Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater Read Online Free

the phone conversation by saying “I think it’s best that you vacate the apartment by the end of the month.” My mother knew that trying to convince me to take back what I had said was pointless. Besides, what kind of message would that send? She had already demonstrated to me, by her own words and actions, that it was best to stand by one’s own convictions despite the cost. So this, coupled with the fact that my mother couldn’t stand Mrs. Landlady either, led us on a quest for home number three.
    TO THE SUBURBS
    From Elizabeth we moved to Rahway–a more quiet and laid back suburban New Jersey locale than the one we were leaving behind. My friends teased me about moving to “the country,” which was a definite insult! You see, most of the kids that I grew up with had roots “down south,” and most of us hated making trips there because of the lack of certain amenities that we had grown accustomed to here “up north.” The mere thought of using an outhouse created a level of anxiety that made most of us double over in pain, so to compare my new home with that backward place was serious “fightin’ words.” Not that I was much of a fighter, although our new landlord, Mr. Martin, certainly was.
    Mr. Martin was a big man. Not big as in fat, but big as in tall, thick, and solid. His wife, Mrs. Martin, was also tall, but slender, and she had a voice reminiscent of Tweety Bird. Sweet as can be, she was very religious and spent quite a bit of time at church. For my seventh birthday, she gave me a Bible as a gift. I was somewhat disappointed when I opened the beautifully gift-wrapped box only to find a Bible inside; what kid wants a book over the latest action hero? Interestingly enough, had she given me a toy, I’m sure that it would be long forgotten by now, but I still have that little Bible with its zippered white leather cover, and it’s grown in sentimental value over the years.
    As I said, Mr. Martin was a fighter. And his favorite thing to fight was the pious and sweet Mrs. Martin, who was no match for him. I swear he must have beat that poor woman two, three times a week. And it always seemed to be for no reason, totally out of the blue! We would all be out in the yard relaxing and enjoying a nice summer evening when Mr. Martin would appear at the back door, call to his wife sweetly, “Eloise, can I see you a minute?” She’d go into the house and the next thing you knew, it sounded like major reconstruction work was taking place inside. We wouldn’t see her until the next day. And when she did reappear, she’d be covered in bruises, with one or both of her eyes blackened. It got to the point where whenever she’d excuse herself and not return, somebody would say, “Well, I guess he’s in there beatin’ her up again.” I often wonder why no one ever called the police or reported this abuse to a social services agency. All I can figure is that it was a different time, and people looked upon these things as private family matters best worked out between the couple themselves. Did they ever work it out? Actually they did. The day Mrs. Martin decided that she had enough.
    One quiet afternoon we heard the all-too-familiar sound of loud banging and glass breaking indicating yet another round of family feud on the other side of the wall. It lasted about fifteen minutes and then faded into silence. After a few minutes we heard footsteps and the sound of their front door, just opposite ours and connected by a small hallway, being opened. This was followed by a soft knock on our own front door. This had never happened before! The Martins usually kept a low profile after their fights. My mother and I exchanged a confused look before she went to the door and asked softly “Who is it?” I remember thinking “Oh my God! It’s Mr. Martin. He’s finally killed her, and now he’s coming to kill us too so there won’t be any witnesses!” But to both of our surprise, the answer from the other side of our