Fame Adjacent

by Sarah Skilton

  The place reminded me of Café Aurelie, my parents’ restaurant in San Diego. There were two outside tables and a small newsstand carrying local publications as well as the New York Times and Washington Post. Like Aurelie, this place was small, with four tables inside and a countertop where people could stand. The tables were all different shapes, sizes, and styles, from smooth mahogany wood to colorful plastic mosaics, giving the café a homey, curated vibe.

  Thick, fresh, lopsided scones sat in the display case. The lunch special, written on a chalkboard with calligraphic flair, was a pomegranate, goat cheese, and arugula sandwich. The cheese was sourced from an Amish goat farm in Fleetwood, Pennsylvania. My mouth filled with saliva and my stomach grumbled. The community message board had several tear-away phone numbers advertising a pet sitter, a computer expert, and a children’s swim class, as well as a flyer for an amateur stand-up comedy show tonight at a local bar.

  Wistfully, I thought it would be fun to go.

  Expenses for Thursday, April 23 (starting at $214.60)

  gas fill up ($55.50)

  engine failure (part + labor + gas) = 75.00

  coffee and sandwiches = 18.36

  money remaining = $8.86

  I grabbed a new napkin and wrote:

  Options:

  1. Hitchhike

  2. Steal a car

  3. Steal a bus

  4. Steal a train

  5. Put down roots here and form a new life

  I slid it over to Thom, hoping to make him laugh, but all he gave me was a haunted smile. His eyes were hollow, his demeanor that of a puppet whose strings had been cut. His confidence had disappeared, as though it had never been there to begin with.

  “Before I sold my car I had a Mercedes Convertible Roadster,” Thom said.

  “What color was it?”

  “Silver. And I kept it that way.”

  “What did it smell like?”

  “Like money,” he joked.

  “How did people look at you when you pulled up in it?”

  “Like they wanted to kill me or have my babies.”

  I smiled. He was loosening up, so I went in for the kill: “Did you hear Jon Hamm’s voice narrating your every move?”

  “Yeah, but that’s how my life always is.” He did an impression of the Mercedes ads, his voice low and luxurious like Hamm’s. “‘The Cheerios are on their last sawdust crumbles. Thom has a precious three and a half seconds to think of an alternative before Sammy Bear loses his mind and wakes the neighbors.’”

  Our sandwiches and drinks arrived on a tray and we divvied them up in silence.

  We’d about finished eating when Thom wiped his mouth and said, “What’s the biggest lie you ever told Lainey?” His blue eyes were intense, probing.

  “I once had to pretend the Marriott Courtyard water park in Anaheim was Disneyland. For two days.”

  “Why?”

  “I won a family pack of tickets to Disneyland on the radio, so Renee and I decided to take Lainey for her fourth birthday. But when we arrived, we found out the tickets had expired a month earlier. It had taken us that long to save up for the other stuff, like the hotel room and money for food and toys. So there we were, on our way out the door, but we couldn’t take another step. Two day-passes for three people would have set us back seven hundred bucks. And here’s Lainey with her Minnie Mouse doll staring up at us wondering what’s happening and why we aren’t leaving the hotel. I led her toward the exit and I veered left at the last second, outside to the hotel water park. It had a bunch of waterslides and pools, so it was exciting anyway, just not Disney-level exciting. I put on a whole act. ‘Guess what! Surprise! We’re already here! We get to live at Disneyland, and sleep here and eat here, too!’”

  “And she bought it?”

  “Keep in mind she’d never been to Disney, so she didn’t know what to expect. Renee was looking at me like I’d gone off the rails. We returned to the room after the ‘tour’ and plopped Lainey in front of the Disney Channel. She’d never seen that before, either, so I told her that only at Disneyland did they show nothing-but-Disney TV shows and movies, and while she sat there, Renee and I had a summit in the bathroom and plotted out what we were going to do, and how it would work.”

  “How did it work?”

  “It involved Renee sobbing a lot in private, and me spending eight hours a day at the water park outside our room with Lainey, never leaving hotel grounds, and limiting her interaction with other children, who at any moment might blow the lid off the whole thing. ‘She went on the teacups today? No, honey, that’s not a ride. She’s confused. She meant she and her mommy drank tea. Would you like to do that, too? Have some tea up in the room, our own little tea party, with teacups? Yay!’ It also involved me pretending to be different Disney characters, using cheap hair dye, and knocking on the door to play. To this day, Lainey thinks we took her and that the photos accidentally got deleted.”

  “That’s incredible.” Thom raised his coffee. “To the power of memory.”

  I clinked his mug with mine. “Or lack thereof.”

  He nodded vacantly, so I turned the question around. “What’s the biggest lie you ever told Sammy?”

  He pinned me with his gaze.

  “That his mother was coming back.”

  All the air left the café, and I finally found the courage to ask what I’d been wondering since I learned there wasn’t a Mrs. Thom.

  “Why isn’t Sammy’s mom in the picture?”

  He traced the rim of his coffee mug. “We weren’t together long. She didn’t want a baby, she was planning on a closed adoption, and I agreed at first, but then he was born, and…” Thom’s eyes misted up in wonder. “His hand was so tiny. It took all his fingers to grasp one of mine, and I didn’t want him to ever let go. I couldn’t imagine a day without him in it, now that I’d met him. And God, his eyes. He looked at me with such trust, and I wanted to live up to whatever it was he saw in me. She was in and out of our lives for a while, but when he turned three she split for good. Some people aren’t cut out for parenting.”

  He didn’t need to tell me that was when Sammy’s night terrors started.

  “When you realize you’re all somebody’s got in this world, that the whole thing’s on you, there’s no partner, no teammate, no backup…it’s terrifying,” he admitted.

  “You’re a great dad.”

  He averted his eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder. He’s not officially on the spectrum, but…for a long time, one wrong move on my part was a disaster.”

  I’d seen plenty of kids—boys in particular—with similar behavior. I gave Thom my entire attention. “Sensory issues, that sort of thing?”

  “Everything was too much. The sun was always too bright, but he couldn’t bear the way hats or sunglasses felt against his face. And his clothing was too textured, or too rough. I had to cut off every tag right at the edge, and wash new T-shirts and jeans twenty times to soften them up, and he couldn’t tolerate drawstrings or adjustable waists but he’s such a skinny little dude finding pants to fit him was impossible. Eventually I figured out I could go to thrift stores where the clothes were already worn down. Even if sometimes he looked unkempt or uncared for, I knew it was for the best. And his socks—Jesus—they couldn’t be wrinkled, or pulled above the ankle, because that meant they might not line up perfectly with each other. He’d spend ten minutes ‘fixing it’ so we’d never get out the door. There were so many things to remember, so many rituals, and if I forgot one, he’d scream like he was on fire.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “All I could do was wrap him in a bear hug and hold him quietly until he calmed down.”

  Sammy Bear.

  “That must be tiring.”

  “I hate complaining about it, because he doesn’t do it on purpose. And he’s gotten better than he used to be.” He shook his head, and laughed a bit ruefully. “What if I show up tonight and my parents say, ‘Everything was fine, Sammy’s so easy, we hav
e no idea what you’re talking about.’ It’s not that I want the time they spent with him to be hard, but I want them to understand what I go through, see it firsthand. Because if he isn’t that way with them, if he’s only that with me, that means I’m the problem.”

  “You aren’t,” I assured him. “Kids are the way they are, and all we can do is love them. Which you’ve done. Which you’re continuing to do.”

  I slowly reached across the table, giving him time to move his hand. When he didn’t, I held it, lightly, in mine. We stayed like that for a few minutes, enjoying our closeness and the comfort that a simple touch could provide.

  “Speaking of my parents, I guess we better do this, huh?” he asked.

  I should’ve known it wouldn’t take long for him to reach my same conclusion, that we needed their help. He was practical and pragmatic.

  I was surprised when Thom put them on speakerphone, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. We’d invited each another into our lives in countless ways since we’d met. Considering how wary he was of introducing new people (new women) to his son, I felt a spark of pride that he’d brought me into the fold.

  His parents answered on the third ring.

  “Hi, Thom, we just got back from dropping Sammy off at camp. He’s excited to get his outdoor cooking badge.”

  My heart swelled. They did Scouts. I wondered if Thom was involved. He’d be a great leader for the boys.

  Thom swallowed. I wished, cowardly, that they weren’t on speakerphone. But I couldn’t get up and walk out, either. He was correct to include me.

  “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Holly again.” I did a little wave, which was pointless since we weren’t FaceTiming and they couldn’t see me.

  “Hi, Holly. Nice to hear you again.” (The Mom.)

  “What time do you think you’ll be getting back tonight?” (The Dad.)

  “That’s what we’re calling about,” Thom said, mussing up his hair with tense fingers. He hated this; and because of that, I hated it, too.

  “The car broke down, actually, so we’re going to need a ride,” he explained.

  A pause. “How far out did you say you were? We’ll need to swing by camp and pick up Sammy first. He’ll be disappointed to miss it, but…”

  “You know what, we don’t have to plan this yet,” I blurted out.

  Thom gave me a look like, What are you doing? but kept his trap shut.

  “We’re still waiting to hear if the mechanic has the parts. I have an appointment tomorrow night in the city I can’t miss, but let’s wait and see what happens in a few hours. Don’t cut his campout short. Can we give you a call first thing in the morning?”

  “Okay, we’ll wait to hear from you,” Thom’s dad said slowly.

  Thom stared at me.

  “‘Thanks, love you,’” I whispered, as a prompt.

  “Thanks, love you,” he repeated, addressing his parents but looking at me.

  I ended the call before he could stop me.

  “Why yank Sammy from the campout unless we have to? They can drive up tomorrow, it doesn’t have to be tonight.”

  “But we don’t have anywhere to stay. We’re down to eight dollars. What are we going to do?” But his mood seemed lighter, which told me it was the right thing to do.

  “Guess we’ll have to pull an all-nighter, see what the town of…where are we again?”

  “Harrisburg.”

  “…Harrisburg has to offer.”

  “You know what’s funny? I’ve been to this town before. I built a skate park north of here about ten years ago.”

  I smacked my hands on the table with excitement. “Let’s go see it. Will you show it to me?”

  11

  “Dropping,” yelled a voice. Wheels hit the pavement hard, amid a rumble of teenagers.

  “Sick,” another voice called.

  Freed from school for the afternoon, the teenagers of Harrisburg slid and turned and scraped their wheels with abandon against the concrete. No matter how many times the horse threw them, they got back on, started over, and tried again.

  Thom and I settled our comparatively creaky bones in the bleacher section to watch. The walk there had taken nearly two hours and we were beyond beat.

  “How’d you go about building this place?” I asked. My forehead and the spot between my breasts were damp with sweat.

  Thom watched his protégés with rapt interest. “There was an abandoned school the local kids used for their hangout, the parking lot mostly, where they could use the railings and ramps, and when it got torn down they had no place to skate. I got a call from the city council, who had recreational funds to spend before the fiscal year ended, and they wanted ideas. I sold them on the skate park eventually, but it took a few weeks. They were worried it would become a locus of drug dealing, or the kids would get injured and sue the city. I took care of that with some lawyer-approved plaques stating the rules they’d agreed upon.”

  When I squinted, the skate park looked fantastical, otherworldly, as if the crested waves of an ocean had frozen in peaks at their greatest height; a winter wonderland of snowdrifts and smooth surfaces. The endless combinations of danger and surprise called out to anyone possessed of wheels to coast along the beautiful, alien landscape.

  A short, skinny kid slid up, balancing low on his board, out of nowhere. He sported what I thought of as the quintessential skater haircut: long and parted in the middle.

  His fierce, skeptical expression suggested he was about to confront us. Indeed, the first words out of his mouth were an accusation. “Hey, Pedos, where’s your wheels?”

  “‘Pedos’?” I repeated, astonished.

  “It means—”

  “I know what it means.” I served up my sternest, most no-nonsense “adult voice.” “Do you know who this is?”

  His eyes darted between me and Thom. “No.”

  “He built this place. He is your god.”

  Another kid, older and taller, with thick dark hair, swooped over and executed a “stop” motion, lifting his board into his hand and jumping onto the first rung of the bleachers. The landing reverberated up the rest of the steps, making them vibrate.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, he built it?” the first kid asked me.

  “He designed it, and created it, and now it exists. For you guys.”

  “Really?” The second boy, the one with dark hair, looked impressed.

  “Really. His name’s Thom Parker.”

  “Hey, guys.” Thom nodded.

  The second boy puffed out his chest. “I’m Braden. I’m in charge of the place Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Good looking out, man.”

  “How come we have to wear helmets?” the first kid wanted to know, gesturing toward a plaque. “It’s a shit rule.”

  “Don’t be a turd,” Braden chastised him. “And don’t say ‘shit,’ there’s kids here today.”

  He jerked his chin to one of the less intimidating sections of the skate park, where some boys who looked about a year younger than Braden practiced.

  I looked over at the plaque Braden had pointed to. One warned skateboarders, in-line skaters, and BMX bikers that they used the park at their own risk, and that by using it they agreed not to hold the city responsible for any injuries. Another stated the rules:

  1. NO PROFANITY, NO GRAFFITI, NO ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, OR DRUGS

  2. KNOW YOUR ABILITIES

  3. HELMET AND PADDING REQUIRED

  A third was a platitude: YOU DON’T STOP SKATING BECAUSE YOU GROW OLD. YOU GROW OLD BECAUSE YOU STOP SKATING.

  I tried to imagine Thom as he might have been ten years ago, when he built the park. Before Sammy. Before online gambling. He would have been twenty-six. Already a successful businessman and consultant, meeting with politicians and local governments and convincing them they’ve got trouble—right here in River City. Only, unlike Harold Hill, Thom’s presentations were sincere. Who needed Seventy-Six Trombones when you could have a sk
ate park? Warmth blossomed inside my heart, the way it had when I’d watched his TED Talk. Nobody knew who he was. He’d never sell out Madison Square Garden or adorn some teenager’s bedroom wall or be interviewed by James Corden. But this town was a better place because of him. The kids who lived here and used his park had better day-to-day lives because of him.

  Meanwhile, at twenty-six, I’d been changing Lainey’s diapers and waiting for J. J. to call. Most of my twenties was spent waiting for J. J. to call.

  The “shit”-talking skeptic peeled off from us and slammed his board down with a running start, hopping on it in a motion that suggested catching a train that had already left the station. He couldn’t resist looking back to see if Thom was watching.

  There was something fearless and romantic about skateboarding. These kids launched themselves into the air; one wrong move and they’d fall onto thick, solid, man-made concrete, breaking one or more of their bones. Each and every time. And before they could register what they’d accomplished, upon landing they had to crouch and weave and prepare for the next obstacle. The danger, speed, and freedom seemed like a rush.

  “This place delivers, dawg,” Braden said. “Thanks. How’d you lay it out?”

  “When I’m sketching the design, I always base a portion of it on Burnside. The vibe, the style, the architecture. Pay my respects that way.”

  “You skate?” Braden asked Thom.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Not anymore,” Thom said at the same time.

  “He does, though,” I insisted. “And he’s good, too. Why do you think it’s such a gnarly park?”

  Braden and Thom shared a look, aghast.

  “No one says ‘gnarly,’” Thom laughed.

  “No one,” Braden agreed.

  “If you’re not going to show me any tricks, I’ll have to try it myself.” I stood and stretched. My calves ached from the long walk, and I was pretty sure I’d gotten blisters on both my heels, but I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to ride on a Thom-created ramp. I gestured to Braden’s board. “May I?”