That’s what he asked and Paul smoothly said, “I stage productions for people using computers and CG effects.”
The man squinted and looked at me. I guess to him we looked like an older yuppie couple, which I guess we are. Paul is forty-five and I’m forty-six. We never really think about our age, but sometimes when things get really bad I feel very old. I understand the pictures of those haggard women during the Depression with the babies at their feet as they stare into the distance wondering how they are going to keep going.
I had assumed life would go along as it had–high school, college, city life, suburban life. But Toby changed our whole concept. I don’t think there is a lot of justice in the world anymore. I see no justice in the cards Toby was dealt. Not having friends. Not being able to complete basic assignments in school and having to gulp down psychoactive drugs to just keep going. No. I don’t see justice.
I just see shit.
So I bought in. I wanted some justice for my son and if we had to create that justice then I was okay with that. Paul was putting our retirement and his inheritance on the line and he said if his mother were alive she would have approved. She always loved Toby very much, and using her money to buy him a best year in high school would have suited her just fine.
“Well…you give me two thousand dollars a month and you can do anything you want with this old place,” Mr. Greenjeans said.
Two grand melted into his hand and Paul and I were the proud renters of a hammer factory with water in the corners and God knows how many mice. But we needed space. It’s not easy to build someone’s best year in high school in one month, but you have to start somewhere. We were two people with advanced degrees and ready for a change. As a couple, we had flat-lined and entered that danger zone where men lose their minds and buy fast cars or run off with young women. Looking at our twenty-something assistant, I sometimes wondered who was really starting over.
TAKE A HIKE
PAUL
I STARED AT THE empty football field with Coach Williams. It was my old high school, but it did meet all of my conditions. The fact that this man had yelled at me thirty years before to attack tackling dummies did not faze me now. I needed a decent field and the lights snapping overhead buzzed like they might explode.
Coach Williams shook his head.
“Hasn’t seen any use for the last five years, but here she is. I still remember that touchdown pass you caught against Central. Man, that was a game.”
“That was a year,” I say.
Coach William is bald with a big gut. I put him around fifty. We stood somewhere around mid-field. It was just cruddy and overgrown with no trace of the moment where the world had changed for me. So much of life is like that now.
Coach Williams whistled lightly.
“I have to tell you Paul, putting on a high school football game is expensive.”
I didn’t tell Coach Williams, but Google and I had already covered what putting on a high school football game would cost. First you have field maintenance. You have the power for the lights. You have the cost of a fielding two teams. You have concessions. You have teachers working overtime to take tickets and police the students. You have to pay the coaches. You have the cheerleader uniforms and the cheerleader coach. You have tackling dummies and footballs and water and Gatorade and pads and eye shade and mouth guards and jockstraps and cleats and tape and chalk for lining the field and the chalk machine and the grounds crew and the referees and the moms and the programs and headsets and walkie-talkies and aspirin, and bottled water, and energy bars and Icy Hot and a trainer and advertising and a booth announcer and someone to videotape the game and buses for the teams and locker room costs.
You have stadium costs, which include garbage transportation and cleaning the stands to get ready for parents and students and whoever else you can cajole to attend a game that should have never happened in the first place. And if your football game is the Homecoming game then you need a parade and a Homecoming dance.
I stared at the windswept field, thinking about my own graduating class. I had fond memories of high school, but they are behind a Rust Belt town barely hanging on. I turned to my old coach.
“It’s perfect.”
Coach Williams gestured to that scarred and broken joke of a football field.
“Your funeral.”
PARENTHOOD
JULIE
YOU WANT TO KNOW how desperate we had become? We watched all one hundred and ten episodes of Parenthood. Paul and I would sit down in front of Netflix then Hulu when Netflix ran out, just like a couple of students. We studied Adam and Christina and their son, Max, who has that Asperger autism. We watched the way they navigated their problems, like when Max liked a girl and she didn’t like him back. Or when he would lose it because his schedule was altered or when he became enamored with photography and bugged the hell out of everyone at Hank’s photography studio where Hank turned out to be autistic too.
Or when they first found out that Max was autistic. The way they supported each other and found a special needs school for Max. The way Christina explained to Max that he was different than other kids, but in a good way. Then the way she courageously put him back into the mainstream school only to have it all blow up. I even considered starting a school for autistic kids, like Christina did. I mean you think about that when you are sitting in IEP meetings with teachers telling you what a screw-up your son is. I marveled at the way Christina would face down the principal who would tell her they were doing the best they could because Max was always being sent down to the office.
“Well your best isn’t good enough,” Christina would say, defiantly beautiful, tears brimming. And then she went and started a school and was able to shepherd Max through all his crises.
I am sure Paul admired Adam who punched out a man in a grocery store who said his son was retarded. And no one pressed charges. Christina would cry over the way Max wouldn’t hug her. She would cry when she heard the other boys making fun of him. My favorite episode is when she went on the playground and confronted four boys and took them down to Chinatown with their Justin Bieber haircuts. I had so wanted to do that so many times. Or when she went over to parents’ houses and pleaded for her son to be invited to a birthday party. Or when she had cancer and she accepted that Max still couldn’t think of anyone but himself.
And Adam. What a Saint. I never once saw him yell at Max. I never saw him lose his mind and have terrible confrontations when Max would throw a fit because breakfast wasn’t on time or someone didn’t do what they told him they were going to do. Adam would just smile and call him Buddy. Or was that Christina’s term? Maybe they both called him Buddy but they always managed by the end of each show to have a teachable lesson for Max where things turned out alright. I watched those shows all the way to the end thinking there had to be some pearl of wisdom I was missing with my own son. Sometimes I just wished I could jump into the television with Toby and we would have a teachable lesson after fifty-four minutes including commercials.
DEAL
PRINCIPAL HIGGINS
I HAVE HAD A lot of different people come into my office over the years. But I have to say the Clampets take the cake. First of all I could not quite figure what Mr. Clampet wanted. He and his wife hit me as these people from the city who hover over their kids like helicopters and don’t care about jobs going overseas and high schools closing as long as their kid gets his place at the special table.
But I listened. They have money.
“So Principal Higgins, my wife and I our willing to make sizeable donations to your various organizations, and we intend to start out by giving every student in your graduating class an iPAD.”
That is what he told me after he said his kid was coming to our school. Now Sycamore High has been on life-support for a while. Basically, we had run out of two things: kids and money. I figured we had maybe another year before they bused the kids to Hampton about twenty miles away. So why in the hell had this guy brought his
kid out from Chicago to go to this dying high school?
“Well that is very generous of you Mr. Clampet. It truly is.”
A man says he wants to load your kids up with a bunch of iPADs when you don’t have enough money to keep the toilet paper in the johns then you keep your cards close.
“You see my son has autism, Principal Higgins.”
“I am sorry to hear that Mr. Clampet.”
“Call me Paul.”
“Paul.”
There is a lot of that autism around now. And it seems these fellows with the goatees and tattoos with their pretty wives and their computer companies seem to have the most. I don’t know what it is.
“You see, Principal Higgins, my wife and I picked your school because I went here, and we are willing to help you out financially—but we need something in return.”
That was the other shoe I was waiting for.
“You see I want my son to have his senior year of high school here. I want him to have his best year.”
“Well, we want your son to have his best year too, Mr. Clampet,” I said easily.
“Very good. All I wish is that you keep an open mind and allow my wife and I to use our expertise and technology in your school to assist in giving my son the success he needs. In return I will give you the money for a football game, a Homecoming parade, and a Homecoming dance. Here are the three things I want my son to have.”
I put on my glasses and stared at the paper Paul Clampet handed me.
“Let’s see … catch a winning touchdown?”
Mr. Clampet nodded. “Yes.”
“Go to Homecoming?”
“That’s right.”
At this point I put the paper down and stared at Paul and his wife.
“We only have three hundred fifty students. We are barely able to field a football team, Mr. Clampet.”
“That’s okay. In fact, fewer kids is really better for our purposes … I’m also gonna need twenty-five kids to be greeters”
“Greeters?
“Ya, greeters. You know, say hello to Toby in the hallway. You’ll need to spread them out so they don’t all say hello at the same time. I’ll pay them twenty-five bucks each.”
I dropped the paper and leaned forward.
“Greeters? Football? We don’t even offer a lot of the activities you want your son to succeed in. Hell, the whole school is on life support and you want us to bend over so you can give your boy his special moment. I have other students who wouldn’t mind having all these things. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them they are going to have a football team again with a Homecoming and I am sure you have other special projects that need funding. Maybe a booster club or a PTA organization or something you see fit to invest in. I can always just wire the money into your account, Principal Higgins, and you can distribute it as you see fit.”
I stared at Clampet and felt my asshole pucker up.
“As I see fit?”
“Yes. No questions asked Principal Williams.”
I remembered this kid now. He was smart then; always playing the angles. I stared at him and shrugged. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth when you are fifty-five and looking at a pension that couldn’t keep a China man in tea. So, I acquiesced.
“Alright Mr. Clampet. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Fine. I would like to speak to the most popular girl, preferably a cheerleader and the most popular boy, preferably someone who has played football,.”
I nodded. “I can arrange that.”
RETARDO
PAUL
OKAY. I AM NOT Adam Braverman on Parenthood. Adam would never bribe a principal. When Julie and I watched those episodes I really marveled at the way the guy rolled with the punches. The only time he really lost it was in the grocery store when the guy called Max retarded. Pow! Just flattened him out right there. But other than that he would just smile and support Christina and Max through all the crazy shit that comes with having an autistic kid. I started to act like Adam at times. I even started to dress like him with checkered shirts and khakis and his all-American haircut. He could handle Max. He did not lose his shit ever with him.
I did. Over the years I would become frustrated and yell at Toby. Especially before I understood autism. You do that. You forget your son or daughter has anything wrong with them and you expect them to act normal. Adam was always able to keep front and center that Max couldn’t help being Max. He couldn’t help being offensive or self-absorbed or just plain crazy when things didn’t go his way. Adam would just smile and nod and say, “No problem Buddy.”
Even in the school for autistic kids that Christina started after having cancer and running for mayor, Adam was patient with the other autistic kids while he taught them to cook in the schools kitchen. How did he develop such patience? He had none of the guilt I have over the flare-ups with Toby where we yelled at each other toe-to-toe. This is what I mean. You can never forget your son has autism.
That is why I am sitting at a picnic bench at a Dairy Queen waiting for the two teenagers in my old hometown. There can be no other reason. I want to create a school for Toby like Christina did for Max. I want to create a school where he is liked and popular and where he catches a winning touchdown in a Homecoming football game and for one moment he can feel the success so many kids take for granted.
A lot of parents who don’t have a special needs kid wouldn’t understand this. They would think I am crazy to move and spend all this money. But I know Adam would understand. I wouldn’t mind having a beer with Adam Braverman. We would toast our beer mugs together and shake our heads at how tough it is to watch your son get the short end of the stick. He’s probably the only guy who would get it. Too bad he’s an actor.
NO PROBLEM
RANDY
I HATE THAT SHOW Parenthood. Everybody has beautiful homes and lives in San Francisco where it always seems sunny and not in some rustbelt shithole in Indiana. And all the kids go to Big Ten Schools or Ivy League and even when they screw up like Amber they still have a great life with a really cool loft where she can sit around and get laid and play her guitar. Modern Family is my show. Those two gay guys are hilarious. Especially the fat guy, although I don’t get why the hot Mexican chick is with the old guy.
Well, Macy and I want to go to Hollywood and get out of this bum-fuck town. I’m going to be a stunt man and she wants to get on some reality shows and then act in movies, which I think she can do. First of all, she is the hottest babe in Sycamore High. And second, she is a real bitch and I think that is exactly what you have to be to make it in Hollywood. We’ve done it a couple times and she is still a bitch. But her mom is a really crazy bitch.
So we meet this dude who looks like somebody off Parenthood at the DQ. You know, goatee and faggoty hair. Macy and I are sitting there in my truck when this guy pulls in his BMW and gets out and sits down at a picnic bench.
“Hello,” he says, when we get out of my truck.
“Hey,” Macy says in her cowboy boots and ripped shorts. I mean it was summer, but she could dress like a real slut sometimes, which makes her even hotter. Coach set it up and said this guy was going to put on a Homecoming football game for his retarded kid. Said he was going to have a Homecoming Dance and Parade. I am all for that. I mean I heard the school might not even stay open for my senior year. School is going to start in a like a week so we sit in the summer sun and watch the few cars going through town.
“My son is going to be attending your school and I want him to have a good year,” this guy says.
I’m pumped up on some Skoal and Macy is chewing gum like her mouth will never stop.
“I need him to be accepted by the popular kids and from what I have heard you two are at the head of the pack.”
Macy and I look at each other like we are the President and First Lady.
“I want my son to catch a winning touchdown in a Homecoming game and the coach tells me Randy, you were the quarterback before,” he says lookin
g at me.
“Yeah, but we don’t have a team anymore,” I say.
“I used to be a cheerleader,” Macy says leaning forward.
This guy, Mr. Clampet is his name, just nods slowly.
“Well. I need my son to be successful and success in high school starts with acceptance and that’s where you come in. I want you to help with having Toby accepted by his peers and there might be some other tasks I will ask you to perform.”
I shrug. Sure. I really am not sure what he’s talking about.
“Yeah sure.”
Then he pauses.
“I am willing to pay for your compliance.”
Coach said something about this. He said the guy was loaded and willing to pay. So I kick back and cross my high tops but Macy beats me to it. She pulls back her big mane of blond hair that I love to get lost in when we are doing it and says, “How much?”
Mr. Clampet looks at us and then says cool as a winter day, “I will pay you each five thousand dollars to cooperate with me and help my son have a great senior year. This would include insuring his acceptance, if not popularity. For you, Randy, I would ask total compliance in the Homecoming game, which will of course include the winning touchdown in the game. And for you, Macy, this might include going to the Homecoming dance with my son. If you are not comfortable with this—“
“I’ll do it,” Macy says and I just stare at her.
I had totally lost my buzz. Five grand! Yeah, Macy was down with that. I guess I was too, I mean as long as it didn’t involve doing porno or anything. I mean she is my girlfriend. We aren’t supposed to go out with other people. But five grand to go a dance with Mr. Retardo might be worth it. She just gives me a look like I will talk to you later. This Mr. Clampet is staring at me because he knows she is my girlfriend.
So I shrug.
“Sure. No problem,” I say.
My Best Year Page 2
