Messed up Heads in a Helmet

In the middle of New Jersey, a family is sitting around the den.

I wish to express my displeasure towards Michael, said Joey through a grainy digitized voice coming through speakers on a wearable gadget that was covering half his head and throat.

What he’d frickin say? said Joey’s brother, Michael, with a gritty laugh. 

Oh, I know what he said. He said you’re a fucking asshole, Michael. Didn’t you Joey? said their older sister, Janie.

Yes, said Joey through the grainy baritone digitized voice.

I told you so, said Janie. He’s right you know.

Fuck you, Janie.

Well, you didn’t have to call him a retard in front of your nephew, Janie said as she winced a pained, insincere smile at Woody, her nephew, who was sitting on a puffy chair staring at the TV on the opposite side of the small room.

Woody was visiting from another state because his uncle Joey had become temporarily brain-damaged from drinking too much alcohol. Woody had come to console his mother, who was helping his grandmother – Joey’s mom – while Joey was living at home recovering from brain damage. Before he arrived, Woody had been excited to see how well the gadget on Joey’s head worked, and this was one of the reasons he agreed to participate in the grief of a family whose grief was certainty not scarce.

The gadget was called a SilentSpeech. Supposedly, it took nerve and muscle activity and translated it into the digitized voice coming from speakers on Joey’s head. Joey had become so brain-damaged he could barely talk. His eyes would dangle around inside his head and his mouth would sputter, but no words would come out, only mumbled drool and displaced laughter. Since this was the third instance within a six-year timeframe that Joey had become brain-damaged and was left unable to speak, the insurance company offered a SilentSpeech to aid with Joey’s recovery, just as long as Joey’s family agreed to allow the device to be programmed in a way that was meant to modify the behavior of patients recovering from severe drug and alcohol abuse. Another reason Woody agreed to come aside from his stated purpose of consoling grief, is that he wanted to see what it was like when somebody got temporarily brain damaged from drinking too much. Wet Brain Syndrome, his family called it. By now, however, the novelty of both the device and the brain damage had worn off, and Woody was ready to return to his summer break at home, a long way from New Jersey.

Don’t listen to your uncle, Woody, Janie said in response to Michael telling her to fuck off, He’s a tard too, you know. Janie smiled another fake smile and chuckled at her own joke.

You know what, Janie, no one fucking cares. Alright?

Janie shrugged her shoulders at Michael and said, Someone has to tell you about yourself. She turned on her heels and started walking into the adjacent room.

Michael, Joey, and Woody remained seated in the den. The sounds of an NFL broadcast came from the TV and the three of them sat watching the game in silence. Joey sat with much better posture than the other two, because along with the sleek plastic gadget that was wrapped behind his ears and over a good portion of his neck, he also had a metal brace clamped to his shoulders and forehead to keep his head from wobbling and damaging the SilentSpeech. Further ensuring Joey’s upright posture, Janie had precariously fixed a tumbler full of ice and cola on top of the metal bracket, which Joey slurped from with a long straw. When Janie wedged the tumbler of cola into the contraption, it reminded Woody of one of those prank beer drinking helmets that allow you to strap two cans of beer to either side of your head, but Woody didn’t mention this to anyone even though he knew at least one of his uncles would be amused.

After a few commercials, the NFL broadcast commentators said over a roaring crowd, The Jets are really going to want this field goal if they’re gonna come back from the half feeling like they have a chance to get back in this thing.

The Jets could certainly use this field goal, said the play-by-play announcer. And at 41 yards, it’s certainly within Malinowski’s range – he hit from 52 to get the Jets their lone three points during the game’s opening drive. 

The sounds of screeching referee whistles and screaming fans came through the TV as the teams got set for a field goal. It’s blocked! shouted the play-by-play announcer, And the Pats have it! That’s Davis, number 54 running down the sidelines and nobody is going to catch him. Touchdown Patriots!

So much for going into the half with any momentum!

Boy, you are right about that, John. If the Pats manage to get this extra point, they’ll go into the half with a whopping twenty-one-point lead.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a migraine, Woody shook his head at the TV in disapproval, and Joey made a number of grimacing facial movements before saying through his computer voice, They are doing poorly. 

The way the SilentSpeech worked is that it would guess at what Joey was trying to say, then read sentences to him quietly in an ear piece until Joey approved of the sentence by moving his head sharply to the right, so there was often a lot of grimacing and twitching before Joey said anything, if he said anything at all.

Poorly!? Michael couldn’t get over the way the SilentSpeech rendered Joey’s language. He had been ricocheting its sentences and bellyaching for the past three days. Fucking Poorly, ha! I think what you meant to say is that they suck. You know what? I think that helmet might actually make you more retarded than youse was before.

Michael! shouted Janie as she retraced her steps back into the den.

Oh god damn it, just give it a rest, will ya. I’m tired of this god damned Indian football helmet for you-know-whats-its disrupting my peace of mind.

Michael had been calling SilentSpeech a football helmet for retards since Woody arrived. That is until Janie showed up and stuck herself between Michael and the word retard. Michael also used Indian to describe the SilentSpeech as if Indian were a pejorative. It was not clear if Michael used Indian with such strong negative connotations because he detected an Indian-English inflection in the digital understudy to his brother’s voice, or if Michael somehow harbored ill-feeling towards the advanced biotech of a foreign nation despite having nowhere near any stake in the game. Probably both, and it didn’t matter because Michael’s frustrations ultimately stemmed from a rolling eruption of his own private disasters, to which his brain-damaged brother’s medical treatment was a ceaseless reminder. Presently, his brother’s self-inflicted intellectual disability was reminding Michael that he had bet a large portion of his net-worth on the New York Jets winning for no logical reason, aside from perhaps that he felt somehow drawn to sensations related to being humiliated. 

You know, he said speaking to the room, if it wasn’t for Ma, I’d probably just throw that fucking thing in the garbage and put him to bed until he got his head right. 

Janie hovering, waiting for any chance to chastise Michael, flicked the ends of her shoulder length brassy-highlighted  hair as if to beautify herself at the same pace that she was becoming unnerved: Why do you say dumb stuff like that?

Michael, looking prideful about his innate ability to perpetually get on his sister’s nerves, replied, I don’t want to talk to him anyway, And if Ma weren’t so upset, I’m telling you, I’d throw that god damn Indian bleep bleep bleep on the bleeping curb. 

Listen, Michael, without that thing we wouldn’t know when he was hungry, or when he wasn’t feeling well, so he’d probably just sit there shittin his pants until he started drinking again. Is that what you want? Janie paused for a moment to let the profundity of her revelation about her brother’s GI issues sink in as she gathered the closing phrase to her argument in favor of the SilentSpeech: We’ll be sitin here watching him get drunk and shit his pants til kingdom come. 

Woody looked over his shoulder at Michael and tried to change the subject. What’s the spread? he asked. This amused Joey and he laughed a strange garbled laugh until the SilentSpeech cut him off and stated, I find that humorous.

Oh god, Joey, here we go, said Janie.

Joey twitched his face and throat muscles as the other three stared at him until at last, the SilentSpeech formulated a sentence and the digital voice said, Tell him what your wager is. There was a spark in Joey’s eye that Woody had not seen since he arrived.

My wager? said Michael. Okay, first of all, he asked for the spread not my fucking wager. Michael mimicked a severe speech impediment when he said wager, even drooling a little bit out of the corner of his mouth as he said it, and nobody, likely not even Michael, could tell if the drool was an accident or mockery. See, he said wiping his mouth, this fucking Indian fucking thing don’t even speak our language. Who the fuck says wager? Not this fucking retard. 

Jeanie scolded Michael again before Joey managed to formulate his next sentence: He wagered two-hundred and fifty dollars that his team would win. Woody looked at Michael with a taunting smile, Janie shook her head in disapproval, and Joey laughed his spastic laugh until the Silent Speech again said, I find this humorous.

I find this humorous, Michael said mocking the digital voice. Then to Woody, Listen there’s an eight-point spread and the Pats were supposed to sit half their guys. I got screwed, that’s all there is to it. But it ain’t over yet. 

Joey laughed again and said, I find it humorous that the team will certainly lose.

Jesus frickin Christ, I need a drink, said Michael.

Michael, don’t you fucking dare.

Michael softly told Jannie to fuck off as he walked out of the room. The screen door slammed and then Michael could be seen through the window smoking a cigarette on the porch. Janie sat down on the couch next to Joey and pinched his cheek as she dipped her finger in the cola tumbler on top of his head and said in in baby voice, Do you need some more icy baby brother? 

I wish to express my displeasure, said Joey. 

Oh stop it, you know you love me, she said kissing the top of his head, even if you are kinda retarded right now. The three of them sat in silence for a moment as Michael paced on the porch outside smoking.

Janie, Joey, and Woody watched several minutes of football commercials in silence until Michael came back in the room with a can of cola. 

I’m telling you, Michael, there better not be booze in there.

Booze, what the hell’s wrong with you, it’s a soda.

I know you, Michael, if you put some of Mommy’s port in there, he’ll smell it on you. You know he will.

There’s no frickin port in a god damn can of Pepsi that I got from the fridge, okay? 

Come here and let me smell it.

No!

Your gonna mess his whole thing up, Michael, I swear to god, let me smell that damn soda. 

Get outta here!

Janie got up and started reaching for Michael’s can of soda. Give it to me, she said, as Michael held the can high enough so she couldn’t reach it. Janie was standing on her tiptoes reaching for the soda, as Michael laughed and danced around behind her. They were both standing on their tiptoes when Janie leaned in too far, toppling them both onto the couch and spilling the soda all over Joey’s head and down between the cushions.  

God damn it, Michael, said Janie pulling herself up. You’re going to break his thing.

Me? Get the hell away from me.

Go get a towel before it electrocutes him.

Joey sat straight up, careful not to spill the soda that was on top of his head as Michael, ignoring Janie’s request for a towel, plopped himself on the couch and took a big gulp of what remained in his can. Janie said, at least we know there’s no booze in there, then hurried into the kitchen and returned with a towel. Joey sat silently grimacing as his sister licked a towel then cleaned his face. His face suddenly swelled with sadness. It’s not my fault, he said. 

Woody looked concerned and Janie cooed pitifully, as Michael focused on the football game. The Jets had just been sacked and punted after three downs on their first possession back from the half, and Janie was trying to wipe clean the couch under Michael’s rear end. As the game went to commercial, and his sister fussed with the couch cushions under his seat, Michael began to process what his brother had said a half-minute previous.

What do you mean it’s not your fault, he said. Of course it’s your fucking fault. You made yourself retarded. How is that not your fault?

Michael!

What? That’s what happened. Okay, well maybe he was so retarded to begin with that he couldn’t help but making hisself more so. But he still made himself retarded.

God damn it, Michael, watch your god damn mouth, or else.

Or else what? 

Our father hit a kid.

Michael and Janie stopped bickering and looked sharply at Joey. 

Oh no you fucking didn’t, said Michael, reacting to Joey’s accusation.

Joey, our father is dead. You didn’t forget, did you?

Oh, jeez here we go, said Michael rolling his eyes. 

Joey grimaced and twisted his mouth, concentrating fiercely, as the other three awaited an explanation from their father’s accuser, until at last the SilentSpeech said, Once upon a time, our father hit a young man with his car. 

Janie’s ire was now turned on Joey, forgoing the sympathy that had been redirecting her general annoyances solely at Michael ever since Woody had arrived. She gave him a weighted look and shook her head, Don’t say that in front of your nephew.

Wait a minute, you don’t know that story about Pop, Woody? 

Woody turned in his chair towards his aunt and uncles and shook his head no. Michael started telling a story about how their father worked as a bookie in a local bar.

Wait a minute, interrupted Janie indulging in her family’s transgression against her professed judgment, First of all, Pop used to drive a hearse.

Haha, that frickin car, Michael’s gritty laugh.

It was reminiscent of the deceased.

He could fit all six of us in it. And six of our friends.

We used to sit where you’d put the coffins, Janie with her insincere smile. 

Once upon a time, he let me drive. 

Yeah, One upon a time he let you drive home from the lake because he was a twelve-pack deep, and he’d rather his thirteen year old son get popped than him get it for driving around drunk again. 

Anyway, said Janie sucking up all the air in the room, Pop used to drive his hearse down to the Trelly on Elmora Avenue, which was right next to Nanny’s apartment, where your great-grandmother used to live. He went there because he could run a phone line from Nanny’s into the bar, so he could work the phones and take bets while the horses and games ran on TV.

He made me climb up in a tree and nail in the phone line.

Don’t tell him that, Michael, the next thing you know he’ll be climbing trees with electric wires, said Janie.

Why not, it’s true. He gave me a dollar for it, too. I think I drank about ten sodas that night.

Yeah, sure you did. Anyway, Pop was taking bets one night, and he used to drink too. 

He was completely shitfaced.

Michael! … He was pretty drunk. He probably had about seventeen drinks because he was sitting there all afternoon. So, at the end of the day – and it was probably a bad day, like the Jets won the Super Bowl and he lost a lot of money or whatever – but when he was done at the bar, he gets in the hearse to drive home.

Joey and Bobby saw him driving down the block. Didn’t you Joey, Michael said. Joey raised his eyebrows, which seemed to say, Oh boy, that was something.

That’s right, continued Janie, Joey and Bobby was standing out front playing stickball or something, and the rest of us kids was inside doing god knows what, and all of sudden we hear youse out front. You were screaming, Pop, there’s a kid a under your car!  Remember? Janie giggled. 

You were really freaked, said Michael to Joey.

Regrettably, a child was injured.

Pop hit the pizza boy, continued Janie. It was Tommy Wilkins who lived up the street. He used to deliver pizzas when we was in high school, and he was riding his bike down Mommy’s street delivering pizzas when Pop hit him. Pop was so messed up that he didn’t even notice, and he was dragging the frickin kid and the kid’s bike down the street underneath his hearse.

There was a danger.

Sparks was flying everywhere, said Michael, but Pop was too shitfaced to notice.  

All us kids ran outside when we heard youse screamin, continued Janie, and I shit you not, Pop had dragged little Tommy Wilkins all the way down Gramercy St. Janie shrugged her shoulders threw her hands-up to say, You can’t make this shit up.

There is more, said the digitized voice.

That’s right, said Janie, Tommy Wilkens was one youse friends or something, wasn’t he?

I never hung out with him, said, Michael.

Didn’t youse play ball with him or something, Joey?

No.

Well, it must’ve been Bobby or Donald that was playin ball with him. Anyway, he barely had a scratch on him and he just got up and walked away. He left his bike underneath Poppy’s car because you couldn’t ride it no more, it was completely wrecked.

Our father did not know.

That’s right, said Janie, Pop just left the whole heaping mess on the front lawn, and ran upstairs and hid under Joey’s bed, without even looking back.

How long was he under there, anyways?

It must’ve been a long time, because I don’t remember seeing him for a week or more.

Long, said Joey with a troubled look.

He was hiding from the cops. 

He didn’t get in any trouble tho, the cops never came.

He was probably back at the bar drinkin the next night.

And drivin! Jeez louise.

Woody’s aunt and uncle laughed about their dead father’s alcoholic habits until the football commentators announced the end of the game. Michael began cursing, and the digital voice said, I find it humorous the team lost.