Now this shit is really pissing me off, and I almost run a red light. “Who said I’m moving to the city?”
“But . . . but we agreed we’re going to get an apartment together.” Out goes the defensive accusatory tone and in comes that of a confused woman.
“Like we agreed on the movies tonight?” I say. “Tell me, when do I get my way?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she says.
“It means, I’m not moving anywhere. I need to make some decisions. And I’ve decided my home is here. My home is Eric Roberts!” I stop the car. She looks at me, because we’re at her place, not mine.
“My night bag is already packed,” she says. “I don’t need to stop here.”
“I’m gonna need a rain check for tonight. We didn’t get the movies. It’s too late to eat. For digestion purposes, you know? It seems pointless,” I say.
She gets out of the car and slams the door. “Passive-aggressive asshole!
She’s taking a liking to calling me that lately. I’m beginning to think that’s my new pet name. But she was really pissing me off tonight. I love her, but she loves to push my buttons. Even though I handled everything correctly, I’m still fuming. I’m gonna need to bounce some ideas off my dad and cool down. He always has some type of answer for me.
* * *
Pulling up to my parents’ house in their suburban New Jersey neighborhood is always a sobering experience. I hesitate a bit when it’s time to get out of the car. It’s not too late, but it is the evening. And I didn’t call ahead of time. They’re my parents, so I know they always want to see me and wouldn’t mind. But at the same time, it’s not an overly welcoming feeling when I visit. That’s probably because this isn’t the house I grew up in. They moved out of that house two years after I moved out. One would think once the house became empty they’d have gotten a smaller home, because their main life focus for the past twenty-three years had moved on. But this house is much grander, and our old place wasn’t exactly paltry by any stretch. This neighborhood’s atmosphere is more serene than our old one. The streets are lined with beautiful trees and immaculately manicured lawns. My mom is always on top of the outside upkeep of this place, even to a dictator-like extent, but that’s nothing new. I always remember her waking me and my dad up early the day after Thanksgiving to have us take down the turkey-day decorations she forced us to throw up in front of the house and replace them with Christmas ones. I see she’s still on her A game, because the shrubbery is different than I remember from the last time I was here. She must be waiting for this place to end up in an issue of Better Homes and Gardens. In the driveway sits a SUV towing a small boat—my dad’s. A light blue BMW roadster takes up the space right next to it. They must have company over.
As I approach, I notice the lights are on in the basement. I go to the side of the house and walk down the steps and through the basement entrance. My dad is sitting in his recliner, watching his New York Knicks on his big-screen TV. Even though the two of them moved to Jersey two years before I was born, he’s still an avid New York sports fan and is always glued to the TV watching his Mets, Jets, and Knicks.
“Hey, so what do you need?” he says.
“I can’t come by to say hi?” I take a seat on the couch across from him.
“You can, but the question is, do you? I’ve been meaning to call you to find out if you followed up with Mr. Hawkins.”
I have no idea who he’s talking about, but I have a feeling he knows that.
“The business card I gave you?” he continues.
He gave me a business card of an associate or some guy he ran into. Not sure exactly how he knows him, but it’s always a similar story. He meets someone and talks about me. Then, he gets their card for me. I never make the call, because it always makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to be known as Norman Taylor’s inept son, who needs help in gaining successful employment.
“No, I didn’t get around to calling him yet,” I say.
“I knew it. Told your mother,” he says.
“What’s the point of asking then?”
He doesn’t answer and takes a sip of his gin and tonic. “Dammit, Duhon, learn how to fucking shoot.” He loves watching them, but they haven’t been good for a decade or so. He picks out one particular bum on the team and makes him the focal point of everything that is wrong with the team. For the past few years, it’s been Chris Duhon. According to my dad, he’s a shooter that can’t shoot, a defender that can’t stop his man from scoring, and a ball handler that repeatedly turns the ball over. A perfect example of reputation versus failed expectations. Which is probably the same exact way he views me as well.
“How’s Alexis?” he says.
My face sinks, and he adjusts himself in his chair. “Oh, it’s one of those visits?” he continues.
“No, not one of those visits. Can we talk about something else?”
“I thought you were going to find out about that promotion two weeks ago. How’d that turn out?” he asks.
“Man, this is like an episode of Law & Order. You’re badgering your guest. Let’s talk about sports,” I say.
“You don’t watch sports.”
“Current events, politics, the news.”
“You don’t keep up with those either,” he says.
Great, more criticism. I wish I remembered what that article I started reading in Newsweek was about. “We can find a common topic.”
“Do you want me to talk about video games with you?” he says as he laughs. I don’t join him in laughing. “What’s wrong?” he says.
“I don’t know anymore. The pressure is getting to me.”
“From the video games? I know they’re more complex than pinball in my day, but—”
“Not video games. It’s pressure coming from all directions. Alexis wants to move in together and get married. The next step. I need to get this promotion so I can afford all of these things and move on up at my job, but I keep getting passed over. I don’t know how I can keep up with everything,” I say.
“That’s called life. It’s not supposed to be easy.”
“Why not? It seems like it is for everyone but me. I’m regularly getting shitted on. I want this promotion. I don’t get it. Time and time again. I can’t afford these luxury condos we’ve looked at the past few months, because I need the promotion. And I think about that each time we visit one of these open houses. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know if we could afford it if I got the promotion. She has crazy expensive tastes. Doorman and all that type of stuff. Then she wants to get married. I can’t afford that either. But that’s not the point. Why can’t I get what I want for once?”
“Sitting here complaining and weeping isn’t going to change anything,” he says.
“Weeping?” I say as I check my eyes for tears.
“You need to change the way you’re approaching everything in life,” he says. “Because what you’re currently doing seems not to be working.”
I sit back and think. “You’re the second person who’s told me something like that today.”
“You know what they say when two people are telling you the same thing. It’s time to start listening,” he says.
“You down there talking to yourself again?” screams my mom from upstairs.
I’ve ruined the solace in his sanctuary. He looks at me and blames me with his eyes. My parents have been married for more than thirty-five years. They’re still happily married, but I believe that’s mostly because they do their own things. My dad goes golfing, while Mom goes shopping. They eat together, then split up to their separate offices. He watches his Knicks or Mets, and she watches her interior-decorating shows on HGTV. Now, my impromptu visit has disturbed that dynamic for at least one night.
“No, I’m talking to your son,” he replies.
“What? My only child came all this way and doesn’t want to see his mother?” she says, squeezing every bit of sympathy out of each word.
“I was
just coming upstairs,” I say. She probably doesn’t believe me.
Dad downs his half glass of gin and tonic with one big gulp. We both get up and slowly march up the steps, out of his man cave.
While the basement has everything to my dad’s liking, every other room in the house except his office is my mom’s domain. The kitchen looks different from the last time I was here, but I think I remember her talking about wanting to redo some things. I can’t remember what, though, because I normally tune that stuff out. She talks to me like I care about the same things as her, but my interest in pot racks rivals my interest in having a parade of circus elephants take turns farting in my face with my mouth open. Sometimes I wish she had a daughter who would share an interest in countertops and over-the-head oven units. All of the appliances in the kitchen look like they’ve never been used, but that’s only because she’s a tireless cleaner, another trait that didn’t rub off on me. She spends most of her time organizing things that already appear organized. A constant shopper, much to the dismay of my dad, but he lets her have her way. I guess he realized early on that was the easiest and safest thing to do. Put up a fight that will inevitably prove futile, and she’ll get her way eventually. It only results in you wasting a few hours arguing over something you weren’t going to win in the first place.
My mom, also in her early fifties, is making Bellinis. She explained to me what they were on the phone a few months ago. She must’ve gotten a new blender or something. “You see my convertible?” she says.
“That’s yours?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Business must be doing well.”
She lights up, as she is always willing to talk about her passion. “There’s a new development in the next township over. I’m decorating all four of the model homes.”
“Congrats,” I say.
“Have you proposed yet?” she says as she hands me a glass filled with the creation she’s made.
She wasted no time today. My decorating-talk distraction failed. “I’m married already, actually. Must’ve forgotten to invite you to the wedding.” I grin.
“Don’t pressure the boy,” Dad says. “He’ll do it when he’s ready.”
“I’m only asking. He better step up before she realizes there are better options out there,” she says.
“Wow, what a wonderful thing to say to your only child,” I say.
“You know what I mean. You’re my son and all, but she’s as good as you’re going to get.”
“Thanks,” I sarcastically reply.
She continues, “Put that ring on her finger. Or you’ll regret it. And be all by yourself. Miserable. Do you wanna die alone? And leave me with no grandkids?”
“At least you have your priorities in check,” I say.
* * *
As my dad shows me to the door, he says, “She means well. She wants the best for you. Just like me.”
“I know,” I reply.
“But about your job. Definitely go in there and show everyone you mean business. You already know your goal, right?”
“Yes.”
“So keep going until you achieve it, and strive at all costs. Do whatever you have to do and whatever they ask of you. And even if you don’t get it, you’ll know you gave it your best shot.”
“Whatever it takes?”
“Whatever,” he says.
I nod at his advice as I take it all in. “Thanks.” Then I yell, “Goodbye, Mom.”
She’s in the kitchen cleaning up. She wouldn’t want anything to look misplaced. “Bye,” she says. “But remember, you alone and dead. Me, no grandkids. Remember that,” she yells over the roar of her blender.
When I get inside my car, I start to replay our visit. After she went on for about forty-five minutes with the Alexis-is-the-best-for-me crap, I had a few more of those Bellinis. At my last count it was three. Now, my stomach aches a little bit. My dad was more of an onlooker throughout this whole process. He tried to get her to stop, but when she gets going, she’s a runaway train that runs away with my self-esteem. I think she believes I have it easy and wonders why I’m not as successful as they are, or why I can’t even manage to duplicate the success of her friends’ kids. Always telling me who made partner in their law firm or who opened up a new medical practice. I can’t call it. I’m not them. I’m never going to have a house as big as my parents, featuring cars and boats in the driveway. Shit, I might never have a driveway. I’ve learned to come to grips with that. I wonder why they haven’t. And they’re supposed to be the older, wiser ones. But then again, I guess it’s only natural to want your kids to have more than you had. And the only way to measure that is in material possessions. But sometimes life doesn’t happen that way, no matter how hard their kid tries and how bad the parents want their own aspirations to come to fruition.
My dad, like he always does, tried to point me in the right direction. But he still wasn’t very clear. I don’t think he fully grasps the times of today. Shit is different. There’s no way I can accumulate the kind of affluence he and my mother have. At least tonight he spared explaining to me how he started with his company in the mailroom and worked his way up the corporate ladder with hard work. As the years have passed, the story has grown more fantastical. Once he even told me he was never actually hired. He walked into the mailroom and started delivering mail for free. And he did it so well, they started paying him. And he moved on up. Shit like that doesn’t happen today. One day I should let him meet the guy who works in our mailroom. I wouldn’t hire him to clean my pool . . . if I had a pool, that is. I’ll never have a pool at the rate my life is going.
I need someone I trust to tell me exactly what I need to do. Should I leave Alexis? Should I propose? How do I get this job? Should I just quit and walk out with my head held high? I need clear-cut answers. If someone can write down the steps for me, that would be even better, but at the very least I’d try to remember them if they told me.
I trust my dad, but he doesn’t really know me. He only knows the version of me that he wants me to be. And I’m very far from that. You can tell from the business cards he gets me. What do I know about being a stockbroker? About as much as I did about being an investment banker back in high school. When have I showed interest about computer science? Never. Not one second of one day. Yes, I do have a computer. But I’ve dubbed my PC the Almighty Porn Box. That’s the only use I get out of it. If it wasn’t for that, it’d serve no purpose at all. And that’s probably why I can’t use it now. It’s like my PC has contracted gonorrhea from the excessive amounts of porn that’s run through its gigabytes.
Jake actually knows me better than my dad and mom. I don’t know if that’s pathetic or just how things eventually become with parents. Unless you actually live in your parents’ basement and are “putting your name on the orange juice” like Martin Lawrence said, it’s impossible for your mother and father to know much about you. We change so much from when we were under their thumbs, doing chores and shit. And the only things they’re aware of are what you show them or tell them. If you only see them once in a while under your own circumstances, it’s a whole lot easier to hide the real you. Your friends, on the other hand, have more frequent contact with the real you. For me, that person is Jake, but something about him makes me uneasy. Even though his plans do work, I don’t trust his decision making. I can’t put my finger on his thought process and don’t feel comfortable putting all of my faith in him. Part of me feels horrible for that, because he is my friend. But a bigger part of me assures me that my horrible part is being weak.
My search for answers leads to me driving to talk to Winston, my friend of ten years. I’ve never been to his home or talked on the phone with him. We’re not friends like that. I only talk to him at his place of employment, Fun-2-Sea Land, a local amusement/water park, but the water-park rides are shut down this time of year.
Winston is a bit older than my dad; I think he’s in his mid-sixties. A medium-height man who’s somewhat portly
, originally from St. Lucia and still speaks with a thick West Indian accent. Our relationship began back when I was in college, one day after I failed a final exam—I don’t remember which class or which major I was then. In order to get my mind straight, but more because I was fearful of telling my parents I was going to end up on academic probation again, I went for a drive to clear my mind. I ended up flustered, trying to figure out what exactly went wrong with my exam. Then, I passed Fun-2-Sea Land, a place I haven’t seen in years since grade-school field trips. I was compelled to stop in, plus admission was only two dollars due to it being midday on a Wednesday. I walked around, got on the Ferris wheel and a few other rides, and played some carnival games. After about three hours, I completely forgot about the exam.
Slowly the visits recurred to the point when I was purchasing monthly passes and eventually season passes for cost efficiency. Winston, who works the ring-toss game, called me over and mentioned he sees me there all the time. Then, he attempted to coax me into a game of ring toss. I resisted; I’ve never been good at those games. But he talked me into it; he’s a particularly good salesman that way. We started talking and a friendship developed. He’s convinced me not to drop out of school, helped me pick out my car, given me tips on a second date with Alexis—all types of advice like that. But most of the time he simply listens. When he couldn’t come to my graduation, I came to him, and we celebrated. It’s not a one-way street either. He shares with me as well. I know he’s only working there to fill up his days since he retired from Wall Street, and for his grandkids to have someplace to go when they visit him once a month and during the summers. His wife passed away five years ago, and he works more often now. I attended the funeral, and also go with him every year on her birthday to place flowers and balloons by her grave.
As I approach his ring-toss stand, I can see his face light up. It’s been a week since my last visit.
“I was wondering when I was going to see you this week,” he says.
Shooting Stars Page 9
