by Dave Connis
THE FORMULA OF WELL-BALANCED RELATIONS:
Statement of semi-truth + good joke = a safe and easy way to control acknowledgment of true feelings or thoughts
“Are you really not going to say anything?” he asks. “You’ve had plenty to say before now, yet, when I’m trying to apologize, you’re silent. That’s really unfair to me, Adam, and pretty hurtful.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I forgive you? You aren’t a shitty dad? We’ll get through this stuff together? It isn’t fair for you to be pissed at me for being uninvolved, and then when I try to apologize, you become uninvolved.”
He’s right; I know he’s right, but he also knows that we’ve never done this sort of honest thing, even before the divorce. This might be the first time he’s ever apologized to me.
Dad sighs. “Ignoring your dad while he’s apologizing isn’t right, Adam.”
“Dad, I’m sorry, and I forgive you, but I don’t want you to overthink all of this and change everything about yourself. I just want you to look at me every once in a while. That’s all. It’s nice not having my dad always in my business.” I internally nod at my use of The Formula of Well-Balanced Relations.
“But my not being in your business obviously went too far, because now you’ve gone off and—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine … but you’re in trouble because of this major thing, so we have to meet in the middle. I’ll figure out how to not disappear, and you have to let me interfere with some of your independence. I’ve given you too much.”
“If there’s one phrase no child wants to hear, it’s I’ve given you too much independence.”
“Adam, do I need to remind you what you did? Why you’re suspended from school?”
I physically can’t say anything. It’s like there’s net in my throat catching all the words before they can come out.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that some of your suspension is my fault, not all of it, but some of it. This is why I keep saying that we both need to change. I know I’m guilty, too, but I think if we stop blocking the world out all the time, we can do it together.”
We pull into the parking lot of Pritchett’s. I reach for the door handle, but he hits the lock button.
“I want your word that we’ll change together. I’m serious, Adam. Our lives need a revamp.”
“Okay.” I press the unlock button, but Dad quickly counters.
“Adam, stop avoiding everything. That isn’t how you fix problems.”
“How would you know?” I snap. “You’ve always avoided everything, and suddenly you’re like a bulldozer attacking the stuff that needs to be worked out full-speed with your loader down.”
Dad rubs his eyes. “You’re right. I just don’t know how else to do it. I’ve never done this before, but it seems like your way of handling this isn’t actually handling it. Mr. Cratcher’s right. You need to start facing yourself.”
“‘Mr. Cratcher’s right’? Damn. Are you in the Anti-Adam Order, too?” I reach for the handle a third time, and this time he doesn’t fight back. “I—I have nothing to face,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Dad, Mark’s waiting.”
“Adam, you’re a smart kid when you want to be. Please use your intelligence to realize what you’ve done. This whole situation is an indicator that something’s up with you.”
“Bye.” I shut the car door and head toward Pritchett’s.
I don’t get how all these people think I’m as messed up as the people at Addiction Fighters. I’m doing fine in school. Well, I was doing fine in school. I’ve never been in a fight. I’ve never done drugs. The societal factors that make a child “troubled” don’t exist with me.
I, Adam Hawthorne, am a hub of fineness and solidity.
I walk into Pritchett’s and see Mark sitting at a bar counter in a corner against the far back left wall. Not my normal spot. After Addiction Fighters, I asked him if he wanted to get a shake and he said yes. I did this un-Adam-like thing, asking someone to hang out, so I could get his thoughts on Mr. Crotcher’s program and the Transparency Forum. I figured his distaste matched mine, and we’d probably have a decent conversation about how stupid this was. Now that I’m walking up to him, I have no idea why I thought this was a good idea. I feel my chest constricting. The words I thought I was going to say zip themselves into my throat.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I sit down and look at a menu like I’ve never been here before.
“What do you think of the group?” he asks.
I put the menu down. “In my opinion, these kinds of programs are always shallow and forced. The people that experience ‘change’ are just addicted to encouragement and idealism. It’s a bucket’a’bull.”
“Better get used to it,” he says. “If you play along with it, they’ll leave you alone.”
“So, I just have to act like I’m eating everything up, and Mr. Crotcher will think I’m fixed?”
“I guess.” He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket to look at the time. His background is a picture of him pretending to choke a guy who looks just like him in a wheelchair. I laugh and point at it.
“Is that your brother? You guys look alike.”
“Yeah, football injury.”
“That sucks. So … how long have you been in the Knights of Vice?”
“Six months.”
“Good lord, how’s that possible?”
“I’ve been caught with coke three times. I’ve got to be with them for a year. Mr. Cratcher isn’t that bad, though. He really does care.”
“Seems like he’s just bored because his wife’s gone.”
“Nah. He’ll push your buttons, but he wants you to succeed. I just don’t buy into all his ‘humanity needs each other to survive’ shit. I do just fine by myself.”
“I get that.”
Just like that, we run out of things to talk about.
The awkwardness of the moment almost hurts. I immediately regret asking him to hang out, and the look on his face is telling me he’s regretting saying yes. I think being the only person in a room filled with five couples breaking up simultaneously would be less awkward than right now.
I fake a phone call. “Dad, I’m out with someone. Why do I need to come home?” I act like I’m pissed I have to go, but deep down I’m bubbling with joy.
I hang up the phone. “Sorry, man. We didn’t even get to order anything.”
“It’s alright,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Sure.”
Sorry, Mark, but we’ll never have one-on-one time again. This was incredibly awkward, and I’d like to keep it from happening again at all costs.
WE WILL FACE OURSELVES
I’m in the Deception Pass State Park. The Deception Pass Bridge arches over water to my right, and I’m rooting around for cool shells under the carcasses of trees stripped naked in the Puget Sound and pushed onto the shore.
Addy is there. I’m telling her about a crush I have on a girl back at middle school. I’m telling her everything. How scared I am that if I say something, she’ll tell me to leave her alone. She asks me why I’m so afraid of taking risks, but I’m in middle school so I’m not quite sure how to answer. I try and she must think it’s good enough, because she goes on this long talk about how hard we hold onto these ideas of who we think we should be, and the whole time I just wonder how she got so smart and think about how lucky I am to have a sister who cares about me enough to tell me things that seem wise, but I don’t understand.
The Woman and Dad appear at the shoreline. They’re holding hands. That’s when I know it’s a dream. That I’m recalling the last vacation we went on. I try to stir myself awake, because I’ve been here before. It strikes me that Deception Pass Bridge is where truth always bends into sadness. The whole scene gets darker, as if someone put a filter over the sun. Suddenly, I’m sitting o
n the form of a bare tree and my whole family is pushing me into the water. Dread fills me as I drift into Puget Sound and watch my family wave on the shoreline. After a while, trees swallow their waving with a leafy maw, and all that’s left is wilderness. Then the wilderness turns to the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, and I’m all that’s there. I know this so deep that my bone marrow aches. There are no boats. No whales. No life at all.
Just me and salt.
—
A portal to hell—my alarm clock—opens on my nightstand, putting me in a scramble to close my computer before my dad comes in. I hadn’t planned to fall asleep while staring at a picture of a curvy human version of Genevieve—the sexiness of the human version affirms I made the correct name choice for my car. I guess that’s what I get for staying out late with awkward humans.
I hit the snooze button and turn over in my bed, ignoring the Deception Pass dream for the millionth time. I also attempt to ignore the fact that I’ll be seeing Mr. Crotcher’s face at a time too early for early birds over the next eighty-eight days.
My door squeaks open. It’s my dad. “Adam, it’s time to go to Mr. Cratcher’s.”
I don’t turn over. “Can you revive your interest in raising me at like, lunchtime, instead of ass o’clock in the morning?”
“Hey,” Dad says, “can you not beat me up with my mistakes every time we talk? I feel bad about it. You know that. At least give me a chance to work on it.”
When I told him I wanted him to be around, I was just hoping for a “Hey, Adam” in the morning. I didn’t think I’d hear all his thoughts about life and The Woman. It’s a lot to handle out of nowhere, but his honesty’s making it so I can’t help but feel for him. He’s trying, I guess.
“Wow, someone’s sensitive,” I say.
“No, someone’s just extremely insensitive. Get up.”
“Okay, okay.”
I stand and shake my head. Today, I’ll prove I’m not addicted to porn. I won’t watch any videos, think about it, or make any playlists.
I’ve got this.
I run my fingers through my hair to get it back to its state of light brown craziness, throw on a gray and white long-sleeved shirt, slim-fit khakis, and my gray Vans. Downstairs, I grab a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and sit at a table lacking any sign of Nicholas Sparks.
“Whoa,” I say, “where’s your boyfriend this morning?”
“We broke up. I want to stop focusing on getting Mom back. It’s time for a change, for the both of us. I think you getting suspended somehow was a great thing for us.”
“A: I was framed by the Anti-Adam Order. B: that’s a funny thing to say.”
He raises an eyebrow before digging around in his milk for his last puffs of cocoa.
“A:”—he shakes his head—“you have to face what you’ve done eventually. B: you know what I mean.”
C: I didn’t do anything wrong, but whatever.
—
NPR’s a letdown this morning. The local station’s doing its fundraising telethon, which means my enlightenment’s limited to “support us to get this over with” and “if you listen to us, you should want to support us.”
I get to Mr. Crotcher’s house at 4:59 but wait seven minutes before knocking on his door.
“Good morning,” he says, letting me into the house. Without waiting a second, he asks, “What did you think of last night?”
I think of Dez but give him an indifferent “I don’t know.”
“Fascinating,” he says, and it makes me feel like a lab rat.
He claps his hands together. “Well, let’s get started. This morning we’re testing microphones to figure out which ones to use for each instrument. Oh, do you know a female singer? I think a female singer is my album’s missing piece. It won’t be as country-sounding, mind you, or as simple. I’d also like much more instrumentation for my album. The first time I tracked it in ’69, it was simple, but over the years, the lyrics, and I, really, have grown more and more complex and layered. An extra harmony here. A guitar riff there. It’s fitting, don’t you think? Life starts off simple, but over time, it grows so complex it can’t ever be as linear as it used to be. That, my young friend, is one of the reasons why the good old days will never exist.”
I realize I like how Mr. Crotcher talks outside of class. He doesn’t complain about how things aren’t like they used to be, or how he misses days when kids weren’t on their phones all the time.
“What if you start the album off simply and add an instrument on each track?” I ask.
“Ah, now there’s an option, another analogy of life. However, this brings us back to the idea of life, and I could be wrong about my initial assessment. Does life start with silence and end with silence? Or does it start with chaos and end in order?”
“Well, you can’t hear anything when you’re conceived,” I say.
“Can you not? Why are there studies that claim playing classical music to a baby in the womb increases its IQ?”
“I mean, none of those studies actually prove the increased IQ is a direct result of the music. There are too many—”
“Variables?” Mr. Crotcher interrupts. “Just like the rest of life. So, from the outset, there is chaos, variables everywhere, and it stays that way for the rest of life.” He chuckles. “I find it funny that somehow our lives are both monotonous and chaotic, such an impossible combination, but it is our reality, and we try to manipulate our indefinable reality into a definable one. It’s the curse of man, desiring all knowledge. Instead of treating life as a gift, and living as gifted people, we waste our time working on our own conclusive encyclopedia that contains answers for why every single thing in the universe works the way it does.”
He pauses and takes a deep breath.
“I am old, Adam, and I know many old men who will tell you they know hundreds things for certain because of the time they’ve spent on the earth. I warn you, do not believe them. They are full of well-intentioned, age-dented, delusional bunk.” He smiles. “You should only trust old men who know two or three things for certain. Luckily, you are currently in the company of one, and I am about to let you in on one of my certainties. Are you ready for it?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“It’s simple: there is always a variable we cannot account for.” Mr. Crotcher turns to the window to watch a runner pass by on the sidewalk. He stays there for a little while as though his bones don’t want to move.
I know we’re talking about an album, but there’s something unsettling about this conversation. Is it because it’s so mysterious? Is it because I don’t really believe there’s ever a point in life where we can’t account for all variables? It’s not like he’s asked me how I feel about something, or given me a lecture on addiction, or porn. Why am I feeling attacked? I take a brief mental vacation and direct a short film starring Dez naked.
Damn. I’m not supposed to be doing that today.
This sets me back a little bit, but it’s not a big deal. I just wasn’t paying attention.
“So, the beginning of the album is going to be chaotic?” I ask.
Mr. Crotcher snaps back to life and starts collecting microphone stands from a closet.
“Yes. Now that I’ve given it some thought, I’m certain that the beginning of life is the most chaotic of it all. But we should keep in mind that we are only going to record a musical album, not compete in a debate on which part of life is the most chaotic. There are many musical options available to us that we need to think through. We can’t just align ourselves on the side of clever analogy because it makes us feel pompous and intelligent. Though, don’t get me wrong; we deserve to be recognized for our stunning looks and peerless brilliance.” He nods like he’s signaling himself to get to work. “Can you grab that guitar out of the rack, please? The cutaway, not the hollow body.”
I have no idea what a cutaway is, so I just walk over to his guitar rack and hover my hand over each of the guitars. He yips in affirmation when I touch the headstock of an a
coustic guitar. I pick it up and marvel at the palm-sized hole worn in the wood below the strings.
Over the next hour, we cycle through a plethora of different microphones, testing the tone of each one. He explains the difference between condenser and dynamic mics, and why we need a condenser mic for the guitar—because the guitar has high frequencies and needs a sensitive mic to catch them. He finally picks one called the Mercenary KM69, which is apparently worth a lot of money even though it sounds exactly like all the others we’ve tested. After a little while, he disappears downstairs and gets two glasses of lemonade. We sit and drink. He looks out the window. I look at all the records on the wall.
“Do you ever feel exhausted, Adam?” he asks.
The question comes out of nowhere so I’m not sure what to say. “I’m sorry?”
“That twisting in your heart; that pull in your brain telling you things aren’t what you want them to be. Does it ever tire you? It does me, always.” He finally looks at me. “I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this, but I feel like I need to, before it’s too late. I have news for you, Adam: you are addicted to pornography.”
Master should run away. Master should leave. He’s lying. False! Gollum!
“Tell me if this sounds familiar. Last night, during Addiction Fighters, you compared yourself to everyone in attendance, even Dez, whom you couldn’t take your eyes off. You told yourself you were fine, that you weren’t addicted to anything, and decided to prove it today. How has that gone for you? Have you succeeded?”
There it is. This is the drop I’ve been waiting for: You are addicted. You need to be fixed. You aren’t good enough. I stand and walk toward the door.
“That first night I came over to your house, you tapped your fork on your plate to a song on the radio. Do you remember that?”
I stop but say nothing.
“I asked you to stop, which, in my recollection, is when you started hating me. Is that true?”
Again, I say nothing.
He continues. “The song on the radio; it was an Amelia Hunt song. It was Gabby’s favorite song. At the time, I couldn’t handle how happy it made you because it was her song. Not yours. Seeing you enjoy it made me mad because how could something so treasured by my Gabby also be loved just as much by you? I’m sorry, Adam. I truly am. I was and continue to be a flawed man, and I hope you can forgive me.”
