Parachute Drop

It was another hot, humid day in Brooklyn. I opened my eyes and just touching the top of my hair, I felt it was all wild and out-of-control curly. I saw Mom had some washing on the line in the back yard, and the Verrazano Bridge stood in the mist beyond.

I looked at the empty Reggie Bar wrappers next to my bed. They were on top of some of the Green Lantern comics that I had bought the day before. My brother and I discovered you could smear the black crayon on the price tags they used in the Super Comics shop. We went when the lady was working, not the old man, and got some great issues for our smudged prices.

I pulled on some jeans over the Superman underoos I wore. My brother and I begged our mom to buy us some of these underwear when they first came out. My brother got the Captain America kind.

Sunday mornings were something I hated. Our father, who we nicknamed "Chuck" after Charles Bronson, insisted we go to church every week. We called him Chuck because he acted all tough and knew-it-all like he was in Death Wish. He wasn't cool, though. We just felt shut down and scared around him. Chuck didn't know he had a nickname, it was something that my mom, brother, and me called him behind his back.

I heard my father arguing with my grandmother. He always tried to argue every little point right or wrong, attempting to prove he was the smarter of the two. It was ridiculous. We lived with our grandmother and it was her house. I don't know why he needled her all the time.