CHAPTER 4 - ALLIED FORCES

            Joey was more like my big brother than my uncle. He was my buddy, my playmate, and my best friend. He was the one who showered me with the love and attention that my parents seemed incapable of providing. They were only interested in my report cards, but Joey was the one who asked me about school and helped me with my homework. No matter what else he might be doing, he was always willing to stop and go over spelling words or the multiplication table with me. Where I was concerned, he seemed to have been blessed with a monumental measure of patience because he was never curt or dismissive. Regardless of how busy he might be with his own schoolwork, he always made time if I asked for help. He was lavish with praise when I got the answers right and generous with encouragement when I didn't. Just hearing him say, "Great job, Squirt!" meant more to me than all the gold stars or straight A's in the world.

            The only time my parents seemed to pay much attention to either Joey or me was when they were finding fault. No matter what either of us did, it never seemed to be quite the right thing. Perhaps they confused harping and harassment with parenting, or perhaps they just enjoyed picking on us, but whatever the reason, it only served to cement the bond between my uncle and me. Joey was my ally and my confidante.

            To be fair, though, our childhood was probably not quite as bleak as I remember it. Like anyone else, my memories are mostly the truth, but diluted by my emotions and filtered through my experiences, fermented into the usual toxic brew by prejudices, grudges and misunderstandings. To be honest, I would have to admit that those periods of my parents' criticism and condemnation were almost equally interspersed with interludes of benign disinterest.

            The main point of contention with my folks seemed to be Joey's appearance and his preoccupation with music. When the Beatles landed in American and appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, Joey had been irrevocably hooked. He let his hair grow like the Fab Four, and pestered my grandparents until they bought him a guitar, which he immediately set about teaching himself how to play. Of course, my father did not approve of either long hair or rock and roll.

            I thought my father picked on Joey, and it made me furious. Joey was really a pretty good kid, but my father treated him like some kind of juvenile delinquent He wasn't first in his class, but his grades were good. He wasn't a troublemaker, but my father looked for things to condemn. My father belittled his music, his friends, his appearance, his ambitions, and everything else about him. All his observations about Joey's character were delivered in the same unctuous, "I'm only telling you this for your own good," tone of voice that was somehow more sinister than if he'd ranted and raved.

            I'll never know how Joey tolerated the frequent sniping and carping. But Joey managed to take it all in stride, consoling and calming me when I wept tears of impotent rage over my father's treatment of such a sweet, dear soul. Joey never seemed to be bothered by his brother's harangues. Whenever my father began another sermon on how his younger brother was wasting his life, Joey would merely roll his eyes, shrug and give me a sly grin.

            I was on the receiving end of a fair amount of nit-picking as well, but it was minute in comparison to what Joey endured. If I was inside studying, then I spent too much time with my nose in a book, and I ought to go outside and play in the fresh air. If I was outside playing, then of course, I was wasting too much time running around the neighborhood when I ought to be applying myself to my schoolwork. They were always criticizing something. My shoes needed polishing, my hair needed brushing, or my outfit didn't match. I was constantly being weighed in the balance and found wanting. I learned very early on to keep a low profile whenever possible and avoid making myself a target.