The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez Read Free

can be very annoying.
    â€œSorry, I can’t.”
    We argue like this for a few minutes until some mom, who looks half asleep, says very sternly, “Benny, why don’t you help your brother?”
    Since I can’t exactly blow her off, I walk toward Crash, who’s separated himself from his friends. “What the heck’s going on?” I say.
    â€œI wet my pants,” he whispers.
    â€œYou what?”
    He’s got his backpack in front of his crotch, and now I understand why he didn’t run after me.
    â€œLook,” I say, “I’ll walk to the side of you, and let’s both laugh like we’re having a jolly old time, then we’ll go home and change.”
    Crash looks suspiciously at me. “Is this a trick?”
    â€œJeez, Crash, I’m trying to help. I’m your older brother.”
    Once he realizes I’m not going to say “Hey, everyone, Crash just wet his pants. How weird is that?” he goes along with my plan. Halfway down the street, he says, “You won’t tell Reggie and Jefferson, will you?”
    â€œYou mean Jocko and Beanie?”
    â€œJust don’t tell them or I’ll run away.”
    â€œRun away?”
    â€œI will. I swear.”
    â€œWhy would I embarrass you like that?”
    â€œBecause you’re a blabbermouth.”
    â€œThe word is ‘loquacious.’”
    â€œA blabbermouth is a blabbermouth.”
    â€œYou’re one tough little dude,” I say.
    â€œDad’s going to kill me.”
    â€œWhy will he kill you?”
    â€œBecause he always tells me to pee before I leave. He says, ‘You don’t want to be the kid who wets his pants on the bus,’ and now I’ve done it.”
    â€œBut you didn’t wet your pants on the bus. You wet your pants at the bus stop.” I’m trying not to laugh when I say this.
    Crash looks at me suspiciously. “I’m dead meat,” he says.
    â€œDad will handle it okay. He’s just been upset about Grandpa.” Which is true. In fact, we’re all worried. My grandfather’s eighty-five and coming off his second stroke. Although my father didn’t have a great relationship with him as a kid, they’ve gotten closer over the years, and Crash and I try to hang with my grandfather whenever we can.
    â€œI’m roadkill,” Crash says.
    â€œThat’s kind of dramatic.”
    â€œNot if you’re the kid who wet his pants.”
    When we get to the house, my mother has left for work and Irene for school. My father peers up from his newspaper. He’s about fifteen years older than my friends’ dads, so he looks tired a lot. But he’s in good shape, so most people think he’s only about fifty. He has a receding hairline and gold wire-rimmed glasses. Someone once said he looked “smart.” I tracked down that word in the Book and think “professorial” works better. He actually was a high school history teacher, but now he’s retired and works part-time at a local golf course’s pro shop. Whenever someone asks why he retired early (at fifty-nine), he responds with three words: “Crash and Benny.”
    â€œI’m afraid to ask what this is about,” he says matter-of-factly.
    I have to give Crash credit because he gets right to the point. “I wet my pants. I know I’m a loser, so you don’t have to say it.”
    In fact, my father has sometimes used the word “loser” when completely frustrated by us, but he’s always spent the next two weeks apologizing for it, so I’m not sure why Crash is bringing it up.
    â€œYou’re not a loser, Crash,” my father says.
    He points to his damp crotch. “Oh yes I am.”
    â€œDo you know why this happened?” my father asks.
    â€œWhy does it matter?” Crash says.
    â€œIt matters because you can’t fix something if you don’t know why it’s