snapped up properties with abandon, then ended up taking out a second and, later, a third mortgage on our home in Tarzana before eventually losing the house to the bank. My mother, my sister, my new little brothers, and I piled into her car and moved to a one-story rental in Canoga Park. There was nothing left to show for my success; just like that, we were back to being broke.
* * *
“You need an operation.”
My mother was coming at me with scissors and a syringe, which she had no doubt pilfered from Actors and Others for Animals, the nonprofit where she occasionally volunteered. She had recruited Mindy to help hold me down and suddenly I was on my back on the floor. My wrists were pinned and my mother was straddling me, one knee on either side of my stomach. “Your nose just keeps growing,” she said, doing her best impression of a surgeon, cupping my chin in her hand and angling my face from side to side. “Yep, you definitely need a nose job.” She started lowering the syringe down closer to my face. Mindy howled with laughter—she still thought it was a game.
I squirmed and bucked, desperately trying to wriggle out from underneath my mom. My legs were flailing, I was trying to backpedal my way across the carpet, but it was no use. When the tears started, Mindy let go of my arms.
“Mom, it’s not funny now. Come on, stop it,” she said. But my mother didn’t stop. Mindy clearly didn’t know what to do, so she got up and walked out of the room, leaving us all alone.
“You need an injection to sedate you for the operation.” She took the scissors and pressed them against my throat, poking but not quite piercing the skin. I screamed for her to stop, squeezed my eyes shut and craned my neck as far away from her as I could. My chest heaved with deep, guttural sobs. Finally, she got up and went to her bedroom, cackling the whole way down the hall.
My mother was unraveling. She was either glassy-eyed and listless and starting to slur her words, or she was manic, barreling through the house like a freight train, trying on hot pants and see-through tops and chattering on about how she was going to find us a new father, one who actually “gave a shit” about the family. One evening, when I poked my head into her bathroom and asked what time she might be home, she ripped the toilet seat from the hinges and threatened to bash my face in. Her newest trick, which was especially terrifying, was to sneak-attack my sister and I in the middle of the night, seizing on a shirt left on the floor of my bedroom or a pair of pants casually tossed on a chair. “What the fuck is this?” she would yell, waking me up from a dead sleep, holding up the offending pair of pants in her hand. Before I even had a chance to respond, she would yank clothes from the hangers, pull them from the drawers, and toss them around the room. It looked like the aftermath of a category 5 tornado.
“Clean your fucking room, you slob,” she told me. It was four in the morning. I had to be up for school in three hours. I learned that the only time I was really safe was when she was asleep.
* * *
Though I can’t pinpoint the reasons why, my mother suddenly announces that she wants to live more “independently.” Instead of relying on my aging grandparents, she hires my first set-sitter, someone to drive me to and from jobs and, essentially, to babysit me while I’m at work. Her name is Sheri. She’s a sweet woman with bright red hair, but her sneezes—and there are a lot of them—smell terrible. This is my first sneeze-odor experience. I’m not sure what to make of it.
I get hired to film an episode of Mork & Mindy . I’m one of several children—the show is in decline and the writers are trying all kinds of new subplots to boost the ratings, so Mork is now running a daycare—and I only have three or four lines, but Robin Williams and I get along famously, even though he insists on calling me Damien, because he
* * *
“You need an operation.”
My mother was coming at me with scissors and a syringe, which she had no doubt pilfered from Actors and Others for Animals, the nonprofit where she occasionally volunteered. She had recruited Mindy to help hold me down and suddenly I was on my back on the floor. My wrists were pinned and my mother was straddling me, one knee on either side of my stomach. “Your nose just keeps growing,” she said, doing her best impression of a surgeon, cupping my chin in her hand and angling my face from side to side. “Yep, you definitely need a nose job.” She started lowering the syringe down closer to my face. Mindy howled with laughter—she still thought it was a game.
I squirmed and bucked, desperately trying to wriggle out from underneath my mom. My legs were flailing, I was trying to backpedal my way across the carpet, but it was no use. When the tears started, Mindy let go of my arms.
“Mom, it’s not funny now. Come on, stop it,” she said. But my mother didn’t stop. Mindy clearly didn’t know what to do, so she got up and walked out of the room, leaving us all alone.
“You need an injection to sedate you for the operation.” She took the scissors and pressed them against my throat, poking but not quite piercing the skin. I screamed for her to stop, squeezed my eyes shut and craned my neck as far away from her as I could. My chest heaved with deep, guttural sobs. Finally, she got up and went to her bedroom, cackling the whole way down the hall.
My mother was unraveling. She was either glassy-eyed and listless and starting to slur her words, or she was manic, barreling through the house like a freight train, trying on hot pants and see-through tops and chattering on about how she was going to find us a new father, one who actually “gave a shit” about the family. One evening, when I poked my head into her bathroom and asked what time she might be home, she ripped the toilet seat from the hinges and threatened to bash my face in. Her newest trick, which was especially terrifying, was to sneak-attack my sister and I in the middle of the night, seizing on a shirt left on the floor of my bedroom or a pair of pants casually tossed on a chair. “What the fuck is this?” she would yell, waking me up from a dead sleep, holding up the offending pair of pants in her hand. Before I even had a chance to respond, she would yank clothes from the hangers, pull them from the drawers, and toss them around the room. It looked like the aftermath of a category 5 tornado.
“Clean your fucking room, you slob,” she told me. It was four in the morning. I had to be up for school in three hours. I learned that the only time I was really safe was when she was asleep.
* * *
Though I can’t pinpoint the reasons why, my mother suddenly announces that she wants to live more “independently.” Instead of relying on my aging grandparents, she hires my first set-sitter, someone to drive me to and from jobs and, essentially, to babysit me while I’m at work. Her name is Sheri. She’s a sweet woman with bright red hair, but her sneezes—and there are a lot of them—smell terrible. This is my first sneeze-odor experience. I’m not sure what to make of it.
I get hired to film an episode of Mork & Mindy . I’m one of several children—the show is in decline and the writers are trying all kinds of new subplots to boost the ratings, so Mork is now running a daycare—and I only have three or four lines, but Robin Williams and I get along famously, even though he insists on calling me Damien, because he
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