The Road to Goodbye

by R.E. Cruz Caceres

  IV

  Maybe I was delusional to not have seen my family for the freaks that we are. Maybe I am truly abnormal because I’m a happily married 30 year old man who calls his mother every day.

  If life had continued on this way into the future, there would be no story. If I hadn’t listened to my father and taken my gifts out into the world, there would be no story. If I hadn’t turned my back on Sunday morning breakfasts and Bears games with Papo and Cubs games with Mamacita and Hawks games with my brother there would be no story. If I hadn’t given in to the siren call of hegemonic migration and left home at 18, we wouldn’t be sitting here.

  But I did leave.

  You’re 18, it’s what you do if you’re not a loser or a freak. You leave home; go far away, to college, to great new adventures just over the horizon. You venture into the diaspora and begin a journey back to a home you voluntarily left.

  If I close my eyes and focus I can remember my life before my days were spent searching, wandering, reading the wind for some sign that would point me back home. Because once you leave, you know too much to return. You really can’t go home again, because it’s not home anymore.

  Yeah, if I close my eyes and think real hard, I can remember my life as it was, before my life began.

  Chapter II:

  Steve Stone

  I

  Growing up a Cubs fan in the late 80s it was impossible to escape a few things.

  1) Harry Caray

  The man was larger than life

  2) The Daily Double

  A double play, every day…

  3) Steve Stone

  Though I didn’t realize how amazing this guy was on the mic until I was much older and he’d moved on to ESPN after having a very public falling out with WGN management, he was a god to our crew.

  As strange as it might seem to hear that a group of teenaged boys in the suburbs had a bit of a man-crush on a retired ballplayer turned color commentator it’s even stranger when you realize that we had no idea about the retired ballplayer part. The late 1980s were a different time, the Internet was a baby, there was no Wikipedia, and browsing with graphics didn’t arrive until the following decade... As a result, we just didn’t realize that color commentators, were, for the most part, former ballplayers who could find a coherent sentence with a flashlight. No, we didn’t love Stoney for his on-field prowess; we loved him because he was a perfect foil to Caray, a man who could talk about anything other than the game.

  “I remember this steak we had last time we were in Houston. Remember that Stoney?”

  “Yeah Harry, and Dunston has tripled to right center…”

  Caray was like our absent minded grandfather, meandering in and out of lucidity, painting a picture that none of us would see for at least another decade, when mind-altering substances had been introduced to our diets. If Caray was grandpa, Stoney was our cool uncle. You know, the one who never got married, taught you about women, snuck you drinks at family weddings and loaned you his sweet ride when you were in high school. But, rather than doing any of those things Steve Stone spent his afternoons teaching us about baseball.

  The best of these moments were always pre-empted by the phrase, “here’s a tip for all you youngsters out there.” As we got older, this became our crew’s trademark line. It was that most beautiful of adolescent male expressions, simultaneously meant to praise and demean its recipient. Like the time Brian Wojicieski tried to get a date with Erin Mullingher by becoming best friends with Megan Davis. In the end, he ended up dating Meg for two months, cheating on her with Erin and causing the kind of flame out that would have made for a really great New Order song. Anyway, the point of this digression is that Brian still can’t hit Imperial Waffles without some waiter recognizing him from the annals of suburban legend and walking up to him to say “here’s a tip for all you youngsters out there, when you like a girl, don’t go through her best friend to get to her.”

  Like with most things from childhood, this phrase would haunt me throughout most of my semi-adult life. From here on out whenever I did anything that was less than stellar, I’d hear Stone chastising me. When I got into my first car accident, six months after getting my license, I could hear over and over in my head “here’s a tip for you youngsters out there, don’t take your foot off the brake at a red light until the car in front of you has started moving forward.”

  II

  Here’s a tip for all you youngsters out there, don’t change your girlfriend’s plans and expect her to be happy about it.

  I started dating Renee Costello at one of Alex’s parties summer between sophomore and junior years of high school and I instantly fell madly and deeply in love with her. She was a little shorter than me with a medium build that was large in places that teenaged boys like and small in places that twenty year old guys like, with long straight black hair that fell down the middle of her back. She was a laid back preppie who always wore her grandmother’s pearl earrings and dreamt of being a doctor. Once I entered the picture, her dream of being a medical professional had to be amended to include me, which is how she came up with The Plan.

  The Plan was pretty simple; she applied to a bunch of accelerated premed programs. I applied for general admission to those schools and we’d end up going to the best school we were both accepted by. The logic was pretty sound, premed programs were pretty competitive, I was going to major in history or something much more dime a dozen at the undergrad level, so I’d just follow Renee to UIC, UMKC, Northwestern or Brown with special allowances made for me going to a handful of schools within an hour or so of any of those. At any rate, we’d spend four to five years at one of these schools, I’d go to work while she was in med school and doing her residency, we’d get married after she started her residency and then I’d go to grad school when she was actually a full-on doctor making enough money to pay me back for the years I’d supported both of us. Yeah, I know it’s Donatella Moss logic. But it made sense at the time. I was gullible and she was hot in a girl next door kinda way. Deal.

  In the midst of all this proto-emo madness I wouldn’t listen to anyone tell me how stupid this plan was. Not my parents (whom I still call before every major life decision), not my boys (whom I still call before every major life decision), no one. Well, OK, that’s not true. While I wouldn’t listen to Sully, my guidance counselor, I did at least hear her when she told me that this was a really stupid idea.

  Papo had gone to see Sully one afternoon to explain Renee’s whole plan for my future and how uncomfortable everyone was about it. After five minutes of explanation, Sully was as uncomfortable as everyone else. To stop me, they came up with a list of schools that seemed like a better fit for me, with my father giving a general description of where he thought I should go and Sully using her knowledge of the undergraduate world to match names with ideas. By the time they were done, they had a list of schools that Sully would float past me.

  Over the last few weeks of junior year Sully found whatever reason she could to pull me out of class and drag me down to her office. The first few made sense, there was a problem with my senior schedule, she had to run another credit audit, she heard Renee was pregnant…but after a while her excuses started to get thinner and thinner.

  During each of these meetings she’d drop the names of a few liberal arts colleges as alternatives to the list Renee had come up with for me. One trip was about Swarthmore, Williams and Oberlin; another trip was about Pomona, St. John’s and Reed, but the trip that really fired my imagination came on the last day of class, when she proposed what seemed like the holy triumvirate to me; Macalaster, Beloit and Willis.

  Now, as then, I couldn’t really put my finger on what set these three schools apart, but I knew that I loved the idea of going to Mac more than life itself. Reading up on it, it just felt like where I belonged; a Midwestern college with a sense of purpose that I was sorely lacking at 17. Picking up on this, Sully called my dad
and they unleashed phase two, getting me to visit these schools.

  III

  “Diegito, I’ve got to run up to Beloit next Wednesday, wanna come with?”

  We were in the kitchen, engaged in our breakfast making dance. This time, it was arepas with cheese, coffee, fruit salad, hash browns, sausage, orange juice and fruit salad. I was so busy remembering the steps that I didn’t smell the trap he was laying for me. My father never had to “run up to” anywhere. He was a math teacher, math teachers don’t ever have to “run up” anywhere. They do math. But, I’d never been alone with my dad on a road trip, so a two-hour trip out of the suburbs with him seemed like a really great idea.

  “Yeah Papo, sounds awesome.”

  “One thing, dress up a bit, because we’ll probably run into people I know and it’s always nice to make a good impression, k?”

  Wednesday came and I rocked what passed for a 17 year old’s version of “dressed up” in the summer. Purple polo shirt, khaki shorts and really nice sandals.

  No, seriously, these were really nice sandals.

  “That’s what you’re wearing?” my father asked as I descended the stairs into the living room.

  “Yeah. Papo, we’re running up to Beloit to get some math books or something. You want me to wear a tie?”

  Frowning, my father conceded the point and off we went.

  We sat in the car in relative silence, letting Uncle Bobby narrate our morning via radio. As the exits on I-90 grew scarcer, the buildings were spaced farther and farther apart until all that was left outside my window was the rolling green that defines western Illinois. In later years I’d see these farms as a welcome mat guiding me home, but right now, it served as mindless distraction. I think we were somewhere past Rockford when he dropped the bomb on me.

  “I scheduled an interview with you at Beloit College.”

  I was so stunned at this bait and switch; I didn’t even realize that my father had lied to me about this trip’s purpose. I immediately went on defense.

  “What? But Papo, I’m not applying there.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Dad, we’ve been over this, I’m applying to Brown, UMKC, DePaul (where you went) U of I, Northwestern and KU. Interviewing at Beloit is a total waste of time.”

  “Well, right. But look at it this way. Beloit is a good school. Interviewing there will be good practice for your Northwestern and Brown interviews. Renee will probably be going to one of those two. You should be really sharp for those interviews, and you get sharp by practicing. That way, you will surprise her when you get into one of her top two schools.

  “Yeah, that’s a good point. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  And that was the truth, it was a good point and it played right into one of the biggest issues in that relationship, Renee thought I was holding her back. She fully expected to get into all of her schools and the real limitation to how good a premed program she got into would be how good a school her dumbass boyfriend got into. I didn’t question my father’s sudden willingness to play along with a plan he’d in no uncertain terms ripped as recently as last night at dinner. Instead, we spent the forty minutes from Rockford to Beloit brainstorming questions to ask my interviewer and tour guide.

  The tour was OK. Some female rising senior International Relations major gave the tour. My dad and I asked the questions we’d agreed on in the car and everything went pretty well. Then, I had my interview with Jake Swearingen.

  “Well, Beloit certainly doesn’t fit in with these other schools you’re applying to.” Jake started out with.

  “Yeah, well, to be honest I’m only applying to those schools because my girlfriend is applying there. Well, not DePaul or KU, those are on there in case I don’t get into U of I or Northwestern or UMKC and she does.” When you picture me saying this, please imagine me kicking up my cowboy boots on Jake’s desk while examining my fingernails for dirt. Please.

  “I see.”

  “Yeah, and this liberal arts thing is really just an experiment to learn how to interview for Northwestern and Brown. I mean, nothing personal, you seem like a cool guy and this campus is actually pretty kickass, but I’m not really that serious about going here. Yknow?”

  Secure in the knowledge that I’d just tanked my interview, I began to open up to Jake and by the end of the interview he’d convinced me that I was not only smarter and a more capable than I thought I was at the beginning of the interview, but also that a small liberal arts college was a better fit for me than any of the schools that were already on my list. Well, save for Brown, he thought I was a great applicant who’d be a great fit there and assured me that Beloit would do whatever it took to buy me out and keep me from moving to Providence.

  “How was the interview?” my father asked me as we got back on I-90.

  “Awesome. So, like, if I tell Renee it’s another business trip of yours, can we go visit Macalester next month?”

  IV

  Sully and Papo’s plan was working beautifully. My trip to Beloit had addicted me to the liberal arts and gotten me to do something I’d never done before and would rarely do again, lie to my significant other. I knew Renee wouldn’t understand my interest in schools not on our, I mean her, I mean our approved list so I did my best to mask my interest. Going over to dinner at Sully’s to do extra research on schools, watching way more minor league baseball than should be allowed with my dad so we could talk about college and then, finally, the big trip to Minnesota to visit the holy grail of my imaginary college rankings- Macalester.

  Macalester, just the name radiated the kind of prestige that Jake had convinced me was my birthright. Academic rigor, Midwestern setting, cool, bohemian urban living, it had everything that I thought I wanted now that I knew I no longer wanted to live Renee’s plan. So it was that on the last Monday of July we packed up my dad’s Nissan Quest and headed north.

  I was infatuated with everything St. Paul and Minnesotan. I’d picked up a Twins cap at the mall a few weeks earlier, assuaging my guilt by telling myself that it wasn’t infidelity to the Cubs because 1) the Twins were in the American League, 2) they were in the AL Central just like the Sox, so cheering for the Twins was like cheering against the Sox and 3) I loved Kirby Puckett, he was from Chicago so I was cheering for a hometown boy by proxy. Plus, since his retirement had shocked me so much a few months earlier, following his team felt like a nice tribute. Beyond that, I’d picked up a few Minnesota tourbooks, a copy of the complete works of F. Scott Fitzgerald and some Garrison Keilor on CD. I really don’t know how my dad put up with me on that trip. Between my reading about Gatsby’s greatness aloud, a few dozen letters from Lake Woebegon and my endless planning of our itinerary- a lesser man would have flipped out and turned the car around before we reached Madison. But, well, as history has proven time and again, my father is not a lesser man.

  We checked into our hotel a few miles from the Macalster campus around 8 in the evening, grabbed a quick dinner at the Hardee’s down the street and hung out planning our Tuesday. We had tickets to the 3p Twins/Orioles game over in Minneapolis and I had a 9a appointment. The night before the interview, I had a hard time falling asleep. Now I realize that this anxiety was the result of my conscious mind realizing something that my subconscious had come to terms with long ago, that I was doing the right thing.

  The next morning we got up, grabbed a quick breakfast at the Ramada we were staying at and headed out to Macalester. As we headed down Snelling to Grand the butterflies were growing larger and larger. This really was the first day of the rest of my life, which sounds amazingly cheesy in retrospect and felt even dumber at the time. But sometimes, cliché is really the only way to accurately describe how profound minutiae can really be. We were a bit early for my tour so we wandered the neighborhood around Mac, popping our heads into the Hungry Mind and perusing their racks before bolting for the admissions office.

  As experienc
es go, there was very little that was memorable about that morning, except the tall, thin redheaded Russian major who gave us our tour. She was a second-generation Macalester student, whose parents had started dating while students almost three decades earlier. OK, so that’s not entirely true. I remember that was we wandered the campus with the few other families that’d made the trip to St. Paul on that late summer morning thinking, that I could really see myself starting a life on this campus.

  Plus Bob Mould and Grant Hart went to Macalester. How could I not love the place?

  After our interview we went back to the Hungry Mind, I picked up a Mac shirt, changed in the car and had lunch at some random ambiguously ethnic place on Grand before making our way out to the Metrodome. The game was pretty disappointing with the Twins falling to the Blackbirds 16-4. Paul Molitor, my replacement Kirby had gone 0-3. The only consolations were seeing Cal Ripken Jr. on the field for the second time in my life going 3-5 and my new Macalester shirt. Man, I was so proud of that thing. As we walked out of what Mike Ditka had once not so affectionately called the RollerDome, my father dropped what would be the final bombshell of the plan he and Sully had hatched a few months earlier.

  “Tomorrow we should check out Willis College.”