The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  “Sir, I meant no offense. You see…”

  “Meant no offense?” Jen’s father laughed. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it Dave? After all, you’ve gotten my daughter in trouble. My daughter, mind you. And as if that isn’t bad enough, you get her kicked out of school by insisting she spend time with you, rather than attending to her classes and studies.”

  “I got her kicked out of school?” Like some cartoon character, my jaw literally dropped straight down. “Mr. Canton, I constantly urged Jen to pay more attention to her courses…”

  “Now, now, Dave, it’s a little too late for that sort of…what shall we call it… prevarication, now isn’t it?” Now the Canton patriarch leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. “It’s too late for a lot of things. Like my daughter’s honor, for one!”

  “Your daughter’s honor?” Genuinely confused, I just shook my head. Believe me, Jen’s “honor” had been taken long before we’d met. Actually, she’d first done the deed as a 15-year-old babysitter with one of her father’s architectural partners, a detail Mr. Canton was obviously not acquainted with.

  “But look, that’s all in the past, right? What’s done is done.” Nodding firmly, he then sat back, eyeing me intently. “The question now, of course, is where do we all go from here?”

  I said nothing, just waiting. Clearly, this was more speech than conversation, and any utterances on my part just seemed to irritate him. Gathering himself, Mr. Canton then went on.

  “You know, Dave, that I’m an architect. I build things. I create something of great use and comfort, whereas before, there was nothing!” Warming to his theme, he lurched forward. “I built the very structure that you’re sitting in now. The home that housed and protected my innocent Jennifer throughout her babyhood and teenage years! The very home that you had so much trouble finding this very night, despite my daughter being right there in the car with you to guide the way!”

  I sat back, sighing.

  “Dave, I think you’ve made a terrible mistake,” Canton went on, eyes boring into mine. “I think you saw my sweet, intelligent, capable daughter on the Buffalo campus last fall, and you decided she was an object of pleasure. You decided she was something to be used and tossed away.”

  “Mr. Canton, please…”

  “You couldn’t be bothered with using birth control, despite my daughter’s pleading with you to show some fucking self-restraint!” Half-standing, Canton’s finger shot out at me. “Don’t think I don’t know what you did, David! My wife got the whole story out of Jennifer on the phone last night! My daughter, David!”

  With his voice raised, Mr. Canton’s voice carried throughout the entire house. This drew Mrs. Canton into the study, warning her husband to keep calm. Ten minutes of fussing and water drinking later, Jen’s father seemed somewhat more relaxed. Mrs. Canton retired once more, leaving the two men alone.

  “You see, David, I’m an architect,” Jen’s father repeated, pushing the water glass aside. “The noblest profession in the world. Architects build structures of strength and endurance! But they have to be constructed properly. That way each structure lasts for a lifetime, providing security and protection, whereas before, there was nothing.”

  “I see. But Mr. Canton, you have to understand…”

  “People’s lives are like buildings, David. Without the proper foundation, they crumble and fail.” Nodding sagely, Jen’s father tapped the desktop. “It’s too much to ask a sweet, innocent girl, like my daughter, to have a child out of wedlock. That’s not the proper foundation for a successful life.”

  Then things got really nasty. Jen’s dad basically insisted I propose to his daughter that night. We could all go out tomorrow and get engagement rings. Why, he knew a church and banquet hall they could get on short order. As an architect, he could get us a great deal on a house. It was all settled.

  But I firmly told him I wasn’t ready to take that step, that things were still up in the air. I wouldn’t have proposed that night anyway, but Jen’s crazy claims about school and birth control really had me steamed. No, nothing was decided. Marriage wasn’t a given, not tonight, or possibly not ever.

  Originally I was going to stay in the Canton’s guest room, but when Jen’s dad again began yelling I just left, stalking out the front door and down to my car. Mrs. Canton went in to attend to her husband. Jen came rushing after me.

  “Dave,” she yelled, skidding to a halt by the car. “Where are you going?”

  “Away,” I replied, getting in the driver’s seat.

  “No, Dave, please! Daddy’s just upset, that’s all.”

  “Did you tell them I’ve been pressuring you into having sex against your will?” I demanded, staring up at her. “That it’s my fault you got kicked out of school?”

  “Well…” Shrugging, Jen rolled her eyes. “I mean, look Dave, what was I supposed to tell them? I mean, they’re my parents.”

  Stunned and exhausted, I pushed her away. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Dave, wait!” she wailed.

  But I just pulled out and drove off. It definitely wasn’t my proudest moment, but the Canton’s were being heavy-handed jerks, and clearly Jen would be of no help.

  So I checked into some cheap motel and cried myself to sleep. I didn’t know where my life was going, but this definitely wasn’t the plan.

  STEVE LEVINE

  Many people are curious as to why I’ve never married or had kids. I’ve told everybody the exact same thing, but no one seems to understand. Maybe it will make more sense here.

  Have you ever seen a family in a restaurant, two or three kids, the guy’s maybe 30, his wife a few years younger? Look at the guy’s face. It’s seven o’clock, he’s worked all day, and the kids are acting like little hooligans. Yelling, fighting, throwing napkins…the whole deal. He can’t stand it, but there’s no escape.

  The wife is completely consumed with the kids, staring in rapt concentration as they color the place mats. Oh, honey, that looks so nice! Is that a choo-choo train? Oh, how wonderful! Not even a glance for her husband.

  The waitress comes over, the wife briskly orders for the kids and then herself. Only when she’s done does her husband quietly order something for himself. Miserable, he runs a hand through his hair, feeling like the world’s biggest tool. It’s all gone horribly wrong and he knows it.

  Well, guess what? I never want to be that guy.

  I see the marriage delusion for what it is. Two people decide to get hitched because they think it will make them happy, then quickly get bored and tired of one another. A few years later they have children because, well, that’s what they’re supposed to do, isn’t it? And surely children will make them happy, right? But the kids only add pressure to an inherently faulty relationship. It all goes downhill from there.

  Look, these guys love their kids, I’m not saying they don’t. And on the good days, it’s all right. But there are plenty of bad days, and even bad weeks and bad months. The truth is, a lot of these “family men” feel duped.

  And women go through the same thing. What do you think postpartum depression is? Girls are told their whole lives how wonderful it is to be a mother. So they get married and pregnant. Then they spend nine months feeling sick, worrying about money, and wondering where their husbands are. But don’t worry. You’ll be happy soon.

  Then these women go through a harrowing physical ordeal resulting in a crying, demanding, sleep-depriving demon that not only doesn’t make them happy, it steals away the life they’ve always known. It’s like quitting your job because you won the lottery, only to find out you’re being paid in Monopoly money. I’d be depressed too.

  Ah, but you’re saying that’s only when they’re younger! Once the kids grow up a little bit, they become the wondrous bundles of joy everyone expected, right?

  Guess again. There’s nothing like being an in-home salesman to shed light on the real state of the American family.

  Like I’ve said, my job entails going to peop
le’s houses for preset appointments to demonstrate my company’s water treatment system. I’ve been in maybe a thousand homes, with a thousand families. Just about every child I’ve seen under the age of ten is fucking out of control. I mean, it’s just unreal.

  Here’s a perfect example. Just last night I tried to do a demo. It was a nice home, the parents both professionals. We sat down at the kitchen table and I began my spiel. They seemed to like what they were seeing.

  Five minutes in, their 4-year-old marches out of his bedroom, stands about three feet from me, and begins yelling at the top of his lungs, a look of maniacal glee painted over his chocolate-smeared face. After twenty uncomfortable seconds of this their little demon then begins running around the table, screaming and crying about wanting a pet iguana.

  The parents stared at me, never once glancing at their child. Obviously, they were at their wit’s end.

  It’s almost as if these people are under siege from their own progeny. I’ve seen more fits than I care to recount. These kids demand food, water, games, paper, pencils, dogs, cats, lizards, chewing gum…whatever they can think of. They throw things. They break things. They drop their pants, eat cat food, poke their hands in the garbage, haul shitty toilet paper around, draw on the walls, push their fingers in wall sockets…anything, and I mean anything, to get attention.

  Often there’s something in the house they’re not supposed to touch, like the stove, so they touch it continually, prompting mommy and daddy to yell at them a little bit. Then they can scream and rush off like the little mental patients they are, only to return five minutes later holding the delicate vase from upstairs they’re not supposed to handle. More crying and yelling, but it never ends. I don’t know how these parents keep their sanity, I really don’t.

  Actually, I’d like to offer a blanket apology to every parent I used to insult on the air who put their kid on some type of prescription drug. Hyperactive? I’d scoff. Please. That’s just bad parenting. Read to your kids. Throw a ball around. Do something. But just doping your kids up isn’t the answer.

  Well, let me tell you. After seeing these hellions in action, I freely admit I’d give mine all the medications the doctors could possibly prescribe. I’d push it right up to the legal limit, and I wouldn’t stop until I saw a dull haze creep across their maniacal young faces. Then I’d shove them into a bedroom and close the door for a few fucking minutes of peace and quiet.

  (Of course I’m kidding. Those medications are the ultimate parental cop out, and I’d never give my kids anything that wasn’t an absolute medical necessity. What children need most of all is unconditional love, something most of them obviously don’t receive.)

  I’ve seen parents try to strike bargains with their kids, saying something like “Johnny, if you stop yelling and screaming, Mommy will give you ice cream! Won’t that be wonderful! Let Mommy and Daddy talk to this nice man here without interruption, and you’ll get ice cream! How does that sound?”

  But this kind of bribery never works. Johnny then simply yells and screams for his ice cream immediately, further delaying the demo. Now nothing will do until Mommy gets him some ice cream, which he then spills on the floor, or throws at the dog, or tries to drown his sister with. Then both kids just yell and scream some more.

  Other parents have this bizarre notion that counting somehow means something to their kids. It goes something like this:

  “Johnny,” a mother might sternly intone, “stop pounding on the television with your baseball bat!”

  Johnny ignores her, continuing to hit the tv with his baseball bat.

  “Johnny!” Now incensed, the mother half-rises. “Stop it! One, two, three! I mean it, Johnny! Four, five, six! Stop it now!”

  I mean, what’s with the counting? It never works. Johnny won’t stop doing whatever he’s doing until someone gets up and physically takes the bat from him. Like I said, all these kids are out of control. Literally out of control.

  Many of these children clearly need professional help. In one house the kid was running around the room, actually crashing into the walls with sickening thuds. I mean, I thought he was breaking bones. Each time mommy had to get up and tend to him. The parents assured me it was all right. He did this all the time.

  Another salesman told me some kids began peeing all over the floor right in front of him. Can you fucking imagine that? What do you say? Johnny, stop peeing on the floor! One! Two! Three! I mean it, Johnny! Stop pissing right now! Four! Five! Six! I just can’t imagine living like that.

  And the sad thing is the parents get it now. Kids don’t make them happy, at least not at this age. Sure, fast-forward fifteen years and they’re proudly graduating high school, headed off to some Ivy League college on a full scholarship. But now? It’s just a daily struggle to stay sane.

  Actually, on maybe half-a-dozen occasions, as the wife is off corralling her demon-spawn yet again, the husband and I would be left sitting at the kitchen table. Taking a sip of coffee (proudly made with the magic water), he’d quietly ask if I have kids.

  “No,” I’d admit, trying to regretfully shrug, as if really missing something. “No, I don’t have any children.”

  “Keep it that way,” these guys always say, like some health official advising students to maintain their HIV-negative status. “Don’t have any kids. It’s better for everybody.”

  I’ve even had old people express regret over their kids. About six months ago I demoed a couple in their mid-60's. They couldn’t buy a system because of a sudden money crunch brought on by their adult son. In fact, the guy had just bailed his 35-year-old kid out of jail on a drug charge, also promising ten thousand dollars for their grandchildren’s back child support.

  “You know,” this older guy said, pensively staring out the back window, “if I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t even have kids.”

  To my surprise, his wife nodded agreement. “It’s true,” she added, “when you’re our age, you think of all the things you wanted to do, that you didn’t do, because of your children.”

  “Oh, I love my children, don’t get me wrong,” the old guy continued, “and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, but still, you wonder sometimes…what would my life have been like without kids? I would have taken trips, taken chances, been more adventurous…”

  I’ll say one thing about spending time around older people. It really does drive home the fact that life is to be lived. I don’t want to be an old person sitting around wishing I’d been more adventurous.

  “…but with a family, with responsibility, that’s just impossible.” Sighing, the old guy shook his head. “And then I think of my son. He’s never amounted to anything. Drugs, crime, three divorces, getting fired from every job he’s ever had…it’s just been a nightmare.”

  Actually, I don’t think my kids would be out of control. I still don’t anticipate having any, but if I did, I would love them the way they need to be loved. Without anger, without remorse, knowing full well the sacrifice I would be making in taking on the responsibilities of parenthood. My kids would feel love rather than resentment. That much I could give to them.

  But don’t have kids because you feel it automatically grants some kind of grand purpose. I mean, really think about all you’re giving up, and whether you really want to live that kind of life. Otherwise it won’t work, and is ultimately unfair to everyone involved.

  HAYLEY SYKES

  Look, I’ve thought about Steve’s project, and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I will write a regular column, like they have on the internet, on interesting stuff.

  I wanted to call it a blog, but Steve said blogs are just columns for losers, and anyway it would have to published online to be a blog. Steve can be a real tard sometimes. Whatever.

  First of all, as of this writing (I’ve always wanted to say that!) do you know there are some basic things about our world that we don’t understand? For example, we don’t know what causes gravity. We know gravity exists. We can measure it, quantify
its effects. But what is it? Or more importantly, what causes it? We have no idea.

  When you think about it, most of the world’s problems will be solved when we discover how to artificially counter gravity! Anti-grav transportation would not only be dirt cheap, but would end our dependence on fossil fuels as an energy source. Construction costs would be slashed. Once freed of the earth’s gravity, space travel would become simple! I mean, the list goes on and on. Discovering the secret to gravity would spark the greatest technological revolution of all time! I hope I’m here to see it.

  But have scientists solved gravity yet? No, they haven’t. I think that’s bullshit.

  Actually, think of all the things scientists have declared to be “facts” that they’ve later had to revise! Go right back to the tards who said the earth was flat. At the time it made sense. I mean, why not? It looks flat. They even made fancy maps showing the flat earth and all the sea monsters that would eat you if you tried to sail off the edge!

  Now that was a kicker! What? You doubt the earth is flat and there are sea monsters? Well, let me show you my map! That’s a flat earth, and that’s a sea monster. Go fuck yourself. It’s on the map.

  Same thing with dinosaur bones. You go through these museums and someone has painstakingly put together these huge dinosaur skeletons, right? With these authoritative plaques telling you exactly what this dinosaur did, and when he lived, and who he ate, and everything! And to do that someone had to go to dinosaur school, find the bones, scrape them off, put them together…I mean, it’s a lot of work, right?

  And then you know what happens? You discover your supposed predator dinosaur was really a vegetarian, or you’ve actually combined bones from two different dinosaurs, or maybe misjudged the age of your dinosaur by a few billion years. So now you have to sneak into the museum in the middle of the night and fix your bullshit dinosaur, or maybe write a new plaque, or just scrap it altogether. See what I mean?