In Real Life

by Lawrence Tabak

  “Seth,” Dad says as he throws himself onto the couch next to me. To tell the truth, he doesn’t look great. Hasn’t shaved, hair mussed, oozing the smell of smoke and booze.

  “Mom sold the house.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t believe it at first either. Apparently she and that goofball with the ponytail—what’s his name?”

  “Martin.”

  “Yeah, Martin. Anyway, they’ve decided to move into this Institute in California she’s gotten involved with. So she’s sold the goddamn house. Put it up for sale about $20k below market, took the first offer a week later.”

  “She can do that? I mean, you don’t have anything to say?”

  “Nah, that’s not even the problem. She can have the frickin’ money from the house. She was the one who needed to have a kitchen as big as this apartment. Counter space for the take-out, I suppose.”

  “But what about my stuff?” I had a whole closet full of clothes that I didn’t wear and boxes of stuff that I hadn’t looked at in years. But I bet those Magic cards were worth a small fortune.

  “Seth, I promised I wouldn’t say anything until she talked to you, so I would appreciate it if you kind of played along when she calls. You’ll have plenty of time to clear out your stuff.”

  It was late and I was pretty burned out from the tournament. Maybe I was missing something.

  “And, Seth, there is a bit of a bonus in this.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mom wants us to keep the van. Since we have a two-car garage. I’ll need you to help me get rid of some of the junk down there. To make room. She says she’s not sure what she wants to do with it yet. So the way I see it, no reason you shouldn’t be able to drive it, after you get your license. When you’re around.”

  I shake my head, like maybe I had heard that wrong.

  “I get to drive it?”

  “I told her that we were spoiling you, but she insisted.”

  That sounded like a really good trade to me. I get to live in one place instead of two. And get a car. Who cares if it’s a dorky looking mini-van? It has a radio, a CD player and air conditioning. I could even drive it to school. Get home faster and practice more.

  “Nice.”

  “That’s it?” Dad says. “Nice?”

  “Extremely nice,” I add with a big grin that says it all. But hadn’t he said something odd? About when I was around? I mean, when am I not around?

  “Seth.” Dad was looking at the floor now, not at me. “This is where it gets a little more complicated. Mom thinks that living here, full time, it wouldn’t be the best thing for you. You know how much I’m gone, and your mother thinks it would be better for you to make the move with them to California.”

  “California? Are you kidding? Living with Mom and that, that guy? Why can’t I just stay here with you? I’ve been spending most of my time here anyway.”

  Dad shakes his head. “I know, I know. That’s exactly what I told your mother. But you know how she is…”

  “I know I’d go crazy living in some yoga institute. I can’t even touch my toes.”

  Dad looks up at me, chuckles.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not like that, Seth.”

  “OK, then you move there.”

  “I know,” he mumbles. “I know.”

  In the background I hear the TV. A professional voice from an ad for a local used car dealer saying, “No credit? No problem!”

  “Listen,” Dad says. “Mom is going to talk to you. She thinks that it would be good for you to go with her. That you could, and I quote, ‘develop spiritually.’ And one thing I agree with—it would at least get you away from that goddamned computer.”

  I had heard Mom talk about the Institute and I pictured a bunch of cabins stuck into a side of a mountain and people walking around in white robes and sitting in circles, meditating for hours.

  “Dad, you can’t let her do that to me. I’d go nuts.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her. But you’re going to have to make the case yourself. You know she doesn’t agree with a damn thing I say. She wants you to at least make a trip out there and see it for yourself. She tells me they’ve got an excellent high school right on the premises.”

  I can only imagine what kind of high school that would be. The curriculum would probably be all yoga, Zen meditation and mantra memorization, with breaks for tofu and organic greens. I’m sure there wouldn’t be a computer within miles.

  So when Mom calls later that night we have an hour shout fest. She and her boyfriend are living in some sort of apartment at the Institute and they want me to move in. They’ve got this sort of porch room that I’d have all to myself. I manage to get her to admit that not only is there no broadband at her place, there’s not even a TV.

  “Honey, it will be so good for you,” she says. “Think of it as a fresh start. I’ve toured the high school and the teachers are just amazing. It’s nothing like what you’re used to. They’ve got an integrated curriculum that focuses on developing the entire spiritual being of each of their students. Their arts program is wonderful. You could start drawing again!”

  I groan. When I was about five I got into drawing dragons and Mom thought I was some sort of artistic genius. She even got me a private art tutor for a few months until he tried to get me to draw something besides dragons.

  Finally I can see that I have no choice but to agree to visit. Just one more trip to California. Like father, like son. On the road again.

  14.

  The three days in California at Mom’s Institute feels like a month. At first, she’s telling me that there’s no computers. I don’t see even one TV. Instead I have to go to a bunch of these group meetings and I don’t know why, but they have a million questions for me about computer gaming. Then we go for endless walks and waste at least an hour at each meal, sitting around and talking. But then, out of the blue, they invite me do this experiment and take me behind locked doors where, to my amazement, there’s a computer and a broadband connection. They wire my head with a dozen plugs and have me play a game, while all these machines are clicking and tracking my Starfare brain waves.

  When I finally get home from the airport it’s close to midnight. Even though I’m exhausted I check my email and see a couple from DT. I log onto Starfare, slip on my headset, and catch him between games to tell him about the trip. How weird it was out there. Especially the brain wave thing.

  “You won’t believe this,” I say. “This guy who runs the place and this scientist. They think playing Starfare is like Zen meditation.”

  “It’s got to be at least as good as sitting cross legged and humming ‘om,’” DT says.

  I tell him I’ve got to get some sleep and sign off. I’m out for fourteen straight hours and must miss a long and heated phone conversation. Because Dad comes out of his study while I’m eating my second bowl of Lucky Charms.

  “Seth, you know how stubborn your mom can be, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well we’ve been on the phone—more than once—and she’s been scheming again. She’s got you lined up to work at his summer camp they run. She wants you to fly back out in a week.”

  I start to stutter in protest but Dad lifts up his hand and silences me.

  “Now here’s the deal,” he says, pulling up a chair and getting right to the point. “I think you’re going to like what I ended up negotiating for you.”

  “Yeah?” That Dad, he’s a terrific negotiator. That’s why Mom got the house and the van and he got to rent a condo.

  “You can stay here for the summer and next school year. On a couple of conditions.”

  He’s got my attention. Because I was just thinking, I get forced to move in with Mom, it could be months before I’d ever see another one of those amazing littl
e blue and yellow marshmallows that swell up after a few minutes in milk.

  “You’ve got to get off that damn computer and hit the books. B average, or you’re out of here.”

  “But Dad,” I begin, thinking that I’ve got some pretty tough courses coming up next year. When I was in grade school I got hooked up with this aggressive Gifted Education program they have in Kansas. It’s called GE, which is totally confusing, because it sounds like a brand of light bulbs.

  The way it works is the more kids they identify as “gifted” the more money the school gets. So the day I turned eight, which is the minimum age, I took a bunch of tests and, just like that, I was in the club. Which meant I got to start taking all these accelerated math and science courses, so that when I got to middle school I was taking half of my classes at the high school and when I got to high school I was ready to start with APs. Next year I’ve got two AP courses first semester and I have to commute down to U of Missouri-Kansas City to take math in the afternoon, since I’ve already taken every math course at high school. I’ve already got about fifteen hours of college credit.

  “But nothing. B average, or you’re out of here. And this summer—no staying up until four in the morning and sleeping all day. Your mother and I are in agreement—you get a job, or you can ship out. After all, your mother has that job all lined up for you with the summer camp they run out there.”

  “But what kind of job?”

  Dad gives me one of those looks, like he’s dealing with some sort of moron. I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear about how he started a paper route when he was twelve and worked every week of his life since. But he just shakes his head again and says, “Give me a break. I don’t give a crap whether you flip burgers or shovel horse manure. Just get a frickin’ job before your mother drives me crazy.”

  15.

  The next morning, a Saturday, while unpacking my jeans I hear something crunching and I pull out my Starfare check. Everything had been so messed that I forgot to even show it to Dad. I smooth it out and take it into the kitchen. He’s standing by the sink with the newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Not bad,” he says, holding it up to the light like it might be counterfeit. “One month’s rent and utilities. Endorse it on the back and I’ll drop it in your savings account at the bank. I’ve got a bunch of errands to run. By the way, I’m out of here bright and early tomorrow—up to Des Moines, then Milwaukee and Chicago.”

  On the way out the door he turns and says, “I left the paper open to the want ads. Why don’t you start by checking them out?”

  Instead I plug in my laptop and punch up DT, who’s online, like usual.

  We chat back and forth about some of his latest games and then I tell him that if I don’t get a job I have to move.

  DTerra: OMG, a job?

  ActionSeth: I know. What can I do IRL?

  DTerra: my older sister worked at the movies and mom thinks I should apply there except you have to wear this costume with a black coat and a little tie

  ActionSeth: they have movies in Fargo?

  DTerra: stfu they even have a movie named Fargo and its pretty good 2

  ActionSeth: I don’t know about working at the movies any other ideas?

  DTerra: I saw this guy from my English class working at the ice cream store and I asked him if they get freebies

  ActionSeth: yeah?

  DTerra: what?

  ActionSeth: do they get freebies?

  DTerra: I don’t know…he wouldn’t answer me. I don’t think he recognized me. I sit in the back, besides you’d get pretty sick of ice cream.

  DT, he’s always really positive about my gaming. Sometimes I think he just likes being the cheerleader. Because we both watch a lot of pro matches and we both know that I’m not even close to that level. The difference is that DT, he thinks it’s just a matter of time and opportunity. Sometimes I feel absolutely certain I can do it, but most of the time, I’m worried I’m just another day-dreaming kid. Just like every eight year old with a baseball mitt who says he going to be a Major Leaguer when he grows up.

  When DTerra signs off I look through the want ads that Dad left but they’re all weird jobs that I don’t even recognize like comptroller and asset manager. Garrett had summer jobs, but they were always working with his high school coach at basketball camps. Too bad they don’t have computer gaming camps.

  But then I remember the last time Dad and I picked up pizza at Saviano’s, this place in the strip mall a few blocks away. There might have been a sign on the door, something about help wanted. And I’m thinking, if I’m going to get freebies, I might as well get freebie pizza.

  So I get out my bike and head over to Saviano’s.

  16.

  Sure enough, the handwritten “help wanted” sign on the door is still there, next to an old Jayhawk basketball poster. I step inside. The service counter is in the back of the store, past a dozen or so round tables with checkered black-and-white tablecloths.

  Behind the counter a girl is standing with her back to me, folding take-out boxes. I make my way through the restaurant and stand by the cash register for a few minutes, watching her. She picks up a flat sheet of cardboard, does something with her hands which is just a blur, flips it over, tucks in two tabs simultaneously and throws in onto a stack.

  I try making some noise with my feet, but she’s already onto another one. She’s wearing a baseball-style hat with an auburn ponytail hanging down. When I look closer I see the iPod cords. Her ponytail does a little circular dance every time she flips a box. She’s singing along softly with whatever she’s playing.

  I wonder if I should make some louder noise. And how loud that might have to be to get past her current iTune. And it’s not like I’m buying something. If I clear my throat, that will be really lame, and I can’t just yell something at her. Maybe I should go back to the door and try to open it really loudly. I’m frozen with indecision when she turns, as if I had actually done one of these things.

  “OMG,” she says, with a startled jump, staring at me like I had a hand inside the cash register. With a quick wave of both hands she pulls out the ear buds. “How long have you been standing there? I’m so sorry!”

  I had already told myself not to look at the menu up on the wall, because then I would look like an actual customer. No problem there, because I’m staring at her, like an idiot. She looks amazing. I’m thinking I had seen her before because there is something familiar about her. Maybe she just reminds me of someone, maybe that girl who should have won American Idol.

  As she takes a step towards me, wiping her hands on her sides like she had been tossing pizzas instead of cardboard, she gives me a nervous smile. I’m just frozen staring at her hazel eyes, looking like they know something special, something slightly amusing and private. She’s just my height, so as she steps closer we’re exactly eye to eye and for me it’s like trying to keep your eyes on the road at night when someone is driving at you with high-powered brights.

  “You know, you could’ve said something…”

  I look down at my feet and nod dumbly.

  “Well, can I get you something? The ovens should be hot by now.”

  I shake my head and look back up. She’s still smiling, hesitantly. Perfect teeth.

  “Well, something to drink maybe?” Now the amusement seems to be transitioning to worry. Like maybe I was retarded or a criminal and had wandered in off the street, having just escaped from some sort of halfway house.

  “The sign,” I finally say.

  “The sign?” She mulls this over, like it was some sort of insider message, perhaps from someone outside the Matrix.

  “Oh, that,” she finally says, pointing to the door. “Did I forget to turn on the neon again? I’m always forgetting that. Because I almost never open. Usually I work the late shift.”
r />   She steps around the counter and then comes back, looking more puzzled than ever.

  “It’s on,” she says.

  I shake my head and stutter, “Not that sign.”

  “Oh,” she says. “So this is some sort of guessing game? Do I get twenty questions?”

  I’m completely flushed now and close to just racing out of the restaurant. “No, no. The other sign. About the job.”

  “Oh,” she says with a sigh. “You want to apply for a job?’

  I nod. She reaches under the counter and pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. “Here you go. Fill this out, but the owner does all the interviews. He’ll be in after four. You can bring it back then. Best to come early before we get busy.”

  I reach for the paper she’s holding. I really want to ask her if she goes to North, because maybe that’s where I’ve seen her.

  As I take hold of it she points at my chest with her other hand.

  “You go to Dakota State?”

  I have to actually look down at my chest to realize I’m wearing one of the shirts Garrett brought back from school.

  “That’s my brother’s,” I say.

  “The shirt?” she says, her face lighting up again with that knowing smile.

  “No, the school. Maybe both. I don’t know. I just grab whatever’s in the drawer.”

  “Yeah?” She seems to getting more information out of this statement than I intended. “Well, good luck with the job thing. We could use some more help. Gets pretty crazy here Friday, Saturday nights.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and make a beeline for the door, not looking back.