Exalting the Weird Joan Marcus (bio) We were in the back seat of our '73 Subaru, on our way to the community gardens with a trunk load of cow manure, when my little brother asked me to sock him in the arm. "Not hard," he insisted. "Like this. Three times on this side. One-two three. And four times over here." He took my wrist, made a fist of my left hand. "Come on—do it." I don't think my parents were listening. I don't think they knew that their eight-year-old had committed himself to living his life symmetrically, doing everything from chewing his food to caring for his hermit crab in two even sets, using each side of his body exactly four times. I'd just sucker-punched him in the upper arm. Now, despite the obvious risks, he wanted me to finish the job. I probably didn't hit him very hard. I remember thinking that I was showing remarkable restraint under the circumstances, that somebody ought to be praising me for my maturity. Mom was behind the wheel; Dad was trying to stretch out his lame leg on the cramped passenger side. The seats of the little stick shift were dingy, bone-colored vinyl. The trunk was loaded down with sacks of dried manure, rusty trowels, canvases on stretcher sticks, tubes of toxic oil paint in metal tackle boxes, and a big tin of turpentine, whose sharp, pitchy odor either neutralized the smell of cow manure or made it worse, I could never decide which. We were on our way to fertilize our garden plot, after which the four of us would sit down on foldout benches in the adjoining park and paint pond water and flowering trees. Then we'd go eat at a family restaurant in the affluent suburb where we rented our apartment cheaply for the sake of [End Page 43] the good schools. We'd walk in there with mud on our knees and under our nails, paint smears on the backs of our hands. I'd look around at the upscale families in their neat Sunday attire and feel a queer mix of embarrassment and defensive pride. It's the way I felt about my family most of the time. "Stop right there," my brother said as I finished pounding his left side. "Now get away from me or we'll have to start over." My parents were discussing the rattle in the Subaru's front end, or something uncouth my mother's mother had said 20 years earlier. I'm not sure what they would have done if they'd known what was going on. Probably nothing. I cannot imagine my parents—middle-aged bohemians who slept on an ancient horsehair mattress, brushed with tooth powder, and hung portraits of nude women on the walls of our apartment—being fazed by a quirky ritual or two. Anyway, this was 1976. Today, a boy like my brother, with numerous compulsions as well as social delays and difficulty in school, would be identified and tested. He'd be given a diagnosis, possibly treated with pharmaceuticals. Back then, for better or for worse, children were left to do their counting in peace. My daughter Anna is not a counter, but she does eat her kisses. She's been doing it religiously for two years, scooping the kiss from her cheek or the back of her head—wherever some adult has happened to plant it—tossing it in her mouth and chomping audibly. "The kisses go down to kiss world in your heart," she tells me. "They make you healthy." She tries to get me to eat mine as well. At night when I tuck her in, we'll go through the same routine each time. I'll kiss, she'll scoop and chomp, then blow me one herself. "Eat it," she'll say. "No thanks. I'm full." "Eat it, come on! Here . . ." She'll swipe at the air, grab the kiss, and try to feed it to me. "Just say 'gowp.' Please, just say it. Please!" This is serious business. According to Anna, who is nine, refusing to eat...