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inane annals
My Inner Norman, pt.2
by Neil Sholer | 01 Sep 2007, 0:00

As I let myself into Hamilton's apartment I saw a topless blonde girl with big biddies on the TV. Immediately the channel switched to CNN.

My brother, Hamilton, was a twenty-three-year-old shut in. After graduating college with a double major in philosophy and history he was unable to find work in Oklahoma. Not that he really tried. So when my parents announced they were moving up North, Hamilton pitched his things in the U-Haul and said, "What the hell." I was thrilled. Once in Chicago, my parents rented him a second storey apartment a few miles from my school. Hamilton never looked for work. All through the cold fall and the bitter winter we played video games and board games, watched cable TV and R-rated movies. He was my best friend.

Hamilton always had something interesting to say, usually while eating. At first he was just kind of fat. But by the time February rolled around he was too large to leave his apartment. Hamilton took to sleeping on the couch for convenience. The TV, he said, was his window unto the world. Hamilton started sending me downstairs to buy groceries at Mr. Petrovich's tiny store. As far as provender went, Hamilton was easy to shop for. He mainly ate glazed donuts, canned raviolis, kid's cereal, and rotisserie chicken. I had to make separate trips for the Coke Classic, which he consumed by the case. Finally, in cheerful resignation, Hamilton gave me the key to his apartment.

The topless girl's biddies still in my head, I stomped into Hamilton's apartment.

"My day was just awful," I said, hurling my backpack on the floor.

"You heard about what happened?" Hamilton said from over the couch. His voice sounded funny.

"Yeah." I started walking into the family room. "Pretty much made me start bawling when I was doing the announcements."

I sat down on the floor beside the couch.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of," Hamilton said. When he looked at me I saw his eyes were red from crying.

I nodded, sucking in my cheeks.

To fight off tears I looked around Hamilton's place. It was a one bedroom apartment with white walls, hardwood floors, and a window that looked out over dreary brick buildings. There was a bookshelf dedicated to Sega and Nintendo games, some of which were rare or bootleg. Beside the TV there stood a three foot stack of video game magazines. And in his bedroom there was a massive antique bookcase jammed full of non-fiction books and political periodicals. Although a shut-in, Hamilton kept his place clean and inviting.

Hamilton turned down the volume on the TV. "They caught one of the bastards they think was involved."

"No shit?"

"Yep. Caught him on the freeway just this afternoon."

I sat up straighter. "Who is he?"

"Timothy McVeigh."

"He American?"

"Yep." Hamilton clucked his tongue. "Some militia dude with a narrow face and a shaved head."

"If I got ahold of him I'd piss in his fucking eyes," I said, suddenly crying and looking at the floor.

"Lot of folks ahead of you in line," Hamilton said softly. "This is the biggest ever act of terrorism on American soil."

I nodded, sniffling. Hamilton switched off the TV, then shifted on the couch to look at me.

"You got some welts there on your face, little brother."

I wiped my nose and looked up at him. "I'm OK."

Hamilton smiled with one corner of his mouth. "Might I offer you a donut?"

"Don't think I could stomach it right now."

"Tell me what they done," Hamilton said, narrowing his eyes.

I was shaking my head. "These kids at school teased me like I'm somehow involved. Like they thought I could explain it just cause I'm from Oklahoma."

"I can see they didn't stop with just words."

"Yeah, they got a few punches in."

"They?" Hamilton pushed himself forward on the couch. "How many were there?"

"Two guys. My age."

"Clayton. You better tell me you landed a few good ones."

"Well at one point Kyle—he's kind of my friend—jumped in and, uh, in the confusion I punched him in the bread basket and shoved him over."

"You punched your own friend?" Hamilton said, cocking his head.

"Well as I said, it was highly confusing."

"Clayton, when a man jumps in to help you he's taking on your burden. It's a rare man that'll do that, and you shouldn't have punched him."

I looked at my shoelaces. "I feel pretty low about it."

"You ought to."

"Look, Clayton. You said them kids were teasing you on account of being from Oklahoma, right?"

I spun a shoelace around one finger. "Yeah. And about my name, too."

"Kindly fetch me a donut."

I got up and grabbed a donut from the kitchen, then handed it to Hamilton and sat back down on the floor. He nodded in thanks.

"Don't ever be embarrassed of your name," Hamilton said, biting into his donut. "Or your origins. Sure, our family has been in Oklahoma for some generations. And prior to that we were on the East Coast. But everywhere we lived, we had pride in. We thrived. And even in this frozen ass city we'll thrive. You see, that's just what we do, us Sapples. We come from a long line of Norman conquerors. We make every new land our home."

I wrinkled my eyebrows. "We come from Norman conquerors?"

"Yep. Direct descendants."

"You sure on that count?"

Hamilton took another bite, then swallowed. "Oh, I'm positive. Dad's got genealogy records going back to medieval times. In fact I wrote a term paper on it while still in college. Highest grade in the class, as I recall."

"But what's a Norman, anyhow?"

Grinning, Hamilton leaned back a little. "The Normans are this fierce race of folk from France, way up North by the coast of England. And before that they got their aristocratic origins from the Scandinavian Vikings."

I felt my mouth drop. "We come from aristocrats and Vikings?"

"Work on believing it."

"When was all this, Hamilton?"

He finished his donut, then licked three of his fingers. "Oh, back during the medieval ages. The Normans were actively involved in the crusades. And they conquered Sicily and pretty much all of England. In fact the English still bear a grudge, what, like a thousand years later. But deep down they're thankful the Normans pulled their heads out of the mud and converted them from a backwater island of tribes and dirt and such, into this society of courtly intrigue and elegant language.

"You see, the Normans were renowned for their contrasting traits of ruthless courage and genteel etiquette. They trained their boys in oratory, so when they grew up they were adept at flattery and manipulation. Truthfully, the Normans preferred cooperation and comfort. But sissies they were not. The Normans had great endurance for hard work, deprivation, and freezing cold. When it comes to sitting buck naked in the snow with a knife in his teeth, no man was better qualified than a Norman. But that same Norman would bow and shake your hand with the utmost decorum, decked out in the finest silk clothing. Sophisticated warriors, Clayton. We come from sophisticated warriors."

Suddenly I stood up, hopping from one foot to the other.

"What's the matter, Clayton? You look like you gotta pee."

"I'm just—I'm just so excited!" I said. "I think I need to go outside and cogitate on this."

*

At home that night my parents were so distraught they barely noticed my welts. Our house, a sprawling two storey with white columns in a suburb of Chicago, felt dominated by the TV. My mom smeared Neosporin everywhere and told me to mind my temper. My dad kept pacing in front of the TV, his arms crossed, muttering about crackpot extremists. He made dozens of phone calls, relieved when no one we knew was hurt. On the TV twenty people were confirmed dead. As the hours passed millions of dollars poured in from around the country, around the globe. A state of emergency had been declared. And in my heart I had also declared a state of emergency.

I went to school the next day like nothing was nothing. Within a week my bruises had gone away. During class I avoided looking and Vince and Freddie, and on my lunch break I sat in the hallways, reading and thinking. I saw Kyle once, carrying his graph paper forlornly in the second grade hall, and he looked away like he didn't know me. I wanted to say something to him but it was important to keep a low profile. Taking notes, waiting, I cooked up the first of many schemes.

The last week of April I bought Hamilton his weekly supply of groceries. Only this time it was different. Fidgeting with the door key, groceries in both arms, I heard explosions and gunshots from the TV inside. I walked in and set the groceries on the counter.

"Baby Jesus I'm hungry," Hamilton said, shifting on the couch.

"Groceries are on the counter," I said.

"Bring 'em over here, like normal."

"Maybe I won't."

Hamilton muted the TV. Rolling his head backwards over the edge of the couch, he looked at me upside down. "You're alarming me, Clayton. Just alarming me."

I tugged on my watch.

Hamilton rolled his head back and took a huge breath. The couch, then the floors, creaked as Hamilton flopped around and stepped onto the floor. As he reached out for balance against the couch, the back of chairs, and the counter, I stepped to the back corner of the kitchen.

"My nose does not detect fried chicken," Hamilton said, narrowing his eyes at me.

I nodded, raising my eyebrows. "Means you're not hallucinating."

One hand on the counter for balance, Hamilton wheezed and rifled through the grocery bag with his other hand.

"What the hell?" he said, throwing a can of kidney beans back in the bag, then cold cuts of turkey. "I don't eat this shit. You know what I like, Clayton, and this surely isn't it."

"It occurred to me you'd do well to modify your diet. I spoke to the nutritionist at my school and—"

"Long as my money's buying the groceries, I have the say as to what they'll be."

I shook my head. "Can't let you do that anymore."

"I never been so alarmed, Clayton. Not once." Sighing, Hamilton rested his head against the cabinets that hung above the counter. "You're toying with a man's likes and dislikes. What's a man got when you take away the one thing he likes?"

"He's got his people."

*

Although he hadn't lost any weight yet, Hamilton said his new diet seemed to improve his spirits and regulate his bowels. As a reward I bought him one Coke Classic and we watched Goonies.

"Hamilton, how would you comport yourself in a fight?"

Hamilton bridged his fingers and set his Coke down. "When it comes to self-defense I'm of the mind that nothing is off-limits. Personally I avoid fisticuffs for, well, obvious reasons..."

"Do you get any martial arts channels?"

I practiced fighting in the garage. The wash machine, churning on heavy, throbbed in the stale dimness. Knuckles raw after the punching, head dizzy from the acrobatics, I sparred with myself. The garage was stifling with junk but I was there to become confident in close quarters. I stole moves from every martial art, learning angular Thai round house kicks, fierce boxing uppercuts, arcing Savate sweep kicks, pistoning Tae Kwon Do gut punches. After five days my moves felt second nature. After fifteen days I felt like a cage fighter.

*

Ten days into his diet Hamilton proudly told me that he'd lost seven pounds and, to his chagrin, found himself desiring a girlfriend. For encouragement we flipped through GQ and ate takeout sushi.

"Hamilton, can you offer me some advice on being profane?"

Rice on his chin, Hamilton studied a pinstriped suit. "Now profanity is a multi-hued art. What some find offensive, others find funny. Being a gentleman, though, I'd be loathe to, ah..."

"What would you say to make a grown woman hate you?"

I trained myself at the local park. Massive elm trees, starting to bud, lined the mile-long loop. Chest hammering from the exertion, legs rubbery with fatigue, I jogged the park. It was hot in the afternoons but I was there to endure physical extremes. I switched exercises when my muscles failed, doing pull-ups from tree branches, sit-ups in the grass, push-ups on the basketball court, windsprints from one goal post to another. After one week my body felt tight. After three weeks I felt like a panther.

*

Hamilton had lost eighteen pounds, and, with much effort, was able to fit through his doorway and walk downstairs. We celebrated by drinking Diet Cokes and playing Super Mario Bros 2.

"Hamilton, what do you know about contraband?"

Arching one eyebrow, Hamilton paused the game. "Back in Tulsa I could've procured any manner of contraband you care to mention. Up here, though, well... with my present limitations..."

"Can you buy me some beer?"

I went to the school at night. An American flag, lit from below, rippled in the crisp breeze. Eyes dilated from the darkness, ears keen to every sound, I stalked the campus. All the doors were locked but I was there to learn the outside. I circled the school again and again, exploring every walkway and structure, hiding behind walls when I heard footsteps, diving behind bushes when I saw headlights. After one night the school felt familiar. After three nights I felt like I owned it.

*

One final test remained.

We sat in Hamilton's apartment playing RISK.

"Hamilton," I said, moving a tank into Kamchatka. "Do you suppose Mr. Petrovich would allow me to occupy his freezer for a spell?"

"Being that I am his single biggest customer—speaking strictly in terms of body mass—I don't see why not."

Downstairs and across the street, in Mr. Petrovich's three aisle grocery store, Hamilton gasped for breath.

"Mr., ah, Petro— ah, Petrovich..." Hamilton leaned on the counter with both arms, sweat running down his neck in streams.

Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Petrovich twisted a sideburn.

After fifteen seconds of panting Hamilton looked up and continued. "My brother Clayton is full of unusual ideas. I suppose I'm partially to blame. Anyhow, I was wondering if I might ask you a special one-time favor."

Mr. Petrovich crossed his hairy arms over his chest. "What did you have in mind?"

Two minutes and forty dollars later I was sitting naked in Mr. Petrovich's freezer. It was a deep, small room about ten feet by sixteen feet. Beverages, produce, raw meat, and cardboard boxes were stacked to the ceiling. Above me, the only light was a tiny yellow bulb encased in a white grill. My clothes and shoes were in a pile by the door. Squatting, my forearms on my knees, I felt my feet go numb. I had a carving knife clenched lengthwise in my teeth.

I did not look around, or at my feet, or at my penis that felt tiny and pokey. I did not change positions, not when my molars started chattering on the metal blade, not when my legs were filled with shooting pinpricks, not when my eyeballs felt like dry ice. I was a Norman and this was what I did. In my mind I visualized the shattered, raped facade of the Alfred P. Murrah building, the long, vacant face of Timothy McVeigh, the smug, untested faces of Vince and Freddie. I was an Oklahoman and I bled that day. I was an American and I knew fear for the first time. But I was also a Norman, and in me there was a millennium of sadness and rage and triumph. I realized, then, that I wasn't responsible for the world. I couldn't even explain the world. If any sense could ever be made of this it would only come with time. I also realized that Vince and Freddie needed their asses kicked, big time.

When the freezer door opened, two and half hours later, the knife was frozen to my lips and I couldn't stand up.

*

Hamilton and Mr. Petrovich wrapped me in heavy canvas bags and carried me back to the apartment. On the stairs, Hamilton holding my feet and Mr. Petrovich holding my torso, they stopped for air. I was shivering, semi-conscious.

"Your brother," Mr. Petrovich said softly. "He is... retarded?"

Hamilton scowled. "Hell no. The boy's just got a vendetta."

Once I was in Hamilton's apartment he drew me a very warm bath and fed me two packs of chicken flavored Ramen. I took the next day off but felt fine by the weekend. I was reborn.

*

With seven days left in the school year I found Kyle sitting by himself against the backdoor of the gymnasium, looking at the parking lot. School had gotten out forty five minutes ago, his parents nowhere.

"Hey Kyle."

Kyle threw a piece of gravel into the parking lot.

"All right if I sit down?"

He sighed elaborately.

I sat down, cross-legged, next to Kyle. "I'm real sorry I punched you and shoved you and made you fall in the—"

"God." He wrinkled up his eyebrows. "Stop talking about it."

"But I mean it, Kyle. I'm truly sorry."

Kyle nodded, then threw another rock into the parking lot.

"I been thinking about it pretty much non-stop," I said. "And I feel about an inch tall for doing that to you, what with you trying to help and all."

Kyle looked at me, then away. "It's all right. Just don't do it again."

"Not to worry. Next time it'll be like an action movie, complete with us standing back to back and using secret weapons and all."

He smiled down at the sidewalk.

"It occurred to me you might get more use out of this than I do," I said, pulling the Nintendo Power magazine out of my backpack.

Kyle's eyes got wide. "You mean it?"

"Absolutely," I said, handing it to him.

"All right!" he said, flipping to the Zelda cheat codes in back.

"And, well, I procured you something else as well."

I grabbed the bronze Metroid cartridge out of my backpack and handed it to him.

"Holy cow!" Kyle said, sitting up straight. "This is the limited edition Japanese import!"

"Sure enough."

"But—how did you get it, Clayton?"

I smiled. "I got my sources."

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