“Ethan, I got you a round trip ticket leaving tonight on the red eye. It’s overnight.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Where do I pick it up?”
“They will have it at the counter when you check in. Do you have a Driver’s License?”
“Yes.”
“Oh good. They said they would need that.”
“Which airport?”
“That’s the thing. It’s not in New York, it’s Newark. Is that far?”
“No, there’s a PATH train that takes me straight there for a dollar. Less than the New York Subway!”
Dad sighed. “I was worried about that. Good. I took the day off work so’s I can pick you up.”
When I hung up, Gia stared at me. “Where are you going?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Gia. I got laid off at the Milk Bar. I figured you would want your apartment back so I’m flying home to my Dad’s house for a few weeks.”
Gia gasped. “I didn’t say you could go.”
“Aren’t you supposed to crack a whip when you say that?”
She was cool with it. In fact, she struck the jackpot. I’m sure she had been just as miserable about having to share a room as I was. I solved her problem. Well, Dad did.
And that is how paradise became an inferno, and how I wound up in Oakland.
PART THREE
THERE’S NO THERE THERE
Heading home to see my father was meant to be a break from all the frenetic energy in New York. I was able to decompress, but it wasn’t easy. I got two new family members. One was lovely; one was dreadful. How did I get a new family? It started with the flight home.
I got to the People’s Express desk in plenty of time to pick up my tickets. There was nothing to do at the airport. Newark didn’t have a bookstore, just a newsstand with a shitty selection of magazines. My stomach never wanted to eat chili again, so the chili dogs at Nathan’s were out of the question. But I saw someone eating a plain hot dog, so I ordered it. To me, the hot dog was gross. It snapped when you bit into it. Hot dogs should be soft, like Ball Park Franks. If they snap, it reminds you that you’re gnawing on the intestine of some innocent pig. The soft hot dog is so far removed from anything animal, you can eat it and pretend it’s just a vegetable.
I discovered why the airline had earned the nickname “People’s Distress.” The flight had two stops, in Columbus, Ohio and in Denver. It wasn’t possible to sleep. It was a true red-eye. On top of that, no food was served, and you had to pay for your drinks. I think the reason my father ended up with such crappy tickets was threefold: First, it was cheap. Second, he didn’t know that the travel agent made commissions for the number of flights, not just the value. Thirdly, it landed in Oakland Airport, not San Francisco.
Even though I wasn’t in high spirits when we landed, I still got that childhood thrill when I saw my long absent father standing there waving at me. Beside him was a woman dressed entirely in black with long black hair and severe brow bangs. She smiled and I felt that strange sensation of already knowing somebody. I hugged my Dad. I looked at Aunt Jessie, who couldn’t be much older than Gia. She gave me a British hug and laughed.
“Did we ever meet?” I asked her.
“No. I was a baby when your Mum married my brother.”
She pulled a pack of blue Dunhills out of her purse, offered me one, I refused. She puffed and smiled. My Dad tapped his filterless Pall Mall on his thumbnail before lighting up. We walked a few hundred feet to the car.
Dad always had an American gas guzzler. His job paid his gasoline and his car, so he always went for the most luxury he could get away with. Every two years, the boss leased him a new car and traded out the old one. Dad had a Mercury Grand Marquis this year. It had four doors. I sat up front with Dad, but he just hummed an old tune from the British Isles. Jessie and I were like two parrots, chattering away.
“Have you lived in Derby your whole life?” I asked her.
“No, I moved to London in 1978.”
“Oh my fucking god. Were you a punk?”
She nodded.
“What did you do for a living?”
“I worked at Malcolm McLaren’s shop called Sex on the King’s Road, making rubber clothing.”
I almost fainted. “Wasn’t Vivienne Westwood there?”
“She was my boss. A right bitch too.”
We giggled.
“How do you sew rubber?”
“I didn’t. You piece it together with airplane glue.”
I marveled at the simplicity.
Dad interrupted. “Jessie found work on her first day here.”
“What kind of work? I asked her.
Waitress. At the Caff down the block.”
She pointed it out when we drove by. It was a block from Dad’s apartment on Park Boulevard.
“Do you get free meals?”
“I do, but I’m always too fagged to eat. I can give you my meal any time you like.”
“Really? That’s so cool.”
I hauled my giant green army duffle up the steps to Dad’s place. When I came in, there was a mildly obese, nervous redhead standing in the kitchen.
“Hi, I’m Violet,” she extended a hand.
“Ethan.”
“I’m sure Allan’s told you all about me.”
My dad interrupted. “Yes, I told him about the engagement.”
I wanted to say “No, you didn’t!” but I held my tongue.
“Allan sorta surprised me when he said he had a son. I thought I was marrying a bachelor.” Her laugh sounded forced. “Just like I didn’t know he had a sister in the States.”
Jessie butted in. “I’ve been here two weeks.”
Violet turned sour. “Well your timing wasn’t very good.”
Jessie turned away on the pretext of looking at a painting that suddenly became very interesting, but she also rolled her eyes so I could see. A picture’s worth a thousand words.
In English class, they taught us an antiquated word: virago. Its dictionary definition goes something like an ill-tempered, domineering woman. That was my Dad’s type. He attracted and courted viragos; they were drawn to him like moths to a cool fluorescent bulb. They flapped in his face and disturbed everyone around him.
Violet then said to me, “I had a bed to go to when Allan’s snoring got too bad, but Jessie took that. Then I used the couch, but you’re going to be using it now.”
Jessie snapped, “Go get ear plugs.”
Dad laughed at nothing in particular. It diffused the energy. “I’m going to go play a round up at the golf course. Ethan, do you golf?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you three to sort it out.” Great. Just like Dad. Abandon me with a crazy woman. But I felt safe and protected by Jessie. She was the big sister I never had.
“Come on, Ethan, let’s go to my room. I have some photos to show you.”
We left the hostile redheaded fiancée in the kitchen. Jessie closed the door.
“Keep your voice down,” she whispered, “I don’t want her to hear anything.” She lit a strong Nag Champa incense and pulled a joint out of her sleeve.
“Do you smoke?”
“Not really. Is it fun?”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s from Humboldt County. It is nothing like the hash we get back home.”
I couldn’t believe my aunt was a connoisseur of marijuana. She fired up the joint, took a toke, and handed it to me. I inhaled gently, held it, then coughed for three or four minutes.
“It takes some getting used to,” she said. “Try again.”
After a few more inhales and coughs, I was stoned. I barely knew what it was supposed to feel like, so it took a while to recognize. I talked a mile a minute and Jessie listened and laughed. I have no idea what we talked about. At one point, Violet banged on the door. “You think I don’t know what that smell is? I’m telling Allan.”
Jessie put the ashtray under her bed and opened the door. “It’s Nag Champa in
cense.”
Violet leaned in and sniffed. “No, I smell pot.”
Jessie rolled her eyes and closed the door in Violet’s face, locking it behind her.
“She’s afraid of me,” Jessie whispered. This struck her as funny and she giggled. Her giggle struck me as funny, so I giggled. Like a snowball the laughter came larger and harder until we were holding our sides laughing. I gasped for air.
“What are we laughing about?” I asked.
“I don’t know!” Jessie said, which was three times as funny as whatever had been funny before. It was the kind of laughter where no sound comes out because you have no air left in your lungs.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
“Do you think there’s any food in the fridge?”
She pulled out a packet of Hob Nobs. They were chocolate covered fiber biscuits. She had a tiny refrigerator with some milk. We ate the dry cookies and washed them down with gulps of milk from the carton.
“These are the best cookies in the entire world.”
Jessie laughed at the word “cookie”, but she didn’t correct me.
“No, the best biscuits are Jaffa Cakes. Do you have them here?”
“I’ve never heard of Jaffa Cakes.”
She pulled out a notebook and added Jaffa Cakes to a long list.
“What’s that?”
“It’s my list for Sheila. She’s coming in a few months and I’m asking her to bring items I can’t get here. Do you have any requests?”
I thought about it. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been so I don’t know what’s good. Maybe the current issue of The Face and I.D. We get them a couple months late for some reason.
She jotted it down.
“But Jessie, I’m gonna be in New York when she gets here, so it won’t matter.”
“I’ll bet they cost a lot here. At least she can get them cheap. They’re only one pound seventy. Then I can mail them to you.”
They remained on the list.
Jessie was frightfully good at keeping her shit together when she was stoned. I was a basket case. I kept checking her little refrigerator because I heard a family of mice living in there. Jessie had a tiny black and white thrift store television. She put on the news. Iran was starting World War III. Not even Jessie could handle it. We switched to Channel 9 and watched old British comedies: “Are You Being Served?” and “Fawlty Towers”. The humor was stiff and dated. We laughed at the show, but not with the show. It took only a glance to set us off on another fit of giggles without reason.
Dad came home from his golf game in the early afternoon. He and Violet bickered in the kitchen. Jessie and I slipped out and walked to the Diggery Inn where she worked. I ordered a burger and fries. The cook was a Vietnam vet named Gerald. Everything made him angry, including my order. I sat at the counter and watched while he swore and cursed at the spattering fries. A Japanese man sat beside me and extended his hand. “Hi.”
“Hi. What’s your name?”
“Hai. My name is Hai.”
Gerald spun around. “Hai’s good people. He’s our gardener. Does a great job.”
I gazed out the window at the flower boxes. They were immaculate.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. Hai smiled.
“Thank you.” His accent was hard to place.
“Did you grow up in California?”
He nodded. “I came forty-five years ago from Japan when I was ten years old.”
That explained the Japanese accent. But there was southern in there too.
“Next year, 1942, they relocated my whole family to a camp in Arkansas. We lived there so long, we lost our house, everything. We had nothing to come back to. When they gave us each $25.00 and a bus ticket to Vallejo, we pooled our money, cashed in the tickets, and put a down payment on a house in Arkansas.”
I was blown away. “We put Japanese Americans in camps?”
Hai nodded. “I’m not surprised you don’t know. The US Government has tried to shove it under the carpet for years.”
“How did you wind up in Oakland?”
“After I graduated, I went to UC Berkeley. They gave me back my residency because of reparations, so it was free.”
Gerald piled my plate high with way too many french fries and a decent burger that was a too salty.
My aunt was gone for a long time. Whatever she had to discuss with the manager was long-winded. The waiter, Kirk, was tall and handsome. While I devoured my burger, I found myself staring at his butt while he moved about the restaurant.
Gerald caught me buttgazing. “Not another one!” he said. “Kirk, Jessie’s nephew has the hots for you.”
I turned crimson. Hai leapt to his feet.
“Gerald you’re a bigot and a bully!”
Gerald rolled his eyes. “You’re a jap traitor.”
Kirk came over. “What’s this all about?” He smiled at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “Gerald’s loco in the cabeza.”
Gerald smacked the spatula on the grill. “He’s a faggot. He was watching you.”
Kirk stiffened. “I’ll thank you to never use that word here.” He glared at the grumpy asshole chef.
Gerald turned around and went back to cooking. Kirk grabbed several plates of food and delivered them to hungry diners.
I returned to my discussion with Hai.
“Did the U.S. ever give you money?”
“Not yet. We demanded it, but they’re waiting until we’re all dead so they can afford to pay us.”
I whistled. “This country is fucked up. Ronald Reagan is a cunt.”
“Hey!” Gerald slapped the spatula hard. “I didn’t fight for my country in the jungles of Vietnam so you could talk shit about it.”
I’d had enough of Gerald’s shit. “I’m surprised you weren’t shot by your own squad.”
“I’ll kill you, little faggot.” He said it soft enough for Kirk not to hear.
Jessie came out of the back room. Her hair was in disarray.
Hai whispered in my ear, “She’s dating the owner.”
I nodded. It explained the long absence. Maybe I could talk her into firing Gerald. He backed down in her presence. Clearly, she had a lot of influence over him.
Aunt Jessie helped me finish my fries. We headed back up the block to Dad’s place. Dad was puttering in the kitchen, making the fixings for Shepherd’s Pie.
“It will be ready at six. I thought we all could sit down at the table and have a nice supper together.”
I loved my Dad’s shepherd’s pie. There was no way I was missing it.
“Where’s Violet?”
“She went home to her place to do laundry and change her clothes. She’ll be back in a couple of days.”
Jessie didn’t mince words. “You’re making a mistake.”
Dad frowned. “Pardon?”
“Don’t marry her. She’s another crazy lady, and you know it.”
Dad cleared his throat. “It’s too late now. Everything is in motion.”
It was an interesting response. It wasn’t “I’m in love with her” nor “This is what I want.”
“It’s not too late. You’re going to break Paidragin’s heart. Violet is heartless.”
In two weeks, Jessie had uncovered my father’s complexes and poor choices.
Dad heard an imaginary timer. “That must be the potatoes.”
He returned to the kitchen. I saw him take a Cadbury bar out of the fridge and eat a piece. He only did that when he was upset.
He called out from the kitchen. “La Wanda called. She wants us to come have a bite at her place tomorrow night.”
I was excited. La Wanda was one of the friends who stayed in touch with both my mom and my dad after the divorce. She was a prolific painter. Her house in the Berkeley hills was a hippy emporium of paintings, pottery, good food, and good marijuana. Jessie brightened.
We retreated into her room.
“A dinner at La Wanda’s without Violet.
She’ll talk sensibly. He listens to her. Help me, Ethan? I don’t want my brother stuck in another horrible marriage.”
Everyone knew my Mom was horrible. Jessie had heard tell but never met Melanie, wife number two. Melanie was terrifying. She had two daughters, Holly and Simonie, who were my stepsisters for a few years until the marriage ended in flames. One day Melanie caught me playing Barbie with them, and made a big deal about it. I was just bored to tears, and the Barbies could have been GI Joe for all I cared. But Melanie made my father sit down and talk to me about it. That year for Christmas, Melanie gave me a Barbie for Christmas. I threw it in the fireplace and ran out of the room. The next year, to make it up to me, my Dad bought me a giant mountain fortress filled with little green army men. Did nobody understand that I wanted Micronauts and a hand-held video game like Coleco Football or Microvision? I thought I had left clear hints.
The Barbie was Melanie’s doing, but the Mountain Fortress, Mount Navarone, was all Dad. He did not get me in the slightest. It was never so clear to me as the moment I tore the paper off the giant box, expecting something magical, and all I got was a mountain full of plastic men.
Melanie was fond of imposing arbitrary rules. No one can leave the house without her permission because there’s a murderer in Sacramento. We were in Santa Rosa, about 75 miles away. It seemed unlikely that the Golden State Killer was going to change venues. And none of us were teenage girls or grown women, his preferred targets. So, it was a surprise when Holly, Simonie and I asked her if we could play in the park across the street, and Melanie said “no.”
My evil stepsisters convinced me to ask my dad in the backyard, and we would go out the side gate, sneaking past our jailor. Of course, Dad said, “yes.” We snuck out and were playing hide and seek when a hand grabbed me by the collar and dragged me home. Holly and Simonie were in collusion: it was all Ethan’s idea.
“Allan, you’re going to have to discipline your son. I recommend a good beating.”
There was no trial before a jury. Melanie was Judge, Jury, Executioner. Her little shitty kids were the reason we were outside. I was a pawn in their diabolical game.
When I came home to Mom, she saw the defeated look in my eyes and decided to forbid me to see him anymore. That sealed my doom. Dad agreed it was best not to see me anymore. I ate everything in sight to numb the pain. It worked, but I got fat. I learned what the Mervyn’s “Husky” department was all about.
Seventh Avenue South Page 10
