My Incredibly Wonderful, Miserable Life

by Adam Nimoy

  But I can’t tell her because it is over. Even though Nancy and I are getting along, I know with absolute certainty there’s no going back. Nancy and I decided not to tell the kids until after Jonah’s Bar Mitzvah, which is coming up. These days I don’t even discuss divorce with Nancy.

  But when the Bar Mitzvah is over, a long, troubled marriage is finally going to come to an end.

  SMILE FOR THE CAMERA

  IN THE WINTER of 1967, it poured. My sister Julie and I came home from school one day and we were drenched. We still lived on Comstock, and when we got home there was a photographer waiting for us. This was after 16 Magazine published our home address as Dad’s fan mail address and, as usual, there were stacks of fan letters on the dining room table as well as the prefab autographed pictures. You could get a picture of Dad with or without Spock makeup, but the Spock pictures were the most popular.

  So we walked into the house dripping and Mom and Dad were there and there was this photographer waiting to take some family photos for a TV magazine, photos of the happy family answering all that fan mail. Julie and I looked at each other because we couldn’t believe it, and we turned to Mom and Dad. “We can’t take pictures. Look at us. We’re soaked!”

  Now, with me it wasn’t so bad—I could dry my hair and get on with it. But Julie . . . Julie had the most beautiful long brown hair and it was a mess. Dad was his usual energetic, blustery self. “Come on, it’s gonna be great!” Julie and I were laughing because it was so ridiculous. But we did it—and we smiled while we did it.

  But by far my favorite family picture was the formal portrait we took not long after we moved to Westwood in the fall of 1968. It was probably around 1970, and Dad was on Mission: Impossible. The photographer was setting up in the living room. Julie and I were in the kitchen griping about the fact that neither of us was in the mood. We were in our teens by then and maybe we were getting a little ornery, and we both had had enough of the picture taking.

  The house in Westwood was much bigger than the house on Comstock. My parents and Julie had rooms upstairs and I was downstairs with my own bathroom and a door to the backyard that three years later, Chris Kelton and company would occasionally plow through on a Saturday night looking to party. We weren’t living in such close quarters anymore and the family was drifting apart. I never really considered ours a “close” family anyway: It was more like there was Mom and Julie and then there was me and then there was Dad. He was rarely around because he was always either working or looking for work. Nor was he participating in the functioning of the family and Mom alone couldn’t make it happen. Add to that the drug and alcohol abuse that would soon consume the men in the family and then the long decline of my parents’ marriage and you have the quintessential dysfunctional family. And now we had to have our picture taken, and from Julie’s and my perspective, it was a little like, “Hell, no, we won’t go!”

  “Julie and Adam!” Dad was calling us from the living room. It was one of those calls where you weren’t supposed to answer, you were simply supposed to report for duty. But we stayed in the kitchen. My mother came to get us. She asked us to not make trouble. And so we went in.

  “Come on, it’s gonna be great!”

  But it wasn’t.

  And so we sat for the picture. And there wasn’t a smile among us. It’s my favorite family portrait. Because it’s the truth.

  MONICA

  I FELL FOR Monica the second she first walked into the Monday night meeting: beautiful face, long dark hair, tight jeans. I elbowed Justin, and when he saw her he nodded. Then she started coming regularly, and when she volunteered to take the coffee commitment, Justin and I turned to each other and said in perfect unison, “She’s in.” Monica has the most gorgeous body and legs that go on forever. And she’s got the postmodern-hippie-chick look down to a fine art: the toe rings, the sandals, the tight ripped jeans, the faux-diamond-studded belt buckle, the tank tops, the blouses, the corduroy jacket with just a hint of fur fringe, the Hello Kitty purse. I mean, sometimes I’d go to the meetings just to see what Monica was wearing. And best of all, she’s in her mid-forties! She has the lines of age—I’m a sucker for attractive women who have the lines of age. Sometimes I’d catch her looking at me and we’d smile at each other.

  After several weeks, I finally break the ice and start talking to her. From then on, all of our conversations are about . . . her. But I try to listen attentively and ask pertinent questions. And because my name starts with an A and I happen to be at the top of the Anonymous phone list, Monica will sometimes call to say she can’t be at the meeting and will I take her coffee commitment and she leaves these voice-mail messages that go on and on until she’s cut off. Then she calls back and continues on until she’s cut off again. And she smokes like a fiend—her car is like a moving ashtray. But I still like to look at her.

  One night I caught her staring at me probably because I was wearing a vintage, dark green paisley shirt that I’ve had for years. After the meeting, some guy went up to her to get a cheap thrill from a free hug, but she kept her eye on me. She quickly finished him off and came over. We held each other tight and I kissed her cheek and she told me how good I looked.

  That’s when I forgot who she was and began to think she could be mine.

  Sometimes I think I want her so badly that when I pass her apartment, I yell out her name, just in the privacy of my car, I scream out her name, “Monicaaaaaa!”

  And then I see myself standing in the rain, on the street, below her third-story balcony, calling for her, aching for her. “Monicaaaaa!”

  And she comes out and calls my name and we’d be locked in this torrential love hurricane.

  “Dude. Dude! She’s insane.” This is Justin’s mantra on Monica because he’s talked to her several times as well.

  But I stick it right back at him. “Dude, your girlfriend’s insane. She stalks you and hacks into your e-mail and calls me to find out where you are.”

  “Yeah, but I’d rather have Helena’s insanity then an AA chick’s insanity.”

  “Oh, man, that’s just fucking insane.”

  * * *

  I decide to call Monica and ask her to go clothes shopping with me to help me find some things. Clothes shopping with her seems innocent enough, like she’s just a friend helping me out. And she’s really into the idea and says she’ll meet me at the Santa Monica Promenade. She warns me she looks like a slob and to be prepared.

  And I get to the Promenade and she’s already there and I spy her from a distance and she is gorgeous: the tan Uggs, the tan legs that go on forever, the short blue-jean skirt, the tight white ribbed sleeveless T-shirt, the silver jewelry wrapped around her neck, that beautiful long brown hair.

  We’re in the Levi’s store and she’s looking at jeans and she asks me my size and then she picks out a pair for me, like she’s my girl and she’s been doing this forever. I try them on and I tell her they’re too tight.

  “How tight? Let me see.”

  She lifts my shirt and pulls on the waist and has her hands in my pants, real matter-of-factly, like she’s been doing this for years, like we’ve been a couple for years and she’s had her hands down my pants about a million times. But to me, it doesn’t feel like a million times, it feels like I’m getting turned on.

  I stand on the platform in front of the mirror and she has me turn to her and she kneels down to check out the length, and I look in the mirror and from my point of view, her back’s to the mirror and she’s on her knees and it looks like she’s going down on me. I look down to see all that silver jewelry lying on top of her breasts and this is really getting out of control: My blood is pumping and I’m starting to sweat and it feels like I’m hyperventilating and I have to bite my knuckle when she’s not looking to feel the pain so that I can get a grip and avoid the hard-on.

  After I buy the jeans, we walk to Starbucks for a cup of coffee. As we walk through the Promenade, it feels good to have her by my side. While we’re waiting in line fo
r coffee, I tell her I need a girl like her. She smiles in a way that tells me she might be willing to be that girl.

  That’s when I hear him again.

  “Dude, don’t do it. She’s insane.”

  She orders iced coffee and I get hot tea. She wants to sit outside and we walk to a nearby bench. We talk about her new job and her ex-boyfriend. Then she turns to me and says, “Do you want to go to a movie sometime?”

  The afternoon sun hits her in such a way that, for the first time, I can see her eyes are green, an opaque milky-white green. I’ve never seen eyes like that before. We’re sitting on a park bench on the Promenade and she’s asking me out on a date: tight T-shirt, silver necklaces, jean skirt, legs that go on forever—and she just asked me out.

  I look down at her hands because I need to breathe. And she’s sitting pressed against me on that park bench. I look down at her hands and then I look back up into those green eyes, those milky green eyes.

  “Yeah, a movie sounds great.”

  But wait a minute. There’s something on her arm. I thought I saw something on her arm. I look again.

  “Oh, that’s a cigarette burn. I did it to myself when my last boyfriend broke up with me. I was so depressed I wanted to hurt myself.”

  I take her arm and run my fingers over her scar, just to caress her arm, just to feel her insanity.

  Jonah calls me. He needs a ride home. I hug Monica good-bye and we go our separate ways.

  FATHERS AND SONS

  ON MONDAY MORNING I pick up Jonah and take him to school. I insist that we go to see his social studies teacher after school so we can all look through his class notebook. There’s going to be a notebook check next week, a big part of his grade, and notebook checks have been a problem for Jonah and it would be nice if he got it right this time, particularly because he has a solid D in Mrs. Graham’s social studies class. The D is actually an improvement over his last progress report in which he received an F, although I was mystified as to how he could be failing the class while also receiving an “Excellent” grade for his work habits and an “Excellent” grade for his class participation.

  It turns out Mrs. Graham made a technical mistake when inputting the grades and forgot to fix it and half the class received an F.

  Jonah says it’s because she’s “on crack.” Having taught at the school and having chaperoned a number of school field trips, I know Mrs. Graham can sometimes be “idiosynchratic,” but I’m pretty sure she’s not on crack. So I ask him not to repeat that comment. To anyone.

  We meet with her after school and she goes through his notebook and she’s very frustrated that there are so many assignments missing or incomplete. Jonah’s clearly embarrassed as he tries to explain himself. I try to humor her and assure her we’re going to get it together by next week, because the fact of the matter is, Mrs. Graham may not be on crack but she really is erratic and overbearing at times.

  When we finally walk out of her classroom, he hugs my waist.

  “Thank you so much, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You must hate me.”

  “Why would I hate you?”

  “You must think I’m stupid.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, just disorganized, and now that I’ve substituted here off and on all year I know that Mrs. Graham is also disorganized, and when you have two disorganized people you have trouble and that’s why I’m here to help you.”

  We get into the car and he leans against me and puts his head on my chest.

  “I really mean it, Dad. Thank you so much.”

  I hug his head and kiss him.

  * * *

  I’m in Carol’s office. She’s a licensed social worker I go to for therapy once in a while.

  “If your dad wasn’t around when you were younger, and there wasn’t such great modeling from him anyway, where did you learn your parenting skills?”

  “My mother. Her love has always been unconditional. And from my mother’s parents. My grandfather was very loving and so was my grandmother, even though she was this Jewish orthodox fruitcake who always yelled at my grandfather and treated my mother very badly in part because we didn’t keep kosher.

  “I also happen to come from the Rift Valley in East Africa, so I have the benefit of six million years of parenting evolution working for me.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that part of it.”

  “Most people don’t believe that crap. But I do.”

  REVELATIONS

  “DAD, WHY ARE you late!”

  It’s 7:10 AM as Maddy climbs into my car and we take off.

  “Maddy, I’m here every morning at seven sharp. This is the first time and we can still make it.”

  “I just can’t be late to school.”

  “You won’t be.”

  I push a couple of lights going down Overland Avenue and manage to get on the freeway in record time. But there’s traffic heading west on the 10, as usual, and I have to really focus to maneuver through it. Sometimes it gets hairy, especially when people make lane changes right in front of you and they’re going much slower than you are. Like the Toyota that just came out of nowhere without signaling so I have to slam on the brakes.

  “Dad, why don’t you honk at him?”

  “ ’Cause it’s not going to make any difference and I’m trying to help create a honk-free environment.”

  “Dad, James told me you’ve been going over to his house every Thursday night.”

  Talk about not signaling, I sure as hell didn’t see this coming. We’ve started a Thursday night meeting at Chris Kelton’s house and I’m the secretary. We meet on the back porch. Chris, his neighbor Michael, and two or three others have been showing up regularly. I knew I was going to have to tell Maddy sometime, I just didn’t think it was going to be now, while I’m dodging and weaving through traffic.

  “Dad, why are you going over to Chris and James’s?”

  “Because we’re having a meeting there, honey.”

  “What kind of a meeting?”

  “An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.”

  “You’re in Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  “I’ve been going to meetings for almost a year.”

  “Why are you in Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  I guess this is as good a time as any. I mean, Maddy’s fifteen now, and I know there’s been pot around, because they all start right around this age. I know I did. We’ve been going to therapy so this is something we are definitely going to get into. I’m pretty good at multitasking so while one side of my brain continues to focus on flying down the freeway, the other side takes the plunge.

  “Honey, I’m in AA because I used to smoke pot.”

  “I knew you used to smoke, Dad, but I thought that was a long time ago. When was the last time you smoked pot?”

  “Last year.”

  Surprisingly, Maddy doesn’t seem particularly fazed by this as she sits there in her sandals and cut-off jeans that are way too short.

  “Did you do it a lot?”

  “Too much.”

  “Why do you go to AA if you just smoked pot?”

  “Because it’s all related.”

  We’re off the freeway now and I manage to make it through two stoplights and get her to the drop-off lane on time. She pulls her stuff together and opens the car door.

  “Are you okay with what I just told you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how do you feel about it?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I have to think about it and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Do you need any money?”

  “No, Mom made me lunch. Who’s picking me up?”

  “I am. I’ll get Jonah first and then come and get you.”

  “Okay, Dad. See ya later. Loves you.”

  “I loves you too, honey. Have a good day.”

  * * *

  In the afternoon, I go to pick up Jonah from middle school. We stop at a Starbucks drive-through and t
here’s a bit of an incident because Kirsten is there, this pretty little blonde who’s wearing a puka shell necklace. Jonah’s had a crush on her since he started middle school. He wrote her a note saying he wanted to offer her his heart, but Maddy put the kibosh on that right away, explaining to him that Kirsten wouldn’t want him to say something like that.

  He still has a thing for her because he’s hiding in my car so she won’t see him.

  “Should I honk my horn and wave, Jonah?”

  “Dad, I swear if you do that I’m going to be so mad.”

  I know that a part of him wants me to do it but I let it go.

  We pick up Maddy. As usual, she’s starved when we get her, but today I don’t have my cold pack, so I agree to take them to a rib joint. We get there and decide what to order. Maddy looks up from her menu.

  “Dad, restaurants are really trusting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They let you order and eat the food before you have to pay.”

  “That’s kind of funny, honey. I guess you can look at it that way.” Then I reach over and squeeze her earlobe. “Maddy, you’re so cute. You got ears, Maddy. Jonah, Maddy’s got ears.”

  When I finish squeezing, and we finish ordering, Maddy looks to Jonah.

  “Dad’s in Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “What? You are? I don’t believe it! What’s Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  I answer him. “It’s for people who want to stop drinking alcohol usually because they drink too much and get drunk.”

  Maddy again. “Dad’s been going to Chris and James’s house for AA meetings. And you’re not drinking anymore, Dad?”

  “No, honey.”

  “Not even beer?”

  “Not even beer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like it anymore. I don’t need it.”

  “But I thought you said you smoked too much.”