The Todd Glass Situation (4 page)

Some
of our new neighbors in Churchville were kind enough to welcome us to the area by throwing pennies at Michael and Spencer. “Go fetch it, Jew!” one of them yelled. A few days later, someone slashed the tires on our station wagon.

“It's a shame,” one of our neighbors said, an elderly man who shook his head sadly. “I know Jews. Jews are good people.”

Even then, I can remember thinking that while I appreciated what he was trying to say, he was wrong.
Jews are not
all
good people. They're like everybody else: Some are good, some are bad.

It turned out the anti-Semitism was just getting started. One day we came home to find slurs written on our windows. The whole experience felt particularly weird to me because we
weren't exactly the most Jewish family in the world. We celebrated Christmas, stringing lights around the house and decorating a tree that we placed in the window. If you were going to hate us for being Jewish, you had to really hate Jews. I mean, the only way we could have been less Jewish was to actually not be Jewish, which as far as I could tell was out of our hands.

I don't mean to say that everyone in Churchville hated Jews. I'm sure that the majority of the people in the neighborhood were not anti-Semitic. But the majority of the people didn't come to our defense. Some of them probably didn't know what was going on.

But I'm sure some of them did.

That's why today if I see someone being mistreated I try to find opportunities to speak up. It doesn't have to be a major civil rights violation. If I happen to witness someone being rude or offensive to a waitress or a cashier, I say something. I think it's important to get involved, even in situations that don't involve you personally. Sometimes all it takes is another person saying, “Hey, you can't talk to her that way. She's doing her best . . .” to snap someone out of it or to make someone else's day by coming to his or her defense.

But none of our new neighbors spoke up as the harassment continued to escalate. My older brothers got the worst of it. They were teased all the time at school. It got so bad that—when the school administration failed to do anything about it—my parents filed a lawsuit against the district.

My parents also brought in the big guns: the Jewish Defense League. These guys did not fuck around. “You show us a hand that threw a penny at you,” they promised, “and we'll break it.”

Fortunately it never came to that. My parents never went through with the lawsuit—it seemed like too much of an ordeal to put my brothers and me through. As sixth grade came to a close, we did what Jews have been doing for centuries: We moved, hoping to find a more accepting neighborhood.

If
there was one thing I could always count on as a kid, it was having a house that was tidy and organized. My mom was a compulsive cleaner. Everything had its place. Dust never had a chance to settle in our home.

But when we moved into our new house in Lafayette Hill, I started to notice that my mom had developed a new tolerance for disorder. Now, as an adult, I can see that she was probably just letting go of a lot of unhealthy compulsion, embracing my aunt Ruth's philosophy that while your dishes won't leave, your company will.

But as a kid, I felt like my world was falling apart around me. I had enough trouble concentrating when things were orderly. I hated the fingerprints all over the cabinets. I missed
the reassuring vacuum marks on the carpet. A dirty glass in the sink could ruin my afternoon. Things got even worse once I started sharing a room with my brother Corey.

Let me make this clear to you (and to Corey, who's probably reading this right now): By any reasonable standard, my younger brother was a normal ten-year-old boy, no messier than most kids his age. I could list the things he did that drove me nuts, but that would only highlight how crazy I was. I looked at Corey and I saw a hoarder—I'm not talking about the high-class HGTV kind, but an A&E, living-in-your-own-filth-with-three-dead-cats-under-your-bed type.

My issues didn't go away when the room was clean. I'd find any excuse to vacuum, making one up if I had to. “Ugh,” I'd say, after intentionally dropping a plant on the rug, allowing some of the dirt to spill. “Which one of the dogs did this? I guess I better get the vacuum cleaner.”

When Corey's hair started falling out, I knew it wasn't (as my parents told me) because of an allergy, but from the stress of having to live with me. He moved across the hall to bunk with Spencer, and I got my own room, where I could enforce my insane standards of clean.

To my family's great credit, they all did their best to appease my craziness. But I was about to meet people who really understood me—our neighbors across the street, the Nali-botskys.

Like we had with our previous home in Churchville, we made a few visits to Lafayette Hill to see our new home being built. On one of these trips I noticed the mini-mansion that was going up across the street.
Holy shit—they've got a three-car garage! And a circular driveway! They must be rich!

To this day, the things I saw the Nalibotskys do represent to me what “rich people” do. Rich people roll their towels. Rich people don't leave their mops to air-dry outside the kitchen door. Rich people don't keep their dish soap on their kitchen sink. As funny as it might seem, I'm not wrong about this—when was the last time you opened
Architectural Digest
and saw a $5 million home with Palmolive on the sink next to an old sponge full of bacon grease? Yeah, that's what I thought. (By the way, if the people at Palmolive want to send me a case for free, I'll drop this bit out of the act.)

I know now that you can also have all the money in the world and still not get it. Lots of rich people have terrible taste. Either way, the Nalibotskys got it.

Keep in mind, the Glass family wasn't exactly doing without. My dad owned a successful wholesale shoe business. We were comfortable, building a very nice house in the suburbs for the fourth time in the last five years. But I became obsessed with the house across the street.

The landscaping was immaculate, like something you'd see in a magazine. The lawn was a perfect shade of green, the driveway freshly sealed and free of cracks. Everything was arranged in clean lines and rows, separated by crisp edges and railroad ties. In time, I found out that it belonged to Phil Nalibotsky, the builder behind the new development. He held on to three or four of the lots to build what was probably his dream home. Little did he know he was building twelve-year-old Todd Glass's dream home, too.

I still fantasize about it today. If I ever decide to buy a summer home, I'm going to be the only person in the world who owns a vacation property in Lafayette Hill, Pennsylvania. You'll
know it when you see my dream car in the driveway: a '77 Ford LTD with wood paneling and lights that open and close.

I had to see the inside of that house. Maybe if I crashed my bike in their driveway they'd nurse me back to health. I could track down their lost dog (after letting it out myself) or save them from a fire (that I may or may not have started). Eventually I dismissed all of these ideas (especially the last—how was I going to see the inside of their house if it was on fire?) and went for a more direct approach: I walked up and knocked on their front door.

I was glad that I did. I didn't know anything about design or decorating, but there was something about the inside of the house that immediately made me feel calm. The sense of order was incredible: zero clutter; everything had its place. You'd never know that three kids were living there. Unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, which all seemed to be carpeted with randomly colored wall-to-wall shag, the Nalibotskys' home used themes that made each room feel like it was connected to the rest. Years later, Mrs. Nalibotsky—Myra—explained to me that she'd hired a decorator who believed that there was “beauty in unity and simplicity.”

When Phil got home from work, he walked right to the kitchen sink to put away whatever few dishes were sitting there. Keep in mind—this is a family that had full-time help in the housekeeping department. “I noticed that the hose was unraveled outside,” he said to his kids. “Did someone forget to roll it back up?”

His kids were obviously annoyed by the observation. All I could think was:
This guy gets it.
I still think that way today, organizing my house as if Phil and Myra might stop by at any
time. There aren't any sponges full of bacon grease. I don't leave dishes in the sink. I keep a laminated list of frequently used numbers hanging in my kitchen, just like the Nalibotskys did, a totally unnecessary gesture given that I've got them all stored on my cell.

Shortly after my bar mitzvah, my parents left us alone for a weekend, figuring we were in good hands with our neighbor's daughter babysitting us. I remember standing in the middle of the street watching the landscapers tend to the Nalibotskys' perfect yard. Then I turned to face our house and its perfectly ordinary grass lawn. Back to theirs, back to ours. Back to theirs . . .

This went on for an hour until, finally, I knew what I had to do. I strode over to the landscaper in charge. “I want our yard to look like theirs,” I said.

It's funny to look back now and try to imagine what was going through this guy's mind.
He obviously doesn't own the home . . . unless he's the most successful thirteen-year-old I've ever met.
I told him that my parents had left me in charge of the house. More importantly, I showed him cash—almost a thousand dollars from my bar mitzvah. I guess if a thirteen-year-old hired me to do stand-up comedy and paid cash, I wouldn't ask any questions, either. (Seriously, I'm not kidding—call my agent. Special discounts for Monday- and Tuesday-night bookings that won't cut into my comedy club schedule.)

My parents must have thought they'd come home to the wrong house. They stared at the yard, trying to process what had happened in the short time they were gone. There were new railroad ties lining the driveway. Crisp, clean-cut lines separated the grass lawn from the large piles of dark mulch that had been spread around the shrubs.

“Todd's a big man in a little man's body,” the landscaper explained to my confused mom and dad. But it looked right, and my parents had to admit that I'd improved things while they were gone. My dad even said they'd repay my investment, but I don't think they ever did. So, Mom, if you're reading this . . . I'm pretty sure you owe me some money.

The
move to Lafayette Hill also meant I had to start all over again at another new school.

I hated it. I hated it from day one. A new group of teachers that I had to fool into thinking that I was actually learning something. A new group of kids that I had to try and make friends with, kids that I really didn't even like all that much. I felt like I had a stomachache that wouldn't go away. Unfortunately, I wasn't quite sick enough to stay home from school, not as far as my parents were concerned.

Keep in mind that when a sixth-grader—or in my case, a seventh-grader in sixth grade—fakes throwing up, he doesn't necessarily think things all the way through. I grabbed some saltines from the kitchen and crumbled them into the toilet.
The result wasn't really that convincing, so I added a few squirts of ketchup to give it a pukier feel and ran off to tell my parents.

By the time they got to the bathroom, the saltines had pretty much dissolved, leaving nothing but a thick red mess floating in the water. A few minutes later I was being rushed into the emergency room, my parents trying to stay calm while they explained to the doctors why they thought their son was bleeding internally.

At this point I was way too scared to tell anyone about the ketchup. The doctors ran tests on me. My dad skipped work so that he and my mom could sit in the waiting room.

Obviously they didn't find any internal bleeding. The only thing the doctors did find was a packet of saltines in my pocket. Did I tell my parents the truth? Of course I did . . . Just not right away. I waited until about two years ago, when I was forty-five, to confess the truth to my mom, figuring enough time had passed for us both to laugh about it. Man, was I wrong—while I'd like to say I was making this up for comedic purposes, my mother was still really upset with me. If she could have taken TV away for a week, I'm pretty sure she would have.

Once the real stomachache and fake vomiting had subsided, I was surprised to find out that I really liked sixth grade. They placed me in a program called “Open Space,” which encouraged group activities and lots of social time. I seemed to be making progress. I felt like I was flourishing and, possibly, even learning a thing or two.

That didn't stop me from failing.

The next year I went to a private school called Wordsworth Academy that was known for having a great “special education”
program. My parents couldn't really afford private school—the whole experience was paid for by an anonymous donor. (My guess was that my mysterious benefactors were the Nali-botskys, but if I was right, they never gave me a clue.)

Despite the generosity that got me there, my experience at Wordsworth wasn't ideal. They put me on Ritalin, which only killed my appetite, not my confusion. My new pool of potential friends was limited to kids who either had serious learning disabilities or were suffering from emotional problems that seemed a lot more severe than mine. (Although, in retrospect, it was probably perfect preparation for a lifetime of friendships with writers and stand-up comedians.)

I was old enough at this point to be absolutely terrified by my lack of progress.
Focus . . . Just FOCUS,
I'd yell at myself every time I felt my mind drifting off in the middle of class. Not an effective approach—it's almost impossible to learn algebra when all you're focusing on is focusing.