All or Nothing Read Online Free PDF Page A

Chefs, Great Cities. Other times, Charnam and I ditched school just to watch Iron Chef America. Food and pot became part of our shared experience. We pitch a couple of tents by the lake, have a barbecue, and get loaded.
    Other times we invaded my kitchen. One day all of us, maybe five or six guys, were smoking pot at my house when I decided to make a feast for everybody of grilled cheeses and cream soda floats. I got the cream sodas out of the fridge and put them in the blender with some ice cream. While they were still going, I started fucking around and released my hold on the top of the blender. Cream soda went everywhere, especially all over my friend Mike’s face. He picked up another can of soda from the counter, shook it up, and then sprayed it all over me. The next thing I knew we were embroiled in a huge cream soda fight, and the sticky substance was bubbling from the ceiling, the floor, the cabinets, and was all over us. The mess didn’t bother me. I just continued cooking the grilled cheeses with bacon and mixing together barbecue sauce and ketchup to go on top.
    Of course my mom went nuts when she saw the kitchen, but I pleaded and cajoled my way out of a punishment and didn’t even have to clean up the mess. I never felt guilty for making her clean up after me. Maybe deep down I was trying to get back at her for the way her obsession with looks made me feel. It was around that hormone-fueled age when her appearance really started to bother me. I was messing around in the kitchen with some friends another time when my mom came downstairs all dressed up to go out. She had on these skintight pants and high-heeled stiletto boots, with bright lipstick and her hair all done up. My friends were staring at her and giving me shit, talking about her body. My mom was beautiful, but who wants their friends to look at their mother that way?
    My parents tried their best to control me the only way they knew how—by managing my appearance. As if scratching the surface would have made a difference. I became friends with some skateboard kids who wore jeans with holes and shirts embroidered with band logos. I wanted to get piercings, but my dad hated all of that. “Those are bad kids,” he told me. “You’re just asking for trouble if you walk around looking like that.”
    But the truth is, I was looking for trouble. I kept pushing the boundaries and never bumped up against any consequences, so I just kept pushing harder. By the end of seventh grade I was smoking pot every day. There was a silent, malevolent force driving my behavior that compelled me to keep pushing the envelope. In a way, Charnam was my safeguard because he never went further than pot or booze, but nothing was off-limits for me.
    I celebrated my bar mitzvah that year. The religious aspects of Judaism never clicked with me, but I loved the traditions and the feeling of camaraderie that came with sitting around the table with my family at Passover and other holidays. I loved being a part of that fun-loving, close-knit Schenker clan. My mom’s younger sister, my aunt Stacey, and my uncle Mark were always at the house hanging out with us, and I looked forward to family gatherings. It’s customary at a bar mitzvah reception to have your loved ones come up to the podium and each light a special candle, and I called my dad up to light what I called a “best friend” candle. But I didn’t need a best friend. I needed a parent.
    With my inhibitions down and hormones raging, my interest in girls suddenly picked up. It was Charnam, in fact, who introduced me to my first girlfriend. Jen was a year younger than me, with wavy brown hair, dark eyes, and an infectious giggle. I was smitten.
    At first Jen and I just made small talk. I was only twelve and didn’t have the nerve to do much else. Charnam broke the ice by hanging out with Jen, her friend Katy, and me after school. He attached a cart to his dirt bike and pulled