(This was some kind of character sketch / beginning of an introduction to a character in a story. I don’t know when I originally wrote this piece, but I can assume that it was some time in the late 90s. I know I probably don’t need to say this because very few people are actually reading my shit, but ALWAYS (unless the writer directly states otherwise) separate the character’s / narrator’s voice from the author’s voice. I know that there may be some “offensive” words in here, but I cannot shut my character voices off from expressing themselves as they are. It makes the shit more “realer”. Enjoy!)
Brett Salavisky was a “pasty motherfucka.”
Being the minority in his neighborhood, everyone who knew Brett well growing up knew him not as “Brett,” but as “pasty motherfucka,” or “that pasty motherfucka,” or “PM” for short, or whatever else people could think of when they saw Brett.
He didn’t take any offense to it; this nomenclature actually helped distinguish him from the others, especially when being called to do something. By just saying “BOY,” every black, white, brown, yellow, or blue boy would turn around and have a questioned look on his face. By yelling, “Hey…Pasty Motherfucka,” Brett knew exactly who they were talking about.
Brett grew up in what most people would see as a shady, dangerous side of town. Those same people were also known for spouting platitudes of political correctness from their ivory towers. Brett knew it only as home.
Years after he eventually left the “ghetto” and joined the political platitude puppets, Brett tell his golf buddies that he “wouldn’t want to raise my kids there nowadays”, but it was a nice “cultural” experience for him growing up. His golf friends would nod their politically correct heads in agreement before heading to the strip club for some “lappies.”
Shortly after moving away to college, an opportunity that no one in Brett’s family experienced, Brett realized that most people had no idea of what being a “pasty motherfucka” growing up in the “ghetto” was like.
Brett was beat up occasionally by the “niggas,” (usually kids from outside the neighborhood — cousins visiting were the most common attackers) because their grandparents and parents would harp about the “Man” and past oppressions to their race. Brett didn’t like to keep his mouth shut when the “niggas” would bring this subject up because he was not those ignorant people from the past. Some of his relatives weren’t too far removed from a time when this was still active, but he knew he wasn’t that way. Elders misconstrued Brett as racist by his frequent dropping of the word, “niggas” . They didn’t realize “nigga” was not used in disrespect; just like “pasty motherfucka” was not used in disrespect.
Brett was not beat up just for being the “pasty motherfucka” of the neighborhood; he was beat up for NOT keeping his mouth shut. This same mouth would lead him to the many beatings he endured and the fame he encountered later in life.
“Lemme tell you somethin’, you PASTEE MUTHA-FUCKA,” Leonard Ronfield would tell him one night in front of 7-11. “Yall’z grandpaz was slave beaters!”
Leonard was hard to see at night unless he was standing under light or inside. He was so dark that every one of his friends referred to him as “Midnight.” When standing next to him in the dark, the only things a person could really see to distinguish Leonard from anything else in the darkness were his teeth, which he cleaned incessantly after the many meals that he had in a day.
Leonard easily weighed around 200 pounds by the age of 12, and little muscle showed through the coat of blubber he wore, though everyone knew that Leonard was a hard person to control when he was pissed. It took brute strength to carry around what his “mama” called, “a big-boned” frame.
“You learn from the people you hang with,” Brett’s dad would yell within 2 inches from ear. “Hang out with the wrong people – get caught up in the wrong shit!”
Brett’s dad was a drunk. The few times Brett really got in trouble paled to the number of arrests his dad made the family endure between Brett’s 5th and 17th birthdays.
“YOU WANT TO END UP DEAD, BOY!!!”
Brett’s dad flung him across the room. Brett was skinny, but strong. Wiry. He pulled himself up from the dogpile of wooden chair, blanket, TV remote, and Brett.
The Mexicans were some of his closest friends.
Next were the Asians, though there were so few of them, with the exception of the handful of Vietnamese that lived around the corner – fifteen in a 3 bedroom house – that he could barely remember any of their names.
Jack Salavisky (cousin of “pasty motherfucka”) had not physically seen Amanda in fifteen years. He occasionally heard of her goings on through friends or saw pictures from heres and theres, but he had not seen her, in the flesh, but with clothes, for some time.
“You could’ve at least let me say goodbye,” Jack mumbled to himself upon spotting her in the parking lot.
Jack was referring to her breast reduction. He heard about it through the grapevine.
“Too bad,” he would later tell his cousin. “Those tits really brought the room together.”
It wasn’t that Amanda looked bad; she aged better that most their early-40-something classmates. Jack felt the same awkward teenager anxiety roll over him when he noticed her getting out of the car. But there was something in her mannerisms — her walk, her over the top “look at me” laugh; her upright posture that accentuated the sad off of at least 10 pounds from her…
“Tits,” Nick sighed, “Its always the tits. Why the tits?”