named Hershey after a Hershey’s Kiss. Doesn’t he sound nice? Or if he’s too sweet I could be Tabasco Red—he sounds spicy.”

  “No,” Charles replied. “You have to be Freddy. That’s who you are and that is the gift you gave me and you can’t take it back or trade it in for another name.”

  “But once you change who you are, what’s to stop you from doing it all the time? I could be called A-1, like the steak sauce,” I said. “Or Skittles, or Starburst, or Fritos. And you could be Mr. T or Nestea or T-Rex, it’s endless. You could be somebody different every day. It’s confusing.”

  He stood up and whistled loudly to attract a waitress carrying a tray of hot dogs and beer over her head. When she finally made it over to us he grabbed two hot dogs.

  “Here,” he said, handing me mine. “Shove this in your kisser and let me do the thinking.” Then he grabbed a beer, too.

  I gave him a worried look as I shoved the hot dog into my mouth.

  “Don’t worry over a little beer,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “As I said, I always do my best thinking when I’m happy. Here,” he offered, holding the beer toward me, “take a sip. Maybe it will make you a little happy for a change.”

  “No,” I said. “Even if I wanted beer, it would not be the right thing to do for little Heinzie. Now, can we talk some more?”

  “No!” he snapped, and threw the end of his hot dog down in frustration. “Can’t we just watch the game and enjoy ourselves?”

  “I need to talk,” I said, kind of pleading.

  “Well, I don’t,” he snapped back.

  “But I think Freddy Heinz is a lunatic,” I said.

  He laughed. “Welcome to my world.”

  “But if you feel like a lunatic, too,” I yelled, “why don’t you just go back to who you were?”

  “Because the old me is crazier than the new me,” he said.

  “Well, what happens when the new you gets crazier than the old you?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,” he said.

  “Well, I’m going crazy from not knowing who I am. I mean, I don’t even know what Freddy’s favorite color is,” I blurted out. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “Stuff like that doesn’t matter,” he said, and turned away.
<
br />   “What about his favorite TV show? Ever think of that?”

  “You are buggin’ me,” he hollered above the crowd. “Now just relax.” He twisted his back around toward me as he looked at the TV.

  But as the game wore on I couldn’t relax. If I was really going to be Freddy, it was necessary to discover who he was deep down inside himself because I wanted him to be as nice as Joey was. “Do you think Freddy would like pineapple on pizza?” I asked, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Joey did.”

  He turned back toward me. “Look,” he said sternly, “before I just flip out and become Mr. Taco Bell and head for the border, here is what I need you to do. Go to the bathroom and straighten your head around and flush Joey down the toilet once and for all and when you come out you will be Freddy the very happy boy with a great future. ¿Comprendes, amigo?” he said with his jaw clenched.

  “Okay,” I said, feeling a little scared of him. “I’ll go get my happy Freddy head on straight.”

  “Exactly,” Dad agreed. “Now pull yourself together and remember, when in doubt just do what I do. Stop thinkin’ and let your walkin’ do your talkin’.”

  I walked down to the bathroom. It was empty because the game was still being played. I stared into the bathroom mirror then took a comb from my back pocket. “Maybe Freddy needs a new hairstyle,” I said to myself. I did a part on the left, then mussed it up and did a part on the right. I didn’t like that either. Then I parted it in the middle and combed half to the front down over my forehead and half toward the back. It looked totally goofy and I bobbled my head up and down and back and forth like those mindless, springy-headed dolls Mom wanted from the gift shop. I bobbled my head some more. “Hi,” I said, in a robotic voice, “I am Freddy Heinz, the happy little bobblehead. I come in fifty-seven varieties. Nutty, freaky, goofy, dizzy, batty, wacky, crabby, flippy silly, happy.” Just then the crowd gasped and moaned so I yelled out, “Do you want fries with that?”