Fatherhoodery

Occupy Wall Street Anthem

2011-12-08T10:20:00.000-08:00

Just a little piece I put together to try and help the OWS folks refine their message.

What Occupy Wall Street Can Learn From The Republicans

2011-10-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

by Steve Andrews

If you put all political ideologies aside, you have to admit that – purely from a mass communications standpoint – no one is better at simplifying a message, getting their point across and galvanizing support for their agendas, than the Republican Party. Nobody.

Occupy Wall Street would be well advised to take a few pages from the Republican playbook if they want to see any real effect in what they’re doing. If they ask themselves: “How would the Republicans run Occupy Wall Street?” they might get somewhere.

KNOW THE PURPOSE

To start with, if the Republicans were running Occupy Wall Street they wouldn’t have any illusions about the task in front of them: The challenge is, first and foremost, to sell ideas to the public.

The Republicans know they are marketing. They speak advertising. They talk about being ‘on brand,’ and staying ‘on message.’ They know they need to persuade a massive population in order to get support and have good poll numbers; which in turn persuades the undecided. There’s nothing lofty about this job. It’s not philosophical. It’s tactical. The Republicans roll out their agendas like they’re launching a new product, and they’re successful because they do so.

NAMING

The Republicans know that a crucial part of any branding process is naming. Especially in a noisy environment where soundbytes are all that stick. Occupy Wall Street seems to have skimmed over this part. What they need is a name that if you oppose it, in any way, you look bad. No Child Left Behind is a prime example of effective naming. You couldn’t possibly stand up and proclaim, “No Child Left Behind is wrong,” and look like anything but a jerk-off. “I’m against Occupy Wall Street,” sounds fine when you say it because you’re against an implied hostile take-over. It’s almost admirable to be opposed to it. Occupy Wall Street’s name is so ham-fisted I wouldn’t be surprised if the Republicans actually started the whole thing to make liberals appear stupid and laughable – there is precedent for this sort of thing.

The Republicans would have hired an ad agency or think-tank to brainstorm names and then focus-group test them. Since Occupy Wall Street has no ad agency, here are a few names for them off the top of my head:

Stand for Corporate Reform - Anyone who opposes reform sounds like a stodgey old fart in the way of progress. And taking a ‘Stand’ against anything sounds admirable.

Fix America - Too general. But it’s hard to be against fixing things.

Clean Up American Business - Same.

People for Ethical Business - Too dry.

Level The Field - I like it, but it’s a bit too abstract. The Wallmart crowd would never get it. And you need the Walmart crowd on your side.

Other options - Anything with Build, Reconstruct, Heal in the name might work. Maybe it’s Heal America. Too soft? Could be: Rebuild American Business. You’d sound like a complete tool if you were against that.

You get the idea. The protestors could beat these thoughts easily if they were able to make a collective decision.

WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO SAY?

Since the Republicans are smart marketers, they know that when it comes to messaging, if eveything’s important, nothing is important. If they were running Occupy Wall Street, they’d drill down on one tangible idea and sing that song over and over and over across every possible outlet.

The central issue that Occupy Wall Street is dancing around – but can’t seem to articulate – is Corporate Reform. They’re not against wealth itself, but they oppose a corporate system that stacks the deck in its own favor. A system that influences elections and legislation through donations, political action committees and lobbies.

Every complaint Occupy Wall Street has about concentration of wealth – from greedy banks, inequality, and minimum wage – stems from the erosion of limits on corporate power. With corporate corruption as the enemy, not wealth itself, the protesters could portray themselves as modern-day Trustbusters, Robinhoods, or Guardians who seek to reestablish laws that protect the people. This is a rich emotional territory: Everyone likes to root for a do-gooding underdog.

If the Republicans were running Occupy Wall Street, they would’ve understood this and crafted the narrative around bringing back safeguards we used to have against corporate control. Tangible protections that existed until the mid 1800’s, such as:

• Corporations had limited duration, 10 years, 20 years, 30 years -- they were not given forever, like corporate charters are given today.

• The amount of land a corporation could ow poration could have was limited.

• The corporation had to be chartered for
a specific purpose. Not for everything,
or anything.

• The internal governance was very different. Shareholders had a lot more rights than they have today, for major decisions such as mergers; sometimes they had to have unanimous shareholder consent.

• There were no limitations protections on liability – managers, directors, and shareholders were liable for all debts and harms and in some states, doubly or triply liable.

• The states reserved the right to amend the charters, or to revoke them – even for no reason at all. ^[1]

The reinstatement of these protections would eventually create most of the changes Occupy Wall Street wants: A trustworthy governance, a more humane business environment, and a stronger middle-class. This issue should be the main course, but it’s currently a side dish.

The downsides to narrowly focusing on Corporate Reform are minimal. One negative is it would no longer be a party issue. It would concern everyone. Therefore it wouldn’t have that necessary fringe appeal that makes agendas successful in our current political scene. Also, it might not be as fun or satisfying as blaming stereotypes. And the ‘Movement’ could no longer be a grab bag of all kinds of grievances. Worst of all: changing something in a small, tangible area is a lot harder than rallying against everything and accomplishing nothing.

COMPETITIVE ANALYSIS

After correctly diagnosing the problem and specifically defining what they were trying to communicate, the Republicans would consider the opposing viewpoints. They would study the barriers to acceptance and understand the philosophy at work. In this case, they would play devil’s advocate and appreciate the legitimacy of the counter-argument: We need to do everything we can to help business because they provide for us. Don’t do anything to hurt corporations because that would shoot all of us in our proverbial feet.

Only once they understood the opposition would they poke holes in their argument. They’d arrive at a folksy kind of ‘kitchen table logic.’ Just because someone pays me doesn’t mean they can’t be abusive, or greedy or manipulative. If your dad is mean drunk, it doesn’t matter how big an allowance he gives you. Right? Of course. They’d put it this way: “Is it wise to place so much faith in institutions who’s sole reason for being is to make money? You wouldn’t trust a person with that agenda. Why trust organizations where, out of sheer size and numbers, no-one is directly responsible.” And they would be right.

MENTALITY

The Republicans seem to treat politics like it’s a game and they want to win it at all costs. And like all games, there’s an element of fun to it. They’re not just motivated by ideology, but by the sheer joy of tripping up the opposition. They have team spirit.

It’s like this: If you screw someone over it’s bad. But if you get someone to screw themselves over, that’s where things take on another dimension. There’s an element of creativity and zeal to this approach. Mustaches are being twirled. Giggling is involved. The winner is left smug and smirking at the end.

If Occupy Wall Street is an actual organic movement and not something concocted in a boardroom – purely for the purposes of making the Democrats look like losers – the protesters might want to adopt the Republican mentality. The accusation that Liberals are soft has been well earned. It’s high time they worked to reverse the perception.

1. Revoking The Corporation, a discussion with Richard Grossman & Ward Morehouse, transcribed by rat haus reality press, 1996.

A Year In The Desert

2011-10-03T22:53:00.001-07:00

THE CRIPPLER

I’m filled with dread about the trip I have ahead of me. It’s 1200 miles from Seattle to Las Vegas and I want to make it to Boise by nightfall. I’m already way behind schedule. I need to be on the road. I can tell that I’m on the verge of an epic meltdown as I pack my car with all it can hold.

My wife, Elizabeth, has been staying out of my way all morning. She can sense that I’m approaching a breaking point and she doesn’t want to be caught in my crosshairs. I’m a torrent of activity, tearing open drawers, pulling out clothes, slamming doors, and making a mess of the place, trying to find last minute items. I’m mentally and physically exhausted from the marathon of work I’ve been doing on our house over the last few weeks – trying to get it ready for market, should we decide to sell. Plus, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in who knows how long.

Flying through the upstairs hallway with a box in my hands, I squeeze past the youngest of my three boys, Jonah. “Daddy,” he says. “Can I help you?” He’s nine and his eagerness to lend me a hand, like he always does, cuts into me. I stop, turn and put the box on the floor. Kneeling down, I put my hands on both his shoulders and stare into his puppy-dog brown eyes. “Jonah,” I say. “You’re such a good son to your Daddy. Do you know that? I’m so glad you’re my little boy. Do you know your daddy loves you?”

“Yes, sir,” he nods. His soft ‘R’ makes it come out more like ‘Yes, sew.’

“Who loves you?”

“My Daddy,” he says.

“Your Daddy what?”

“My Daddy loves me.”

“Do you know you’re one of my favorite people in the whole, wide world?”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“Out of all the millions and millions of people in the world, who are my favorite people on the planet?”

“Me, Mommy, David and Gabriel.”

“That’s right. Do you know who else means as much to me as you do?”

“Nobody,” he says.

“You’ve got that right, little man. Nobody.”

At this, I pull my son into my chest and hold him. His little arms wrap around my neck and squeeze. A single rivulet of tears rolls down my cheek. My body convulses against the futile attempt at composure I’m trying keep. I kiss Jonah and stand up, wiping my eyes. “Do you think you could help your daddy find his cell phone charger?” I ask. “I have no idea where I put it.”

Jonah agrees and runs off to look, drying his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. I go to the bedroom where Elizabeth is busy cleaning up after me, folding clothes that I pulled out in a rush. “Do you think you could fix the door real quick?” she says. “You said you’d fix it before you leave.”

“Are you kidding me?” I say, glaring at her.

“You said, you’d do it. It’s not my fault you always wait until the last minute.”

“I’m about to sit in the car for the next two days, going off to work in a town I hate, in order to support you. The least you could do is not sweat me over trifles before I leave.”

“Fine,” she says. “If it breaks while you’re gone I’ll just have to pay to have it fixed. Suit yourself.”

“You really don’t get it do you?” I say, raising my voice. “I’m exhausted, I’m miserable. I’m nervous as hell about this job. I hate that I’m leaving and I hate where I’m headed. I’m at an all time low, and you’re throwing this petty bullshit at me. How do you even think like that?”

“Forget it. I’m the one who’ll have to deal with the door when it comes off the hinges. You just go ahead and worry about yourself like you always do.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck yourself,” she says. “I can’t wait for you to get out of here.” Storming out of the room, her face is red.

Her last comment is the one that really hurts and I’m overcome with despair. I turn and stub my big toe on this fat wooden chair we use at the computer. A jolt of pain shoots up my leg. I’ve always hated the damned chair. It’s thickly proportioned, heavy and miserable to sit in. Years ago, I named it The Crippler. It looks like an electric chair minus the straps and all. How many times in the last fifteen years of our marriage have I tried to get rid of the monstrosity only to give into Elizabeth’s objections and keep it? Hobbling in pain, I accidentally knock over The Crippler. Stupid chair. In a spastic motion, I pick it up and throw it back into its place on the floor. I feel something in The Crippler loosen. I’ve damaged it, so there’s no turning back now. I pick it up again to finish the job. I lift the Crippler over my head and slam into the floor. The thing flies apart. It’s so satisfying, but I start sobbing. I pick up the smaller pieces and smash them into the floor again and again in a frenzy. When I’m done, all that’s left of The Crippler is a pile of large splinters. I stand there for a moment, panting and staring at what I just did. A dull pain in my thumb begins to throb. Oh shit, I think. I must’ve broken a finger.

I finish packing. I kiss the boys and get in the car. I pull out of the driveway and I linger for a moment. I’m hoping that Elizabeth will come running outside any second with her arms open wide. I want her to say, “Stop. You can’t leave this way.” I’m wishing she’ll give me one last hug and tell me she loves me. I wait. I think about going back in to find her, but stop I myself. What’s the point? You can’t unscramble eggs. I give her a moment longer, but she doesn’t come. Waving at Gabriel and Jonah, my face is wet with tears. I honk the horn and drive away.

CROSS COUNTRY

For the next few hours, I’m in and out of angry weeping fits. I find only occasional moments of solace listening to songs by The Avett Brothers and Elliot Smith. I guess this is the denial phase of the grief process, because I’m shaking my head to myself. A lot. I can’t believe that I’m leaving my home for who knows how long. To Las Vegas of all places.

But what choice do I have? Two months ago, the small ad agency I was working for, fell upon hard times and they let me go. I’m grateful I was already looking when it happened, that way I at least had some interviews lined up. My last day was on a Monday and I flew to Las Vegas for an interview at the end of the week. I got the job offer a few days later. With all the agencies in Seattle cutting back, I accepted the position and made my start date two months out.

I looked at a few other possibilities. There was an interview in Charlotte, North Carolina, that didn’t pan out. Then there was an offer for an executive creative director position in Kuwait. Between living in a desert, on another continent, and living in a desert, two hours flight back to Seattle, Vegas was the choice that made sense.

Out the window, I watch the gray stone of the Cascade Mountains give way to hemlocks, and the lush green of the foothills transition into the tall, golden grass fields of Eastern Washington. I start accepting my fate. I’m really doing this, I think. My occasional blubbering subsides, only to be replaced with a steely ambivalence.

I put on an audiobook to take my mind off things. The book is Albert Camus’s ‘The Stranger’ and shortly into it I realize it’s a mistake. I keep on listening anyway because I feel like wallowing. So, for the next 3 hours, I bathe myself in Camus’s nihilistic worldview which is basically: That we float aimlessly in a cold and indifferent universe. That life is meaningless, futile, absurd and ultimately hopeless. He’s making a lot of sense to me, that Camus.

After two days, several audio books, and a series of awkward phone calls patching things up with Elizabeth, I’m a few miles outside of Las Vegas. It’s nothing but beige dirt bisected by a line of asphalt as far as my eyes can see. I’m shocked by the desolation. It looks like the backdrop to every post-apocalyptic movie I’ve seen. The only thing missing is an army of The Undead.

Then, I come round a corner and see this sprawling, glistening island of metal and glass. The city looks so out of place to me, surrounded by the sea of sand. It’s like some kind of monument symbolizing man’s might against the elements. Screw you nature, we will live here, by damn. We don’t care if there isn’t any water or life here. But, time will tell who wins. Nature has a way of getting the last word.

Pulling into the condominium complex near Red Rock I’m anxious about my living arrangements. The agency that hired me is letting me stay in the corporate apartment for a month, but I’ll be sharing it with another new hire. I have no idea what to expect in a roommate.

JERSEY BOYS

When I meet Dom, I like the guy almost instantly. By his accent I can tell he’s from Northeast, too; and he brings to mind buddies I used to hang out with. The more he talks, the more I get the feeling I know him already. As he’s telling me about himself, I realize that the person he most reminds me of is a version of myself that I’ve often imagined: the one that didn’t leave New Jersey when he was eighteen; the one that didn’t get married so early.

The fourteen years I spent in the South, with my wife, softened my New Jersey edge. It sanded away most of the brusque, ‘I don’t have any time for bullshit’ delivery, and the swaggering braggadocio you typically find with guys from the up there. Dom spent most of his life in New York – more than enough time for the traits to incubate and reach their full maturity in him.

Dom is in his forties. He’s single. Handsome in the Italian way: tall, dark, broad shouldered, and well groomed. He’s got a head full of salt and pepper hair and wears an expression that hides an underlying but perpetual smirk. It’s only a microscopic thing, but it suggests self-assessed superiority – something which is either incredibly attractive or incredibly repulsive depending on your tastes. I know the look well since it’s the same one I had on my face in nearly every high-school picture.

“So what’s your plan?” Dom asks me.

“I don’t really have one,” I say. “I guess I’ll sort of check things out for a while and make sure this is the kind of place I want to move my family.”

“Yeah. It’s definitely more complicated with kids. Man, I can’t believe you’ve got three. You look too young to have that many. What were you thinking?”

“Thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t. They call it ‘Fall In Love’ for a reason, you know? It’s like an accident, like stubbing your toe or something. One minute I’m twenty years old with hopes of becoming a world-class womanizer, next I’m in love with this girl who’s seven years older than me and has a kid. We dated for a few years. I knocked her up and we got married.”

“Wait. You got married because she was pregnant? They have surgeries for that kinda thing, you know?”

“Yeah. I know. That was my first reaction, to be honest. She wouldn’t hear of it. We actually ended up losing the baby twelve days after he was born. It’s a long story and I won’t bore you with it. But I could’ve gotten out, then. I was in love with her and her boy, though. I just couldn’t leave them.”

“Wow. I’m sorry about your kid. That’s really heavy. When did all that happen?”

“When I was twenty-three. It was a real blessing, though. It changed my life. I quit drinking because of it. Did the whole AA thing and all that.”

“You still don’t drink?”

“No.”

“Well what are you going to do for fun around here?”

“Tell me about it. I don’t drink, don’t gamble, and I’ve been to one strip joint in my life. This whole town is completely lost on me.”

“Well, we can fix the strip joint issue anytime you like. Just say the word. There’s only a few thousand of them here.”

“That would be all I need. I come down here, a married guy, with everything to lose. Then, bam, I fall off the wagon. Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind. That kind of stuff actually happens here and I take it seriously. I know my weaknesses. A few wrong moves and I could be snorting coke off a strippers tits in no time. Then it’d be on to hookers and swingers clubs and God knows what else.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Dom laughs.

“No, I mean it. It would end with me divorced and penniless, living in some shitty studio apartment. The neighbors would find my rotting body with a belt tied around my neck. All because I went to an ‘innocent’ strip-joint. Like it’s not hard enough being monogamous without going out and purposefully looking to tempt myself.”

“Monogamy is completely un-natural.” Dom tells me.

“True,” I say. “It is unnatural.” Dom starts telling me about what it was like when he was married, but I’m still thinking about the last thing he said. I wish I’d said, “Monogamy might be unnatural, but everything we call virtuous is unnatural. If all we are is just animals in the jungle, then stuff like honesty, kindness, patience, courage, justice, love and mercy wouldn’t matter to us. Despite what people say, we all value these things. We write books, movies and songs about them. We want more of them and we’re quick to call foul if we don’t get them. So, surely we’re more than just animals.”

But the moment for my rebuttal is gone. That’s something I’ve got to get used to with Dom. He’s much quicker on the draw than I am.

As we dive into our new roles at the agency, it’s apparent to me that Dom has a lot more experience than I do, and I know I could learn a lot from him. He’s written and shot a movie. He’s directed some internationally awarded commercials. He’s run large creative departments in the past and managed some top tier clients. His confidence is far beyond mine and it’s not just hot air.

I’m jealous of Dom in the way you might be an older brother. He’s funnier than I am. There’s a forcefulness about his convictions that I just can’t match. His practical, single-guy-wisdom (or, more specifically, his once-married-but-got-screwed-over-big-time-guy-wisdom), is much stronger than my sentimental philosophies. He has simple, powerful ideas like, “If women didn’t let men have sex with them, we’d hunt them for sport.”

The agency itself is a much better situation than I had imagined. The people are welcoming and friendly – a refreshing departure from the indifferent attitude I’d grown accustomed to in Seattle. And there are already some cool projects on the table. I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to do the kind of work here that’ll improve my portfolio.

Not a bad first week, all in all. The first Friday after arriving in Las Vegas, I’m headed back to Seattle for the weekend. I’ll be returning late Sunday evening. As I hurry to my gate in the airport, the clatter of slot machine sound-effects is ringing in my head. I’m completely overwhelmed and exhausted by the process. There won’t be much of me left emotionally when I get home, but I can’t wait to get there.

ACCLIMATION

Over the next few weeks in Vegas, I settle into a routine that’s basically: Work until seven or so, hit the gym from until nine-thirty, then head back to the apartment for a late dinner. If I’m lucky, I get to read a little while or watch some television before bed.

It’s sort of a treat for me – keeping my own schedule and not having to worry about putting the kids to bed or answering to my wife. The ability to be footloose, and come and go as I please is intoxicating. Yes, I miss the children and Elizabeth, but I don’t miss the volume and the thousands of trivial conflicts that make up daily family life. This new situation is a welcome vacation from the responsibilities that I’ve silently resented for so long.

Elizabeth is having a different experience. She sounds exhausted every time I talk with her on the phone. “I had to teach class at 9:00 and take Gabriel to the doctor at 10:30,” she’ll start. Then she’ll proceed to rattle off a nearly endless list of obstacles the day’s thrown her way. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say, doing my best to be empathetic. “I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”

She has her hands full with three boys. The oldest is getting ready for college, which means she has to deal with mountains of paperwork on top of an already ridiculous load. The extra fitness classes she’s picking up to help with the finances leave her drained. Without any kind of relief, her patience with me and my absence is already wearing thin.

We talk about moving the family down to Vegas and about how much house we could get for the money and how it would be nice to have more sunshine. But the town just turns me off, no matter how much I try to see its benefits. Talking with locals reveals that the schools are under-funded. Nevada, it turns out, has the distinction of being the second dumbest state in America. The local economy is shrinking and everywhere you look you see building projects in the middle of construction that have been abandoned due to a lack of financing. But it’s really all the fake, Disneyland looking neighborhoods, the omnipresent casino cheese and bankrupt people driving around in Hummers that make it so I can’t see raising a family here. Elizabeth and I decide that I’ll just commute indefinitely.

NEW DIGS

With temporary housing almost done after two months, I’ve got to find a place to stay. Dom’s been looking for houses. “It’s a great time to buy,” he says. “They’re giving away McMansions for a couple hundred thousand dollars a pop. Maybe I can buy some extra ones and rent them out. I could become a slum-lord and rule over my tenants with an iron fist.” I laugh, but he’s not exaggerating. The real-estate market is so depressed I’ve seen foreclosure bus-tours.

When he finds a fully-furnished house not far from the agency and buys it, he offers to rent me a room for $600 a month. “I’m in,” I tell him. Dom’s house is new and big with a landscaped swimming pool out back. When he’s showing it to me, he says, “There’s one rule: No sex in the pool.”

“Who am I going to have sex with, Dom?” I say. “My wife’s a thousand miles away.”

“Exactly. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, if I were to have some crazy party here with a bunch of coked-up strippers, I don’t want you sticking your dick in any of them in my pool. I don’t want to end up swimming in your jizz. You got it?”

“The chlorine would kill it, Dom,” I say.

“Don’t be a smart ass. Just keep your body fluids out of my pool.”

The way our schedules work out, Dom and I hardly see each other. Lately, he’s spending his free-time trying to woo a beautiful young account executive at the agency. She’s half his age, but it looks like he’s making progress. “Dom, I salute you,” I tell him. “You certainly have excellent taste. Best of luck to you, my good man.”

When he’s back at the house, Dom holes-up in his master bedroom, with a robe on, like a poor man’s Hugh Heffner. So it’s kind of like I have his big villa to myself.

THE MEATGRINDER

Weekends back home, in Seattle, are becoming more difficult than I’d like them to be. It’s squabbles over what the kids want for dinner, or what movie we’re going to watch. It’s hearing the boys yell at each other over video games. It’s hearing my youngest say, “Daddy, Gabriel just called me a tattletale,” and him not getting the irony.

Elizabeth and I start to fight more often. There are hurt feelings over the phone and the spans in-between calls grow longer. At home, the little time we have together is centered around sorting out our differences. We hold long deliberations with each other. The complex intricacies of maintaining a relationship are boiled down into hours – an emotional science project to figure out against the clock. Before long, it gets to where I’m not excited to come home.

Several months into the commute, Elizabeth picks me up from the airport. I approach the car at the baggage claim area and she doesn’t get out to give me the usual ‘welcome home’ hug. I’m tired and cranky from the flight and now my feelings are hurt.

“I want to drive,” I say.

“Just get in, I’ll drive,” she says in a chipper tone, trying to counteract my foul mood. She must read it on my face. This only irritates me more.

“I’d like to drive,” I bark. With a heavy sigh and an eye-roll, she gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side. She gives me a half-hearted hug along the way. I sit into the drivers seat and turn the music down.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” Elizabeth says.

“I just want some quiet, OK?”

“Fine,” she says.

She starts talking about the details of the week that our phone calls left out. She’s animated in her description. As she’s talking, I find her voice abrasive. The more she talks, the more annoyed I get. Man, I never realized how bossy she is. It’s a by-product of the long-distance-commute I hadn’t anticipated – a new, critical eye on my wife.

As she continues recounting the week, I start to wonder: If we had no history together, and I met her for the first time today, would I be attracted to her? Would I choose someone like her to share a lifetime with? I’m unsure about the answer.

I reach for the center console and turn the driver’s side heat down. Elizabeth reaches over and turns it back up. “I’m hot,” I say. “Do you mind?”

“When you turn down your side, cold air comes out of my vents,” she says. “You know how cold I get.”

“Well I’m burning up.”

“Fine,” she says, and turns the heat off completely.

The rest of the car ride home is tense. I start to feel hopeless. We as a couple, are doomed, I’m thinking. A mistake to begin with. We got married because she was pregnant and what the hell did I know at 23?

It’s a stressful weekend. Elizabeth and I avoid each other most of the time. When she drops me off at the airport, Sunday evening, the goodbye is icy. I’m looking forward to getting back down to Vegas and decompressing.

HEAD GAMES

Seattle was always an easy place for me to be faithful to my wife. It had, pound-for-pound, the ugliest women I had ever seen in my life.

Of course there were the rare exceptions – like my wife, who looked like Ms. Universe by comparison – but, for the most part, a guy could easily spend an afternoon walking around downtown, counting how many attractive women he sees, and come up empty. And it wasn’t just the Seattle women’s wardrobe of technical rain gear and fleece jackets, or the absence of makeup and time in a gym that were to blame. You topped off all their visual mediocrity with a bookish, disapproving attitude, and that’s what really did it – that’s when you got The Real Ugly.

Here, in Las Vegas, it’s a different kind of ballgame. And it’s not helpful to a guy trying to retain any kind of chastity. Beautiful women are everywhere and they’re so friendly I’m unnerved by it. Most of the women I meet here give strong eye contact. They’re more touchy when they talk. They’re more likely to start conversations and keep them going.

At first, I figured the reason they were so approachable was because it’s such a service-oriented town. Hospitality is just good business and it probably becomes a habit. But now I think they’re so outgoing because they’re just as aware as the men that sex can be purchased for next to nothing.

You’d have to be blind not to notice all the signs, posters, flyers and brochures for escorts wherever you go. And there’s just something about the knowledge that a man could pay to have sex with a beautiful young woman for less than it would cost to take her out to dinner that’s hard for the sub-conscious to shake. Women here have got to know, instinctively, that in order to compete with the sex trade they’ve got to be easier and more flirtatious than they might want to be.

I’ve never been in a place were sex is so interwoven into the culture. It gets absurd sometimes – to the point of being un-sexy. A billboard I pass daily has a nude woman holding a sign that reads, “The naked truth about dentistry.” Dentisty? That’s just retarded.

Strip-joint combination businesses exist here in every conceivable form. It’s the only place I’ve ever been that has a coffee-shop/smoothy-bar that’s also a strip-joint. If there’s a strip-joint-slash-Jiffy-Lube in Las Vegas I wouldn’t be surprised.

I feel like wherever I turn, temptations are there to knock me off balance. At the bank, on a Monday, it’s a stream of un-naturally proportioned goddesses pulling up in Porshes or Mercedes to deposit their weekend’s earning. At the agency, we’ll have commercial casting sessions where I’ll walk in and be stunned by a line of a fifty gorgeous models in tight dresses, all with expectant glances that say, “I really, really want this part and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.” At the grocery store a curvy, doe-eyed cashier reels me into a conversation. She asks me out for a drink and I tell her, I’m married. I point to the tattooed wedding ring I have on my finger and she says, “I don’t care if you don’t.”

With the stressful weekends and the emotional distance with my wife becoming the norm, I’m finding it harder to shake off all the temptations. I’m less put off by the debauchery around me and view it with a growing curiosity. I contemplate what it would be like to take a little walk on The Wild Side. I fantasize about answering personal ads on Craigslist, joining a swinger’s club or falling in love with a showgirl.

I continue to feel myself getting weaker. One night, I’m staying at the MGM for a commercial we’re shooting. The place is teaming with prostitutes. I watch as a few of them proposition a group of men. They all flirt for a few minutes and get on the elevator together, cackling. What would that be like, I wonder. Could I go through with something like that? For the rest of the shoot, the question rolls around my head.

When we’re done, a couple folks from the agency are going out for drinks. “I’ll pass,” I say. “I’ll catch you guys in the morning.”

I head for the elevators to go up to my room. The crowd of hookers has thinned, but a few are still milling about. I try not to make eye contact and beeline straight for the elevator button. I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around. In front of me, there’s a short, thin Asian girl in tight jeans and a tube top with her boobs pushed up to the ceiling.

“Hey there, stud,” she says. “Where you headed?”

“My room,” I say, in a flat tone. “I’ve had a long day.”

“How about some company?” she says.

        I’m intrigued. If I was actually interested, how would I know that she wasn’t a cop. I ask her, “Now how does that work exactly?”
        “Well,” she says, stepping closer. “I’m an exotic entertainer. If we go up to your room, I’d love to entertain you.”
        “And how much would your… uh… entertainment services cost me?” I ask.
        “Five hundred dollars,” she says. I’m thinking: I just so happen to have four hundred dollars in my room upstairs.
        “Wow, that’s a lot,” I say.
        “Well, how much have you got? Don’t you want to let me take care of you tonight?”
        I’m silent. I’m thinking: Nobody would ever know. I could totally do this and it would be my secret. I’ve been faithful to my wife for the last sixteen years. I’ve never so much as kissed another woman. What’s one little indiscretion?

The girl can see me struggling. “I know,” she says. “You want to, but you don’t want to.”

“Listen,” I say. “You’re very attractive. But I’m going to get on this elevator, go upstairs and go to bed.”

“Aw,” she says, rubbing my arm. “My pussy is so tight and wet for you.”

The elevator door opens and I get on. I turn around and the girl blows me a kiss and the doors close.

When I get up to my room, I’m confused and sad. I know I did the right thing, but it doesn’t feel like it. Because I didn’t really do the right thing: I played with the idea and I wanted it. One second I’m ashamed of this, the next minute I’m filled with self-reproach, telling myself I’m a sissy for not going through with it. If I were a real man, a guy more like Dom, I would’ve probably done it. Then, I decide that’s bullshit too. I take a shower and lie in bed, awake, for most of the night.

REALITY CHECK

The next weekend, I’ve got to stay in Las Vegas. I don’t want to do it, but all the back and forth is getting expensive, even with financial help I’m getting from my dad.

Friday night, Dom asks me if I want to go out with him, his girlfriend – the brunette sweetheart he met through work – and his friend, Anne, who’s visiting from New York.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I think I’m just going to stay in tonight.”

“Alright,” he says.

Saturday comes and Dom invites me out again. When he sees me waffling with an answer he says, “Oh, come on, man. You need to stop acting like such a big vagina and come out with us. We’re just going bowling. It’ll be fun.” I think it over, for a second. “Alright,” I say. “I’m in.”

Dinner is at T-Bones Chophouse & Lounge. It’s a lively place. Everyone’s drinking except me. This is the part of any evening that’s awkward for me. It looks like they’re having so much fun. As the token non-drinker, I’m outside of the action looking in. After a while, though, I notice that Dom’s friend, Anne, is really putting down the drinks. She looks like she’s on a mission and she keeps up the pace through dinner.

By the time we get to the bowling alley, Anne is sloppy drunk. She’s getting louder, falling down and making a decent spectacle of herself. Dom looks concerned about her. “I think we should probably call it a night,” he says.

When we get back home, Dom and his girlfriend go straight to bed. Anne and I are in the foyer and I’m making sure the doors are locked for the night. She tells me she wants to go out back for a smoke. From her voice, I can tell she wants some company. “I’m beat, Anne,” I say, yawning, starting up the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late. You’ll feel rotten in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” she says, sounding a bit wounded. Her high-heels click on the tile as she totters away.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear a thud in the kitchen and a frightened cry. I run down to see what happened and Anne is sitting there with her hand on her forehead sobbing.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just, tripped… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a little bump.”

I pull her hand back and there’s a knot growing above her eyebrow in the shape of a plum. Damn, she’s lucky it’s not worse.

“Can I do anything for you?” I ask. “Can I get you some ice?”

“No. I’m good,” she says, wiping her tears and sniffling a bit. “Go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She looks so sad as I leave her. I feel sorry for her. She’s easily forty-something. Never been married. No kids. Probably no prospects of a relationship either. I’m thinking: So this is it, huh? This is that single-life I’m always pining for?

THE MAESTRO

In the morning, Dom is busy putting together a rather fancy brunch. He’s a flurry of activity in the kitchen and he looks so competent I tell him he should have his own cooking show.

Something I notice is that, as preoccupied as he is, Dom still manages to dote on his girlfriend between tasks. I like how much softer his whole demeanor is around her. Watching them reminds me of something I heard once: Men are a lot like pickup trucks – they drive squirrely without a load. Dom’s girlfriend has a stabilizing effect on him and I think he’s a much better man for it. I can’t help but think my wife and kids do the same for me.

It’s serene in the shade on Dom’s patio. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze blows ripples across the pool. Music is playing in the background. Doug serves us our meals with the skill of a maestro, all his movements controlled and smooth. It’s all so damned civilized. No quarreling children. No contention. Just easy.

I should be enjoying myself. Instead, I’m overcome with loneliness. I wonder why it is that I rarely get lonely when I’m by myself, but I’ll get that way when I’m surrounded by other people.

My thoughts drift and soon I’m two thousand miles away, back in Seattle, in my kitchen, watching Elizabeth get the kids ready for church. She’s making pancakes and the place is a mess. The boys are at the table squabbling.

“Mommy, Gabriel keeps staring at me,” Jonah says.

“I am not,” says Gabriel. “Who would want to stare at your ugly face, you liar?”

Elizabeth slams a pot into the sink. “Can’t you two get along? There are other people here too, you know? Have you ever thought how miserable it might be for people to have to listen to you when you’re like this?”

She’s in way over her head. The boys are just being boys, but they’re too much for her to handle. She’ll have to ride them to finish their breakfasts. To make sure they’re dressed. To brush their teeth. To let the dogs out. To make their beds. She’ll be running late and order the boys to pile into the minivan. Then she’ll speed all the way to church, cutting off traffic and cursing along the way, so she can get them there to learn about the sweet and peaceful love of Jesus.

I wish I could console her. I wish I could be there and not here. She needs me and the boys do, too.

The party at Dom’s is enjoying their meals, chatting and laughing together, while my mind continues to float farther away. I think back about my early years with Elizabeth; how intense it was with us from the day we met. I loved her. I hated her. I wanted to be there. I didn’t want to be there. We made each other miserable and made each other ecstatic equally. I have no doubt that two more practical people would have bailed out years ago.

I think it’s funny that we ended up in Seattle. The place practically is my marriage. It has gray days – many of them – where it’s gloomy and depressing and you think to yourself that you can’t go on. Then you’ll get this day that’s so impossibly beautiful it’ll bring tears to your eyes. The greens and blues will be so lush it’s like the world had a contrast knob and someone cranked it all the way up. Jagged, snow-covered Mountains, evergreens and the endless expanses of water and sky: The place is as close to heaven as you can find.

It’s difficult reconciling Seattle’s two extremes. It can be a maddening. But those who choose to call the place home know that even when it’s dreary and most of the scenery is obscured, the potential for beauty never goes away. They know it’ll be back and that it’ll be worth it.

Elizabeth and I have that same kind of potential. And no matter how hard things get between us, the fact is that she’s the only woman I’ve ever been can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, crazy-in-love with. I know I could only give myself over to love like that once. If there were ever someone else, after Elizabeth, I know I’d hold something back.

A MEETING

When she comes to pick me up from the airport in Seattle, I’m stiff and grouchy from being wedged in the middle seat on the flight home. The first thing Elizabeth tells me is that she’s set up a meeting with our pastor. I hate when she does this. It feels like I’m being sent to the principal’s office or something.

“You ever consider,” I say, throwing my bag in the trunk, “that if we really were a decent match, we wouldn’t need a team of experts to keep us running smoothly?” I say this with a heightened sense of dignity, thinking I might bait her into canceling our appointment.

“Whatever,” she says. “I called him this week. He’s concerned about us and wants to see us both. We’re meeting him after church.”

I’m bummed that my comment missed its mark, and I can hear from the determination in Elizabeth’s voice that there’s no use fighting her.

It’s not that I have anything against our pastor. I’m actually quite fond of the guy. His name’s Jesse. He’s young, tall and athletic. A guy’s guy. We’ve wrestled together in jiu-jitsu and I consider him a friend. The issue is that I hate feeling like Elizabeth is taking me to court; that our case needs to be heard by a judge of sorts.

Sunday morning comes, and we go to Jesse’s office after service. He listens to Elizabeth and I talk about our differences. Most of it, he’s heard from us before. Me living in the past, wishing I hadn’t gotten married so young. Elizabeth saying I never make her a priority. Me wanting independence. And so on. We recite the song to him without emotion, tired by the old melody. After a while of listening, Jesse stops us.

“Steve,” he says, in his mellow Southern California way. “This situation with the commute… all the time to yourself. You hanging around only single people and trying to cram a weeks worth of family time in on weekends… man, it can’t be done. I’m worried that if you guys keep going the way you’re headed, you’ll end up divorced... It’s the only logical conclusion to this. You keep increasing the distance physically and mentally... The situation’s just feeding...” he says this, making a gesture like a hungry ogre, “... feeding all those parts of yourself that are opposed to marriage and family. And there’s nobody in your life on a regular basis to feed you anything but messages that fuel your own narcissism... How could you not be anti-marriage? The situation is creating it. And you choose to reinforce it with everything you’re putting in your head, man.”

I’m silent as I think about what he’s said. Elizabeth starts to cry. He’s right and I know it. “Thanks for saying it so plainly,” I tell him. “There’s a lot of truth to what you’re saying, and I appreciate you being direct about it.”

We all talk some more and, as we do, I feel the last remaining bits of frost in me thaw. Elizabeth keeps having to blow her nose and dry her tears. I hold hands with her as Jesse prays for us. We hug and leave.

Driving home, Elizabeth and I are quiet, taking in the things Jesse said. I can feel tears welling up and I’m holding them back. “Elizabeth,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry, for how I’ve been.” Tears are rolling down my face and Elizabeth’s too. She grabs my free hand and says, “I love you.”

“I know I’ve been an awful husband lately,” I say. “I’ve been cold and mean. I’ve done you wrong, baby. I hope you can forgive me.”

She grabs around my free arm with both of hers and says, “I always do.”

PARKING BRAKE

I start flying back to Las Vegas early Monday mornings instead of flying out Sunday evenings. It’s only one extra night in Seattle, but it makes a difference. It’s one more night to read with the kids; one more night to snuggle with the wife. Sundays aren’t halved anymore or nearly as hectic.

Five AM, Monday morning, the alarm sounds. Elizabeth and I hold each other, cocooned underneath the covers. “Don’t go back,” she says. She’s not serious; but at the same time, she’s dead serious. She nuzzles into my neck and tells me, “Stay here today.”

“I wish I could, baby. I really do.”

“I can’t wait until you don’t have to do this anymore,” she says.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad, I’d rather be broke and have you here. We need to be together, Steve. The kids need you. I miss you. I hope I never take simple little things like lying in bed together for granted anymore. If I ever forget, remind me okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her. And I’m off to the airport.

At work, there have been several rounds of layoffs. A few months back, salaries were cut five percent. State-of-the-agency meetings are more tense as client budgets continue to be slashed. The agency’s bread and butter, ‘recession-proof’ business of casinos and gambling, evidently isn’t as recession-proof as was thought. New business attempts have been fruitless and you can sense the fear oozing from closed door meetings the partners are having. Given these signs, some of the agency’s lifers are saying another round of layoffs is immanent.

On a Friday that I’m supposed to fly home for a week’s vacation, my boss stops by my office and asks me if I’ll be there the following week. It strikes me as peculiar that he would ask. I walk into Dom’s office and say, “I think I’m getting laid off.” I tell him why I think so and he says I’m probably just being paranoid.

An hour later my boss calls me into his office and closes the door. “Ah. A door closer,” I say, to lighten the mood. “This is hard,” he says. “I’ve got to let you go.” He tells me how it’s purely a financial decision, that he likes me and feels like he failed me. “This has been a good job,” I say. I assure him that there aren’t any hard feelings. It’s the truth.

I go up to Human Resources and review the finer points of the severance package. It’s cordial. Driving back to Dom’s house, I call him and leave a message about what happened. I call Elizabeth and tell her, “Well, baby, looks like I’ll be coming home this weekend for good.” She’s stunned.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” I say. “I can’t wait to be home.”

It takes a few hours for me to pack up my car and I spend the rest of the day lying out by the pool.

In the evening, Dom and his girlfriend take me out for dinner. When we’re all quiet I say to Dom, “Look at me for a second.” Our eyes meet. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Dom,” I tell him. “These last ten months or so would’ve been a lot different without having someone like you around that I could trust and confide in. I learned a lot from you and I’m really going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too,” Dom says. He looks like he’s got something else to add but his girlfriend says we should stop because we’re going to make her cry.

Early the next morning, I shower and eat breakfast. Dom had asked me not to leave before he got up, so I wait around for an hour. After another thirty minutes I decide to go ahead and hit the road. It’ll save us both from an emotional goodbye. I scribble a farewell note on a paper plate and leave it on the kitchen island.

IS IT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME?

On I-15, headed north, Spoon’s song, “I Summon You” is cranked through my car stereo. It’s an up-beat song, but tinged with sadness, and it accurately reflects my mood. This period of my life has come to such a sudden end it really hasn’t had a chance to sink in yet.

As I approach the Las Vegas Strip, the tall buildings shimmering in the desert sun, I fight to suppress all the contradictory feelings trying to break to the surface at the same time. How I’ve hated this place. But at the same time, I’m really going to miss Dom and some others. I’ll even miss the shitty town itself for reasons I don’t understand.

My defenses don’t last long, and from those pent up, deep places, it all pours out of me at once. I erupt into tears and laughter. I yell for joy, like a complete idiot, as if I’ve somehow triumphed over this Godforsaken place. In some ways, I have. I let out a final holler and give the Vegas Strip the finger as it passes on my right.

My fits of laughter continue for a while. I glance in the rear-view a few last times as the glitzy city vanishes from sight and the open desert spreads out before me.

Hardcore Lullaby

2011-05-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

Just a dark and twisted little short film I made with my youngest son.

An Enthusiastic Man (fiction)

2011-01-27T19:19:00.000-08:00

The fluorescent light from an old Coleman camping lantern silhouetted Jack Paulson and cast his shadow the length of his driveway. A constellation of microscopic sawdust particles swirled in the glow around him. He was studying the finishing touches he added to his oldest son’s Homecoming Float, looking for imperfections. But he could find none. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, he thought. This is your finest creation.

It was just past two-thirty in the morning. Although Jack needed to get some sleep before the big parade in the morning, he continued examining his float until an agitated whisper came from behind him. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” the voice said. Jack flinched. He turned around to see his wife, in her robe, glowering at him. “Are you completely crazy?” she said. “I don’t care if you’re finished or not, you come to bed this instant. Do you understand me?”

“Wow. You scared me half to death,” Jack said. “Just let me put away my tools and I’ll be right there.”

“Ridiculous,” she huffed, shaking her head to herself. “It’s just a stupid, float.” She turned and marched back to the house, muttering obscenities along the way. Jack chuckled as he watched her. “Love you, baby,” he said. She gave no answer and kept on walking.

Jack could’ve stared at his float all night; he was so enamored with it. He was sure that no one else’s would hold a candle to his. Who, in the community, had his knowledge of animatronics? Who had the ability to create remote control effects and wire a professional-grade sound system? He couldn’t wait to see people’s reactions. This is going to blow their minds, he thought. He fantasized about slow-motion high-fives, pats on his back, and being treated like some kind of a hero.

•

Indeed, Jack was amazing with his hands. He could make just about anything when he put his mind to it. And when he really felt inspired, he spared no time, detail or expense.

These habits were exactly what Jack’s son, Scott, was counting on when he asked his father for help with the float, a few weeks earlier. Scott knew that, if his father were carefully primed, he would take the assignment and end up doing it himself; the same way he had with most almost every school project he ‘helped’ Scott with, since kindergarten. Even though Scott was nominated to head-up the Senior Float Committee, and it was his job to oversee the construction, he didn’t want the responsibility. He had a steady girlfriend now and didn’t have time to deal with such trifling matters.

•

Before the theme for the Mercer Island Homecoming Parade was announced, it was, as always, a closely guarded secret. Great importance was placed on this, as to not give anyone the unfair advantage of a head start.

At an early morning ceremony to unveil the theme, hundreds of formally dressed students and parents awaited the news in the high-school gymnasium. The principal, a failed actor with a pot-belly, fierce comb-over, and disproportionate self-confidence, lived for emceeing the annual event. Over the years he had managed to turn it into his own little version of the Oscars, complete with edited clips from previous parades and live music provided by the marching band.

After his video presentation, an assistant in a shimmery gold sequined dress handed the principal a mysterious envelope. He pretended to struggle with it as he opened it. He removed the card inside and read it; taking his sweet time for dramatic affect. Finally, in his best game-show-host delivery, he revealed what everyone had been waiting for: “The theme for 2010’s Mercer Island Homecoming Parade is… Back to the Movies.” The crowd cheered and those who attended the pep-rally that followed agreed it was a great success.

•

Scott’s first official task was to pick the movie his float team would be representing. He tried collaborating with his committee – seven football players from the Varsity squad – but it didn’t go as he had hoped. Instead of focusing on the job at hand, their conversation devolved from “Hey, you know what movie was cool,” to “Did you guys ever see I Spit On Your Grave,” to “You know Corinna Smeltzer? Yeah, I’d like to bone her.” They were like herding cats, Scott thought. After an hour, they were no closer to a decision than they were when they got started. Scott realized he would have to make the decision for them.

•

“What about Friday the 13th?” Scott asked his dad.

“Nah,” too predictable.

“How about Avatar?”

“I think the makeup will give you problems,” his dad said. “Besides, the theme is Back to the Movies. Avatar only goes ‘back’ a few months. I think you want something more classic. More iconic, you know? Tell you what, let’s go figure out a plan over a burger.”

Scott was pleased. The burger meant that his father’s interest was starting to grow. This was the pivotal step. It was like activating the firing sequence of a giant nuclear warhead. Scott knew his father’s enthusiasm would only gain momentum and there would be no reversing it.

At Dicks Drive-In, on Seattle’s Capital Hill, the two brainstormed ideas. That is to say, Scott’s father brainstormed. Scott just giggled at the suggestions. After a lengthy exploration of what seemed like every relevant movie of the last fifty years, they both grew discouraged. Nothing was grabbing them, and it looked like they’d never find the right one. They sat in silence.

Scott polished off the last of his chocolate shake, making a hollow slurping sound. His father’s eyes opened wide. “I know,” he said, “The perfect theme for your float… we should do Jaws.” Scott gave his father a blank look.

“What doesn’t it have going for it?” his dad asked. “It’s timeless. Everyone’s familiar with. And it taps into primal fears we all experience. You could have a really effective piece here, Scott. You could make something that people won’t ever forget.”

Scott crammed a few more fries into his mouth and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” He wasn’t sure, but it looked like his father shrank a bit.

“Well, it’s your choice, son,” his father said, gathering up their trash and crumpling it on a red plastic serving tray. “Whatever you want to do.”

Oh no, Scott thought. I’m going to lose him. He had to move fast. “Actually, Dad, maybe you’re right. There is a ‘prival’ quality to Jaws, like you said.”

“It’s pronounced pri–mal, son. Which means it resonates with people on a deep, almost molecular level. And I’d love to help you out with whatever idea you choose. It doesn’t have to be my idea.”

“No, Dad. Really. I like Jaws. I think we should do it for the float. We’d be crazy not to.” His father smiled. He liked how his son referred to them as ‘we.’

“Well in that case, we should get home and do some rough layouts of what this thing might look like, don’t you think?”

“Sounds great, Dad.”

•

The two of them rushed home, where Jack proceeded to do a series of elaborate renderings while Scott played xBox. After an hour of sketching, Jack stood up and began presenting them to his son, for approval, as if the boy were some sort of high-powered marketing executive.

“See, if we make it like this, the jaws could mechanically articulate,” Jack said, projecting his voice to be heard over the sounds of machine-gun fire and teenage smack-talk coming from the video game. Scott glanced at the drawings for a split second and immediately re-fixed his gaze on the action exploding across the television screen.

“You’re not looking, Scott. See, the teeth themselves could actually elongate as the mouth closes. We could make the eyes bulge out simultaneously. Completely terrifying, huh? It’ll be epic.”

“Cool,” Scott said. “If you think that'll work, Dad, let’s do it.” He wanted to be left alone, but something in the sketch caught his eye, “What are those pipe looking things?”

“Oh, those?” his dad said. “They’re just a little something extra I… well, I mean ‘we’… should add if we’ve got the time. I doubt we’ll be able to. But if we can, it’ll really knock people’s socks off. I was thinking we…”

“Aww, man,” Scott shouted at the TV screen. His man was shot in the head by a sniper. “I was doing so well, too.”

Jack Paulson was tired of competing with the game; and he could see his son wasn’t too excited about the float. I’ll just get started without him, Jack thought. He rolled up his papers and went downstairs to the garage.

As Scott turned off the television and put away the game controllers, he wondered: what was that last bit dad said about the pipes? I didn’t quite catch it. Anyway, it’s out of my hands now. He’ll have fun with it and I’ll help out where I can. Pleased with himself about how things were developing, Scott left for his girlfriend’s house.

•

Jack was making an average of two trips to Home Depot a day, gathering materials for the float. Packages from Asian robotics companies started to trickle in. The garage soon filled with supplies, forcing Jack’s wife to park her mini-van outside. One afternoon she returned from the grocery store to find a UPS truck blocking their driveway. “Jack,” she said, getting out of her car. “What’s going on?”

“Hold on a second, babe. Let me just finish this.” Jack signed for the refrigerator-sized box next to him and handed the deliveryman back his clipboard. “Thanks so much,” Jack said. “This is the crown jewel in my project.” The deliveryman said it was no problem, got back into his van and waved as he drove off.

“Jack,” his wife said. “What’s in this thing?”

“Just a little something for the float.”

“How much more stuff do you need? You’ve got the garage crammed full already. I mean, seriously. Who’s paying for all of this?”

“We are. Well, more specifically, me.”

“With what?”

“With the money I kiss ass and demean myself for.”

“Jack, do you think it’s a good idea to be spending so much when there’s nothing coming in right now? You haven’t had any work for months.”

Jack knew she had a point. As a freelance advertising producer he was used to being essentially unemployed between jobs, but his latest dry-spell felt different. The economy was in the toilet. Ad agencies across the country were shrinking. Most of his long-time contacts were out of work. When a good friend emailed him, asking how he was doing, Jack wrote back that a page from his daytimer – if he had one – would look like this:

MONDAY
8 AM – 9 AM: Worry uncontrollably. Check e-mail.
9 AM – 10 AM: Regret having chosen advertising as a career path.
10AM – 12PM: Make pointless resume submissions to jobs no sane man would even remotely consider under normal circumstances.
12PM – 1PM: Break for lunch / write some emails
1PM – 2PM: More pointless resume submissions. Make a few calls.
2PM – 3PM: Wallow in hopelessness and despair.
3PM – 4PM: Shamelessly leg-hump the three or four people in advertising agencies who still have jobs.
4PM – 5PM: More pointless resume submissions.

“I haven’t spent that much money,” Jack said to his wife. “Besides, it’ll be worth it. Trust me. Scott and his friends will think it’s amazing.”

“Oh, please. Don’t bring Scott into it. This is your project and you know it. You’ve taken it all upon yourself and he hasn’t even touched the thing. Has he?”

Jack reflected for a moment. “No,” he said. “Not really. Look, I just want it to be special, that’s all. He’ll be gone off to college next year and this’ll be the last big thing we get to do together.”

“But you’re not doing it together, Jack. And ‘special’ – who are you trying to fool. This is The Sickness is what it is. This is the treehouse all over again. You could just help Scott make a normal float, like the other fathers. But, you’ve got to try and one-up everyone else while you’re at it. It’s like you’ve got this pathological need for approval or recognition and you’ll do anything to get it. It reeks of desperation, Jack. You’re a talented man, okay? We all get it. You don’t have to go around trying so hard to prove it all the time.”

It wasn’t so much the psychoanalysis that stung Jack: he was a self-professed attention whore and frequently joked about it. What made him clench up was the mention of the treehouse. Won’t she ever let it lie, he thought. That was twelve years ago. Jack got the feeling his wife took some sort of pleasure in reminding him about the time he started building what was meant to be a simple tree-platform for their son, but he scrapped the initial plan and escalated it into a years-long project that strained the marriage and almost ruined them financially. The result was a magnificent three-story structure, fit to be lived in, with double-pane windows, separate bedrooms, plumbing and electricity. After several profiles on local news channels, the treehouse attracted the attention of building regulators who subsequently cited it for so many safety violations it was deemed hazardous. Eventually, Jack was forced to tear it down.

“First off, this is nothing like the treehouse,” Jack said. “And I’m not trying to prove anything except that when I make something, I don’t make junk. Nine out of ten people would just slap this float together and call it done, right? But, if I’m going to spend time on a project – no matter how small or insignificant it may seem – I want to be proud of it in the end. Is that so wrong? Is it crazy to think we’re surrounded by enough half-assed stuff in this world, and I don’t want to be responsible for pumping anymore of it out there? I swear, sometimes it sounds like you want me to be mediocre.”

His wife sighed. “I don’t want you to be mediocre, Jack. You’re as far from it as any man I know and that’s one of the things I love about you. Listen, I know you’ve been depressed without the work coming in, but I’m worried your going overboard with this float isn’t the healthiest way to handle it.”

“Compared to what? This is the first time in months I’ve felt normal. Would you prefer I just walk around the house sulking and worrying all day. I’m getting tired of feeling like the fat girl at the prom who nobody wants to dance with. At least working on this thing keeps my mind off how my career is tanking. Think of this as paying for therapy.”

“Your career isn’t tanking, Jack. We’re going to be fine. The work thing will turn around. It always does.”

“Now I’m confused. You sounded worried about the money and now you’re sure we’ll be fine. Which is it?”

“I’m saying we’ll be fine, but I just don’t want this to get out of hand. Okay?”

Jack took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Alright, babe. I hear you. I promise it won’t get out of hand. I’ve got all the pieces I need now anyway. Let me have some fun with this thing. It’s going to be epic.”

Jack’s wife hated being a wet blanket. She could see how eager her man was to get at his project, so she resigned to let him. Maybe he’s right, she thought. The busy and productive version of him is much easier to live with than the depressed one. If building a stupid float gets him out of his funk, then it’s for the best. And what’s the harm anyways? It’s not like he’s hurting anyone.

•

The morning of the parade, Scott woke to the engine roar of a Ford F-250 that was being backed up into the driveway by one of his father’s friends. He heard his dad’s loud voice, “Keep her coming, Jim. I’ll tell you to stop. A little bit more. Hold it right there. Perfect.” Metal chains clanked. There were muffled conversations and giggles coming from teenage boys. Scott tried to ignore the noise and stuck his head back under his blanket. He heard the front door open.“Scott get down here,” his father shouted. “Everyone’s waiting on you.” Scott didn’t answer.

“Scott, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” his dad tried again.

“Alright. I’ll be right there.”

Five minutes later, Scott stumbled out the front door to face the ritual male abuse he’d come to expect from his friends.

“Thanks for joining us Princess.”

“Aw, what’s wrong? Didn’t she get enough sleep last night?”

“Thanks for making us wait, douche-bag.”

The boys laughed. Scott shrugged it all off and hopped onto the float, which was successfully hitched to the truck and ready to go. Scott’s dad handed him a small radio headset and motioned for him to put it on.

“Check. Check one-two,” Scott’s dad said into the microphone of his walkie-talkie. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I can hear you.”

“Here. You’re going to take this controller and do exactly as I say. Understand me? Don’t hit any of the buttons until I tell you. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Okay. I’ll do exactly as you say. Jeez.” Scott studied the controller. There were three big plastic buttons. “What’s it do?”

“Well the white one controls the music. Go ahead, you can hit that one right now.”

Scott pressed the button and the staccato strings from John Williams’s Jaws theme song came blaring from some hidden, but powerful, speakers. The boys all stood, frozen, before erupting into a cacophony of That Is So Cool and Awesome and Wicked.

Scott’s dad stood, beaming. “All right. That’s enough for now,” he said. His son obeyed and hit the white button again, turning off the music. “I’ll tell you when it’s time, okay? Remember, don’t touch any buttons until I say so.”

The front door to the house opened. Out came Scott’s ten year old brother, Josh, running and shouting, “Wait for me.”

“What’s he doing?” Scott asked.

“He wants to be part of the show,” his father said, lifting his youngest son onto the float. “And he will be. A very important part.” He winked at the boy and tousled his hair. His son grinned back at him.

Scott hated how Josh liked to horn in on the action and try to be the center of attention. Not today, Scott thought. This is supposed to be my day. The little brown-noser isn’t going to ruin it for me if I can help it. But before Scott could protest, he studied how close his dad and brother were. What good would it do to argue about it, he thought. Just look at the two of them. The brat’s practically a carbon copy of the old man.

•

By ten o’clock, a countless throng of people lined 78th Avenue – Mercer Island’s main drag. They were a fidgety group; eager for the festivities to get underway. Jack Paulson squeezed his way to the farthest end of the street, where he knew the parade would end. This offered, in his opinion, a superior vantage point from which to call the shots to his son. While he was still getting situated, he heard cheering in the distance. Oh, good, he thought, they’re coming.

He lifted his binoculars and could see the first float making its way down the road. Its theme was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He saw boys dressed as dwarfs walking ahead of their float. They looked bored and demoralized. They waved half-heartedly. The girls on top of the float, however, wore beautiful dresses and offered bright smiles to the crowd. Here and there, the girls threw candy to the audience, who met the treats with great applause. So that’s the best they’ve got, thought Jack. Amateurs.

The next float was Star Wars. When Scott’s dad could make out the third float to be Gone With the Wind, he raised the walkie-talkie to his lips and said, “Push the white button now.” Even at the distance he was from his float, he could tell that his son had followed directions. The ominous Jaws theme-song was muffled, but it could still be heard above the din. It grew louder as the procession crept its way down the avenue.

With the shark float finally in plain view, Scott’s father raised his walkie-talkie again, this time whispering, “The green button. Hit the green button now.” The great big shark-head began to slowly rise up and open it’s mouth wider, bearing ever lengthening, ferocious looking teeth. That’s it, Scott’s father thought. Yes, that’s it. He felt like laughing maniacally, but he managed to restrain himself.

The shark was breathtaking. The menacing eyes bulged until the mouth reached it’s widest point, then a small grey flap of fabric covered them for a second before the mouth began to close again. Scott’s father puffed out his chest with gratification.

It really is all about the little details, he thought. Mechanically, his monster Shark-O-Saurus was working perfectly. The added sound effects – a blend of gnawing, bones crushing and pre-recorded screams – were a touch he was particularly fond of.

As the float approached, Jack noticed that the crowd was starting to look uneasy. At the loud groaning sounds, several small children began to cry. Their mothers picked them up, trying to comfort them. This didn’t bother Jack. He didn’t expect everyone would get it. He was comforted by the fact that greatness is frequently misunderstood.

•

When the shark’s jaws started opening again, this time you could see Scott’s little brother, Josh, screaming from inside. He stuck his arms and head out of the mouth, and continued to lean forward until half his body was hanging from it. “Help me,” he screamed. The teenage boys, walking next to the float and dressed like beachgoers, began to scream, “Shark! Shark! Quick, somebody help him!”

There were nervous laughs from a few people. Most watched in silence. Jack interpreted this as appreciation for his craftsmanship. He couldn’t blame them. He knew they had never seen a high-school float like this before, nor would they again.

The fearsome mechanical jaws began inching together again. The crowd stared, motionless. The jaws kept closing and Scott’s little brother kept shouting the lines he rehearsed, “Help Me. Somebody please help me.” The music and sound effects were so noisy that the boy couldn’t hear his big brother’s warnings. He couldn’t hear Scott yelling, “Josh, get back in the mouth! Get in before you get crushed!”

The jaws of the shark didn’t stop. As they closed around the little boy he let out a loud shriek. He flailed and struggled in vain against their crushing force. Blood gurgled from his mouth. The crowd was stunned. Was this part of the act? They were horrified, but not enough to risk looking foolish. No one dared to rush the float and aid the child. Scott frantically punched the green button on his remote control. “It’s not stopping,” he yelled into his microphone.

“The red button,” his father called out. “For God’s sake punch the red button.”

Scott mashed on the red button. It had no effect. His little brother continued to scream and writhe in pain. Blood sprayed out of the shark’s mouth, splattering the aghast faces of those nearby.

Jack’s friend in front of the pickup truck, towing the float, continued his leisurely pace up the Avenue. All he could hear was the deafening Jaws theme song. When he saw Jack step out into the path of the truck, he gave him a big thumbs up.

Scott saw his father too. His eyes were wild. “Do something,” Scott yelled into his microphone. He grew hysterical and started to cry. “Dad, make it stop.”

A few in the crowd, seeing Scott’s terror, started to understand that something was wrong. A woman screamed, “Somebody help that boy.” A few others did the same.

Scott’s eyes locked on his father’s, who remained frozen in the street. Scott knew there wasn’t a moment to spare. He knew that it was up to him to save his brother. He sprang up the float to try and pry the giant shark’s jaws open. Tears and blood streamed down his cheeks. “I’ll save you, Josh,” he yelled, “I’ll save you.”

When he reached Josh, Scott was taken aback by his gruesome appearance. Then something else made him hesitate: a certain strangeness about the boy’s face. Scott wasn’t sure, but it looked like his little brother was trying not to laugh.

Scott didn’t understand. He moved closer, still. Josh continued wailing in agony, but in between the shouts, he glared at Scott like he was about to ruin everything. The little boy motioned with his head for his big brother to back off. Now that he could get a better look, Scott could see the shark’s teeth were made out of spongy rubber.

Scott was still confused when his attention focused on two groups of pipes protruding from both sides of the float. A thought began percolating up from his subconscious. He remembered something his father had mentioned while he was playing xBox a few weeks ago: something about an ‘extra touch.’

Scott whirled back around to see his dad, still standing in the street, looking like he was about to cry, he was so proud. Wait for it, Scott’s father thought. Wait for it.

An explosion of great force rocked the crowd. A shower of blood and little bits of meat shot from the pipes; pelting the multitude, sending everyone scurrying and ducking for cover in panic. The only one not running was Jack Paulson. He was in the middle of the street with his arms open wide and a rapturous expression across his face, waltzing in the red downpour.

•

Scott and his mother were talking the kitchen, doing their best to ignore the telephone that was ringing; Josh wandered in and went to answer it.

“Don’t,” his mother said. “I’m sure it’s someone else who wants to let me know what a jackass my husband is. It’s been a month; you’d think people would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“Daddy’s not a jack-ass,” the little boy replied.

“You’re right, Sweety,” his mom said. “He’s not a jack-ass. Your father is what you call insane. And Scott, don’t you go defending him. He’s a grown man and he should’ve know better.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s all his fault. I didn’t feel like working on the float, so I just let him do his thing. If I did what I was supposed to do, none of this would’ve happened. I should’ve known he was up to something. He had that look in his eyes – like when he worked on the treehouse. Remember?”

The phone stopped ringing. Scott’s mother heaved a sigh. Ever since the parade, she hadn’t once so much as cracked a smile about any of it. The last thing she wanted was to create an impression that what her husband did was a laughing matter – especially not in front of her boys. But now, for the first time in weeks, and despite her best efforts, the corners of her mouth started to crinkle up and she chuckled to herself.

“Yes, I saw the gleam in his eyes, too,” she said. “It’s the same way he looked when you were in third grade and they had Pirate Day at your school. Your teacher needed some parents to help out, and your father volunteered. The only other dad there thought he was hot stuff with an eye-patch on. Then your dad shows up looking like he just stepped off a 17th century Galleon with this outfit he rented from a theatre supply company. He paid a few hundred dollars for it. He had a sword, knee-high boots, matching red velvet pants and jacket, a frilly shirt open to his waist and a huge hat with a feather in it. His hair was long, back then, down to his shoulders. One of the moms said he looked like a stripper. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, either, waving his sword around.”

“Or like when he helped me with the Pine Box Derby,” Scott chimed in. “Dad snuck in a smoke machine and rigged a pyrotechnics display to go off when I came into the room. He told me, ‘When you hear Highway To Hell start playing on the boom-box, that’s when you come through the doors. Got it?’ I told him not to say ‘Hell’ but he said it wasn’t bad because it was ACDC. He said it would be epic.”

“And wasn’t it?” The sound of Jack Paulson’s voice surprised them all. They hadn’t been expecting him home so soon. “Wasn’t it epic?”

“Yes, sir,” Scott said. “It was totally awesome.”

At Jack’s entrance, his wife turned her back to him and busied herself with the dishes. Jack went to the refrigerator and pulled out some orange juice. He walked towards the cabinet where his wife was, and reached past her to get a glass. She didn’t pull away from him the way she had for the last few weeks.

“Daddy,” his youngest son said. “Can I have a pyrotechnics display when I do the Pinewood Derby?”

“I don’t know, little man. I don’t think people would appreciate that from me. Not for a while, anyhow. Maybe if we move. Your daddy made a lot of people angry at him this time. It was my Chum Cannon that did it. My Chum Cannon crossed the line.”

“Ya think?” his wife said, turning to him. “We’re still getting hate mail, Jack. This wasn’t some harmless joke. A man ended up in the hospital with a heart attack because of you.”

“I know, I know. I made a mess. I’m so sorry baby. I didn’t mean for all that to happen. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

“Thousands of dollars worth of dry-cleaning bills, Jack. Endless apologies. And now someone’s threatening to sue us. You call it a mess, but it’s more like a catastrophe.”

Jack felt like saying that the Titanic was a catastrophe and this was really more like a mishap, but he kept it to himself. “You’re right,” he said. “I went too far, baby. I totally made a mistake. I’m so sorry for putting you through all this. Please forgive me.”

His wife was silent. Jack poured his juice, took a few gulps and waited for her to say something. The two boys, feeling uncomfortable, left their parents alone.

Jack watched his wife start up again with the dishes. He meant his apology and wanted a response. She wasn’t quick to give one. There was part of her that didn’t want to let him off the hook. So selfish, she thought. She had never met anyone as infuriating as he was. At the same time, she couldn’t help but miss the man. And here he was being so vulnerable: a quality she found so attractive in him. “How was community service?” she asked. Jack could feel the effort she was making. Beyond her thin veneer of indifference, he sensed a new softness in her.

“It was good.” Jack said. He moved closer to his wife. She acted like he wasn’t there. “I met this guy today who’s doing community service for a DUI. He’s some big-deal creative director with Special Forces.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re a cool little boutique agency I’ve been trying to get a meeting with. This guy was at the parade and said the shark float was the craziest thing he’d ever seen. He went on and on about it and how it’s gotten over 700,000 views on YouTube already. He asked me to send him my portfolio.”

Jack’s wife heard the hint of pride in his voice. She believed he was sorry, but she also suspected that, deep down, her husband was secretly thrilled by what was going on. Everyone in town was talking about what happened. Sure, there were plenty of detractors; but the majority of people were having fun with it – replaying it, adding details and stretching the truth. The event was taking on a life of it’s own and had all the potential to become a local legend. She worried that all the attention would only embolden her husband and thereby guarantee more future stupidity. She searched for a neutral response that was loving but not supportive of anymore recklessness. “That’s good news he wants to see your work, babe,” Jack’s wife said. “I’m sure he’ll think it’s great.”

“Who knows,” Jack said. “Nothing may come of it. We’ll see.”

“How much more service do you have to do?”

“Only seventy-seven hours left to go. Then my debt to society will be repaid. Legally anyway. I guess my debt to you might take a little longer.” Jack took put his arm over his wife’s shoulder. To his surprise she leaned into him and then wrapped her arms around him. It had been so long since she’d returned any of his advances. He kissed her on her head. She nuzzled into his neck, enjoying how their bodies always seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Jack,” his wife said.

“Yeah?”

“No more projects.”

Jack paused. He didn’t want to make his wife another empty promise. Just reassure her, he thought, she’s not looking for a contractual agreement. Before he could answer her, the phone started ringing again. Jack’s wife rolled her eyes. “Let me go ahead and answer this,” she said. Picking up the receiver, she shouted, “Get over it already,” and hung up. Then, turning back to her husband, she opened up her arms and asked, “Where were we?”

People Roulette

2010-10-03T22:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I know I only met you a few minutes ago and we’re just two people forced to sit together on a domestic flight, but I saw something back in the airport that’s giving me an adolescent fit of the giggles, and I just have to share it with someone.

Before I tell you about it, though, let me just say this: thanks so much for being a normal person. The fact that you’re under 300 pounds, able to formulate coherent sentences, and seated next to me, makes you a statistical anomaly. It’s the thing that scares me most about flying – not going down in a ball of flames – but who am I going to have to sit with. It’s like People Roulette. I could get someone like you; or I could spend three hours, wedged in the fetal position, between a couple of inbred Sumo wrestlers.

Take that guy: see that porker wearing the ‘Who Farted’ t-shirt? The guy with the gurgling smoker’s cough, bumping passengers in the head with his backpack, looking for his row? Yup. He’s the kind of travel buddy I usually get saddled with.

Whenever I see a guy like that, squeezing his way down the aisle, I know he’s headed for an adjoining seat. I’ll start centering myself emotionally and getting into character while he’s still a ways off. The role I usually go for is Dead Guy In The Seat, and it’s something I take seriously. If my performance is unconvincing, I might be forced to listen to hours of penetrating insights on every topic from celebrities to third world economies; sophisticated opinions like: “I’ll tell you how to fix the Middle East right damn now. .ou just bomb all their asses. That’ll teach them sonsabitches.” If my acting falls short, I’ll have to hear all about medical ailments, or the finer points of vacuum sales, or about alcoholic uncles who should’ve kept their hands to themselves.

With a guy like that, I like to make sure and claim the armrest early. It’s sort of a douchey land-grab, I know, but surrender just a corner and he’ll eventually annex the rest of it like Germany would. Then, all you’ve got is enough room to do little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms for the remainder of the flight. Shh, here he comes. Quick, claim your armrest. You and I can share ours. You want the front or back? There. Now act sleepy.

What a relief, he’s passed us. I think we dodged a bullet with that one. It’s lucky for him they don’t charge airline tickets by the pound.

Am I talking too much? Oh, no. Now you think I’m a talker. I assure you I’m really not. I’m just excited about the thing I witnessed in the airport; something unusual I’ve never seen before.

So, get this. In line, at the security area, I see a man, right? He’s burly, at least six-two, and he’s got a thick, scraggly, rapist beard. He’s looks like any regular guy: maybe late thirties, wearing plain blue jeans and a faded softball shirt. Everything about him is ordinary and forgettable. He’s the sort of guy that’s probably only referred to as What’s His Face; a man who blends into the background like human wallpaper.

But there’s one little thing about this guy that’s different. One small detail makes him impossible not to look at: he’s wearing these bright-red, patent-leather pumps, with three inch stiletto heels.

Totally bizarre, right? Weirdest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I mean, I’d get it if he was a full on cross-dresser – there’s some sort of logic to that – but this guy’s your standard-issue dude except for the shoes.

After his bags are scanned, the man makes his way off towards the gates. The high-pitched click, click, click he makes with each step, echoes off the terrazzo floor and commands attention. Every few strides he totters off balance awkwardly, which only ads to the spectacle. People are gawking. They nod in his direction and whisper to each other. They crane their necks to get a better look. The Man In The Pumps is causing quite a sensation.

I walk in the same direction as the man. The whole time I’m following him, I wonder what the deal is with his bizarre choice in footwear. I figure he’s lost a bet or something. The shoes are some kind a joke, or he’s worn them on a dare. If not that, then maybe he’s got some weird foot problem where a doctor’s ordered him to walk in heels for therapeutic reasons. I keep studying the man to see if I can discover more clues.

He turns into the same gate I’m headed for. More people stare at him. More whisper and snicker to each other. Waiting for the flight, I keep tabs on the guy occasionally. The serious way he’s conducting business over the phone is in stark contrast to his ridiculous appearance. What the hell is this guy thinking? By the time they call for boarding, my curiosity is running wild and I’m scared that if I don’t find out what the deal is with the shoes, my head might explode.

As people start to form a line, I see my chance. I squeeze my way through them and get a spot behind the guy in the heels. “Okay,” I say, in the most winsome tone I can muster, “I’ve just got to ask you this…” The guy turns around, gives me a skeptical look and waits for my question.“What’s up with the shoes?” I ask. There, it’s finally out there. What a relief.

“Well,” he says in an effeminate voice,“I just … like ‘em.” He’s kind of snippy the way he says it, and he quickly whirls back around.

“Well alright, then.” I say with a quick chuckle, filling in the awkward silence. His answer takes me completely off guard and so does his voice. I’m not sure what to think. First, there’s a flash of admiration, as if I’ve stumbled upon a rare and fearless soul living life by his own rules; a rugged individualist who thumbs his nose at all social norms and conventions. I’m tempted to offer up a high-five and say, “That’s right, you go girl. You wear your high-heeled shoes and to hell with what everyone thinks about you.”

But after a second, it sinks in how utterly unsatisfying his answer is. He just wore them on a whim? What? The guy just happened to look in his closet this morning and decide a pair of bright-red, patent leather pumps, with the three inch heels, were perfect for the airport? The heels made more sense than the sneakers, boots and loafers that were in there too? That’s total bullshit. And where do you get a pair of men’s size thirteen pumps anyway? They can’t exactly be an ‘off-the-rack’ item. A lot of premeditation went into this and I’m irritated by his lame answer. I think it begs a bit more inquiry.

“It’s just…” I begin, tentatively; giving the man a head-to-toe gesture as he turns around again “… incongruous.”

He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before answering, “A little incongruity can turn a trip to the airport into an adventure.” Then he straightens up and smiles, preening momentarily.

“Well, I suppose it can,” I laugh. And there at last is an answer I can live with. It’s plain-old shock value the guy’s after. He could have just said so to begin with. I mean, I totally understand the desire not to blend-in. I guess some people get neck tattoos and bolt shit to their face to stand-out, others wear high heels. I think if I was going to be that overt about it, though, I’d just wear a sign around my neck that says: 'I Need Lots Of Attention – Please Look At Me,' and avoid the risk of breaking an ankle.

That’s one of the things that makes flying such a great social experiment, don’t you think? You have to admit that purely from an Anthropological standpoint it’s pretty interesting. Where else do you get mashed together with so many people you’d never choose to hang out with, and for such long periods of time? It’s like the line at the Division of Motor Vehicles except with wings.

So the guy in the pumps is a few seats behind us. No, no don’t look now. He’s sitting down anyways. You wouldn’t get the full effect. But make sure you take a look when you hit the restroom. It’s worth your while.

Do-Gooding 101

2010-06-29T10:41:00.001-07:00

The Saturday morning AA meeting I go to is filled all types of people: There's everything from hardcore addicts, living on the streets, to affluent, well-spoken CEO’s. This morning, a tough looking guy is sharing a bit of his story: “I’m going to classes,” he says, in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I even made the Dean’s List. But here I am still on the streets. I get paid on Tuesday and if I can make it to then, I can move into a place of my own.”

The imposing appearance of the guy, and his deep, scratchy voice, contrast the vulnerable manner in which he speaks. I’m stirred by it. After the meeting I approach him and hand him a few bills. “Hey man,” I say, “I really appreciate what you’re trying to accomplish. Tell you what – I know you don’t know me, but my wife and kids are out of town for a few days, and if you need a couch to crash on, just let me know.” He whips out a little booklet and I write my phone number down.

Almost immediately after the words come out of my mouth, I start regretting the offer. That was impulsive. Maybe even risky. But it’s out there, and I’ll do it if he takes me up on it. He probably won’t anyway. For the rest of the day I’m hoping the guy won’t call. I start thinking of excuses I could give him why I can’t follow through. I’ll say the wife said no. I’ll just be honest and say I’m not comfortable with it. I’ll say some other guys in The Program advised me not to.

I think back, about a friend of mine in Atlanta, who was once similarly moved, and brought a homeless guy in to live with his family for a few weeks. They extended him every generosity, treated him like one of the family, and even admitted him into a drug rehab center. Eventually, the guy simply skipped out on them; but I remember telling my friend that I thought it was a reckless move, especially with little girls in the house. And here I am doing practically the same thing. Damn, I hope the guy doesn’t call.

He calls around four o’ clock. I tell him – let’s call him Alex – I’ll pick him up at Pike’s Place around six o' clock. I call David, my nineteen-year-old son, and let him know we’ll be having a guest spend the night.

Before I leave to get Alex, I take all the computers and electronics out of the main living area and put them up. Why needlessly tempt the guy? I also put away any papers that might have personal information on them, along with all extra sets of car keys.

I pick Alex up from Pike’s Place. Driving back to my house, he starts letting little bits of information loose: “I couldn’t get that job because I’ve got a felony,” he says. Oh, that’s great. I figure the best way to handle the news is with nonchalance, and I don’t ask him what the felony was for. But my imagination starts running wild.

We stop, along the way, and pick up a sandwich for Alex. I take a longer, indirect route home to make it more difficult to retrace. When we finally arrive, Alex says, “Man, this is a nice house.” I fight the urge to be apologetic about having a house and just say thanks.

Alex eats his sandwich and tells fragments of his story. From what I can make out, he grew up in New York and quit school, his senior year, to be a roofer. That set him on a negative trajectory, which kept him working menial jobs and bouncing around – Florida, the Midwest, and California. He regrets quitting school and ever getting mixed up with drugs.

David comes home from work and introduces himself to our guest. Alex talks for a while, and David and I listen. I study what must be a prison tattoo, of a flower, on Alex’s forearm. It, along with his piercing stare, leathery skin and shaved head give him a sinister air; but I try not to dwell on it. I’m a big guy, and I can take care of myself. But I imagine guys in prison are used to taking risks that fighters at the gym, where I train, aren’t used to. Guys with nothing to lose are dangerous. More doubt creeps into my mind.

Alex talks proudly about his brother who’s a successful corporate guy; but many of his other family members also succumbed to drugs. One cousin’s a Meth addict; an uncle’s into heroine; someone else got sent away for trafficking cocaine. I wonder how a person can get out of a system where there’s such heavy drug abuse. Alex says it’s hard, but not impossible.

We both talk about the economy and how it’s affected everyone – how there’s not enough work to go around anymore. I tell him that my industry is in decline and that I peaked a few years back. I feel like bitching about my own financial woes but it would just sound stupid and sniveling to a man whose only worldly possessions are contained in a small plastic grocery bag.

After a while we put on a movie. It’s a Quentin Tarantino flick about grifters and smuggling. Every now and then, Alex take’s a cue from the movie and says things like: “That reminds me of this guy I know who would dress up like a businessman, go into office buildings and steal everything from petty cash to computers;” or, “I know this one guy who stole an industrial generator and sold it for $50,000;” or, “I know this guy who robbed a bank.” My takeaway from all these statements is: Alex knows an awful lot of thieves. I can only guess, by association, that he might be one too.

When the movie’s over, it’s totally dark outside. Our house is well lit and we don’t have any curtains drawn; so the darkness shouldn’t really make a difference. But it does. I’m suddenly more wary of Alex. I tell him I’m going to call it a night and I start locking everything up for the evening.

I keep all the lights on. I go into David’s room and leave one of our dogs with him. I tell him to lock his door. I take our other dog to my bedroom and lock my door behind me.

I can’t get to sleep. Not so much as a wink. I lie in bed wearing all my clothes, and a baseball bat is within reach on the pillow next to me. I keep a small light on. Every noise I hear – every shuffle or the slightest cough – I sit up, and see if sounds of a struggle are coming from David’s room. What was that? Was that the turning of a bedroom handle? Was that the gurgling sound of David being strangled? Or, was it just the dog, scratching? It was the dog. Phew!

In the morning, I’m out of bed and in the kitchen around seven. Alex is up and having a hand-rolled cigarette out back. I fix us both eggs and sausage.

After we eat, I offer Alex provisions for the road and he takes a water and a grape soda with him. I speed downtown like a stunt-driver and I’m in good spirits. This plane’s coming in for a landing. But I’m not out of this yet. I’m still half paranoid that something weird, like a hijacking, might happen: you hear stories.

I stop the car in front of Pike’s Place. Alex is grateful. When he gets out, we shake hands. He looks me in the eye and gives me a sincere, “Thanks brother.” I like it when he says this, and I think: Yes. Right now, at this moment, we are indeed brothers and I’m glad to have been able to do you a small kindness.

Driving back home, I’m utterly relieved. Except for a small, nagging worry, in the back of my mind, that now a homeless drifter and ex-convict knows where I live. Deep down, though, I don’t think I really need to worry about Alex. I think he’s just a guy who’s had a lot more setbacks than I have.

Here’s the thing: All my anxiety has been about something I’m supposed to do; and not just once in a while. I’m supposed to help people.

This big, black book, I keep in my night stand, uses some rather forceful language about helping orphans, caring for the sick, visiting prisoners, and being a general benefit to those who are forgotten and in need. It doesn’t list these things as optional. It wildly asserts that it’s my obligation to help others even if it means inconveniencing myself, being uncomfortable, or taking risks. It claims that I should be bold and somehow fearless in the pursuit of compassion.

Do I do that? Not so much. I rarely extend myself in the aid of others and that’s one of the things that makes me more of a church-goer than a church-doer. The fact that I’m even mentioning all this reinforces how unusual altruism is for me.

But I liked it. And I’d like to get better at it.

Next time, though, I think I’d probably get someone a hotel room instead.

BP CEO, Tony Hayward, and The Importance of Being British.

2010-06-20T23:51:00.000-07:00

Listening to BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward, offer his apology for soiling the Gulf of Mexico, made me wish, once again, that I was born British.

The first time I felt that way was back in 1995 when I saw actor Hugh Grant, apologize on J. Leno for his well publicized infidelity with a prostitute. Hugh skillfully applied a public-relations policy the military calls: Maximum Exposure, Minimal Delay. Instead of hiding from what he did, he went on national television, the week it happened, and said, “I think you know, in life, what's a good thing to do and what's a bad thing; and I did a bad thing… and there you have it."

Sure, Hugh had some things going for him. He was handsome. He also appeared genuinely contrite. But what really made everyone want to say, “Aw, don’t worry about it, Hugh; what’s a crack-whore between friends,” was the British accent. Seriously. Try saying, “I did a bad thing… and there you have it," with a Brooklyn accent. It just doesn’t fly.

Now the same thing is happening with Tony Hayward. In BP’s television ads, he’s puppy-dog-sad as he addresses the camera. “The gulf spill is a tragedy,” he says, softly, “that never should have happened…To those effected and your families, I’m deeply sorry.” How can I be mad at the little guy? He looks and sounds like Frodo from The Lord of The Rings. My first reaction is compassion. What I want to do is give him a hug. Then the voice of reason, from deep inside me, yells, “Wait a second! Wait a second! This guy’s a total, A-Hole!”

I guarantee if Tony were, say, a Texas oil-man, speaking with a thick Southern drawl, his head would’ve been on a pike weeks ago. But, since we’ve been conditioned, over years, through countless movies, to associate a British accent with honor, trustworthiness, and intelligence, Tony gets his pass.

To the American ear, even a British retard sounds suave. This makes the accent practically a superpower, like atomic energy, which can be harnessed and used for good or evil. If you don’t believe me, try this experiment: Next time you’re hanging out with a British guy, have him approach a group of attractive women and say, “Pardon me, ladies, I just pooped my pants.” See if he doesn’t go home with one of them.

It’s dangerous to watch Tony Hayward on television. If you do, beware: He’ll speak English the way it ought to be spoken; and next thing you know, you might feel linguistically inferior. Then you might assume it’s best to shut up and listen; let the expert of our language show you how it’s done. Once that happens, it’s too late; you’re open to his persuasion. You won’t know why, but you’ll find yourself saying: “Thanks for the $20 billion, Tony. What’s The Gulf of Mexico between friends.”

The Strongest Finger In America

2010-06-11T23:44:00.000-07:00

I'm experiencing post-traumatic flashbacks from my first full-medical-checkup, this morning.

Before the doctor shows me who's boss, I warn him: “I might break your finger if I accidentally clench-up.”

“Are you kidding me?” he says, displaying his pointer. “This is the strongest finger in America. Do your worst.”

The doctor isn’t lying: His finger is quite powerful. Or perhaps he’s substituted a plunger-handle, as a practical joke, when I wasn’t looking.

As he’s violating me, it seems like the doctor’s taking a long time and I ask him if he’s misplaced his car keys up there. The doctor says no and that my prostate’s in good shape.

Removing his glove, he flatly says, “Never go to prison.” I tell him I surely won’t. What an unexpected bonus this is: Not only do I learn about my health, today; I also get a valuable anti-crime lesson!

Taking my rape-shower, back at home, I crouch in the fetal position and gently rock myself back and forth; sobbing quietly.

To my gay friends out there, I’ve got to say: Gentlemen, I salute you. If that’s pleasurable, then you dudes are - for sure - the absolutely toughest bastards on the planet. Not only should you guys be allowed in the military, I think we need to start an all-gay armed force. With your obviously high threshold for pain and stunning fashion sense, you guys would be unstoppable.

Consider The Rap Music Crisis Officially Solved.

2010-06-07T00:35:00.000-07:00

Critics of Rap music have been suggesting, for some time, that it’s gone soft: “Lost it’s teeth,” they lament. “Sold out.” While it used to be the voice of the counter-culture, now songs from former bad-asses, like 50 Cent, are being used to sell tampons.

Indeed, the appeal of Rap has grown so broad it’s become vanilla; but, I dare say, it’s not too late to recapture the genre’s original rebellious spirit. In fact, if I were given 6 months and a million dollars, I could save Rap Music: By starting the first ever Hip Hop label for Senior Citizens.

WHY THEM?
What’s lacking in Rap is authenticity. Young rappers pretend to act like gangsters in hopes of gaining street-cred; but what do these kids truly know about being hardcore? Old farts, on the other hand, are the real deal. Take Cal Wallace, a 73-year-old Vietnam Vet living in Seattle: “Kanye West’s a big, fat, giant pussy if you ask me. Oh, he grew up on the rough streets of Chicago, did he? Try being 19-years-old, knee deep in a rice patty, shoving your buddy’s intestines back into his abdominal cavity after he’s been turned inside-out by a mortar. Not ‘street’ enough for you? I once infiltrated an underground command post – filled with 23 Viet Cong – and took them all out, using just a rusted pistol and a commando knife. Trust me, Kanye West doesn’t know shit about the Thug Life. His punk-ass wouldn’t last five seconds in the jungle.”

WHAT ABOUT THEIR MATERIAL?
When you think about it, who has more justifiable discontent to write about than Senior Citizens? With their bodies in a state of irreversible decay and the threat of death imminent, their frustration is rich artistic territory. For instance: Raisin-faced, Leonard B. Callis, 83, of Atlanta, Georgia, hadn’t had a decent erection in over fifteen years. His resulting dissatisfaction inspired the now famous poem Yo, Why My Dick So Soft. Imagine if Leonard could breathe his wisdom into a broader audience by combining his prose with a really sick beat. With their own record label, Seniors would be able to impart compelling insights through songs such as: Damn, I Shit Myself Again, or Bitch, Get Me My Jello, or As I Stand On The Precipice Of The Great Abyss, I Realize My Life Was Completely Meaningless.

WOULD THEY KEEP IT REAL?
Young rappers are self-conscious and worried about their image; both of which cloud their ability to be honest. Because old people are free of the desires to look cool or get laid, they’re able to give us unfiltered, culture-changing Truth. If old men were worried about appearances, would they wear black socks with sandals? No. They do it because they don’t give a rat’s ass what other people think about them -- that’s exactly the kind of unflinching boldness needed to save Rap.

WOULD THEY BE PROFITABLE?
From the fiscal standpoint, a geriatric Hip-Hop label makes total sense. Right now, there are around 40,000,000 old folks out there that don’t listen to Rap. That’s money in the bank when this thing catches on. As an added bonus, some Seniors might even forget they purchased our records and turn into repeat customers!

HOW WOULD I DO IT?
Easy. Since old people are usually bored to tears watching television and waiting to die, they’d probably jump at the chance to learn some new things! With nothing better to do, they could spend as much time as needed in the studio, honing their technique. Since rhyming requires only rudimentary verbal skills, the learning curve wouldn’t be too bad, anyway! Our elderly performers would be up and running in no time!

LET’S DO THIS.
I would hate to see Rap continue to lose its way. But, if we act quickly and deliberately, by letting Senior Citizens take the lead, we can guarantee it’s relevance for generations to come.

First time I saw my wife

2010-05-20T11:40:00.000-07:00

The gym is dead at this hour. It's completely silent except for the muffled thud of a bass-beat coming from down the hall. I wander in the direction of the music, which gets louder with each step. The door to the aerobics room flies open, pouring a million decibles of hip-hop out at once.

Terri, a petite aerobics instructor with spiky hair, notices me as she props the door open. “Hey Steve!” she says loudly. Her eyes are so big and bedecked with lashes, they almost look cartoonish.“You’ve got to come here and see this,” she says. Her movements are fast and I imagine every sentence she’s ever written ended in exclamation points with little smiley faces where the period should be. “Quick,” she says, gesturing with her hand that I need to hurry, “She’s about to run through her routine again.” From inside the aerobics room, the music stops, and I hear someone say, “That last one was great, Elizabeth. A couple more times from the top.”

In my early teenage years, there was a popular sci-fi artist named Boris Vallejo, who created oil-portraits of mythical, warrior-goddesses being attacked by monsters. The heroines in Vallejo's work had impossibly sculpted bodies - the personification of beauty, health, power and vitality - and wore next to nothing. They were rendered in absurdly erotic positions with body-parts that defied all natural laws of geometry and gravity. These women captured my imagination and became the benchmark, however unfairly, that all others would be measured against.

As I pass through the doorway of the aerobics room to see what Terri is so damned excited about, I’m astonished to find, there in front of me, a Boris Vallejo Warrior Princess come to life. Under the spotlights, she’s even posed like one, waiting for the music to start again. Her toned back, glistening with sweat, is towards us. Chestnut hair, in a ponytail, cascades over her shoulders. One arm is flexed and she's staring at her open hand, dramatically, revealing a hint of profile. Her other hand reaches forcefully out in the opposite direction, shifting her weight. My eyes follow the line of every taut muscle, from her calf up to her perfectly shaped bottom. One leg is gracefully elongated, creating a sense of movement even though she’s completely motionless. “That’s Elizabeth,” says Terri, “she’s got a competition in three weeks.”

Angie, another instructor, finishes fiddling with the tape-deck and commands, “Here we go. Make sure you hit that straddle-press higher this time, and remember to point you toes.”Angie hits play and Miami Bass comes blaring over the PA system. Elizabeth flies into action: an explosion of kicks, springs, presses, jacks and splits, in time with the music. Her sapphire eyes are sparkling and a smile that would make a toothpaste model jealous is glued to her face - both of which make this combination of a gymnastics floor routine and dance seem all the more effortless.

The way she’s capable of contorting her body, the way she’s breathing heavily, the way she whips her hair around flirtatiously, the way everything's bouncing with just the right amount of resilience - I’m not sure if the routine is meant to be sexy, but it’s certainly having that effect on me. I find a lack of rhythm or coordination repulsive (for me it’s the equivalent to a finger up the nose) but this woman, in all her physical refinement, is the farthest thing from awkward I could possibly imagine. I wasn’t expecting any of this and I'm getting nervous in the presence of such greatness.

When she’s finished, Terri and I clap. Angie tells Elizabeth good job and to take a quick rest before running through it again. “That was so awesome,” Terri says, with a look of such fawning adoration it’s almost embarrassing. Angie hands Elizabeth a towel and she dabs herself off while walking in our direction. She’s at least a few years older than I am, I assume, something which only heightens her mystique to me. “Oh shit,” I’m thinking, “here she comes. Just be cool.”

Women have no appreciation for the amount of effort it takes a guy to maintain his composure in front of a woman he’s impressed with: We don’t talk with amazing women, we audition for them. I’d like to tell Elizabeth I think she’s the most incredible creature I’ve ever seen. And creature is the appropriate word. I’m convinced that, hundreds of years ago, she would've been burned at the stake for being a witch. She’s that unusual. Mere mortals just aren’t supposed to look like this. I feel like telling her all that, but when she holds out her hand to shake mine and says, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth,” in a raspy, still breathless southern accent, I’m mercifully able to muster up enough restraint to answer only with, “Hi, I’m Steve.”

When she grasps my hand firmly, I look into her eyes and smile to create the illusion of self-confidence. We exchange pleasantries and I ask her about the competition she’s doing. She begins a detailed description of the contest but I really have no idea what she’s talking about. All my energies are concentrated, instead, on how I’m standing, how much eye contact is too much, and how I might be able to slip in a witty line or two. I just nod along with her, pretending to be interested. I look for openings to keep things rolling, but to my disappointment, we’re cut short by Angie who says it’s time for another run-through.

I could stay and watch, I suppose. But I’m satisfied with my performance here, not having said or done anything that might betray the impression I’m reasonably self-assured and together. I opt, instead, not to push my luck, and simply say, “It was nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” I wave and leave with my dignity intact.

Confessions of a Mediocre Father

2010-05-15T23:06:00.000-07:00

I arrive home tired and emotionally drained after a long day of feigning interest. I haven’t even unwound yet when I look in the backyard and notice that someone has graffitied my cedar fence.

What the hell?Who…?

I could guess that the damage was done by some of the teens that frequently wander, in packs, around our neighborhood. Or, God-forbid, maybe I applied weed killer to a dandelion and one of my ostensibly tolerant, crystal-wearing neighbors vandalized the fence in retaliation for my heinous assault against mother nature. I might wonder who else would want to send me such a hateful message, if it weren’t for the initials of the perpetrator included in his work and if he weren’t in the middle of spray-painting a trash can now.

“Jonah,” I yell, ripping open the glass sliding door to the back porch, “What are you

doing?”

“We’re spray-painting the trash can.”

Yeah? No shit. “Stop doing it.” I shout, “I told you never to spray-paint anything without asking me.”

Jonah and his buddy look at me blankly and lower their paint cans.

I go outside to more closely survey the damage they did to the fence. “Why? Why? Why would you do this?” I ask, grabbing my head out of confusion and frustration.

“Gabriel, did it first. He said it was OK.” He points behind me, gesturing that I should take a look.

I slowly turn around and my heart sinks. Ten feet of fence wall is covered in large, spray-paint doodles. I stand there, momentarily frozen with my mouth hanging open.

As I march inside to call Gabriel, I begin my transformation from Tired And Weary Dad into Angry Dad. Jonah’s ten years old and just barely in an age range where doing completely senseless stuff like this is still in the realm of understandable. But Gabriel? The kid’s thirteen. He should damned well know better.

“Gabriel,” I shout. No answer. I double my volume and try again,“Gabriel!”

In a muffled voice, from down in the basement, he answers, “What is it?”

“Come up here, now!”

I hear the door to the garage slam shut, followed by footsteps thudding up the stairs quickly. “Yes, sir. What is it,” he says, out of breath. He can tell by the tone of my voice that something’s wrong. “What is it?’ he asks. I’m leering at him, trying not to explode. “What did I do?” he asks again.

“Come out here.” I say, coldly. Making my way past the patio, Gabriel trails behind me. Jonah and his buddy have disappeared somewhere. No doubt he saw where things are headed. I stop in front of the fence and Gabriel slows his pace.

“Over here.” I tell him.

“Yes, sir,” he says, cringing as he steps over to see where I’m looking. But he already knows.

“What the hell is this, Gabriel?”

“The other day, Jonah was spray-painting the wall and he said it was alright.”

Now I’m afraid of myself. I can feel it coming. I’m about to say things I regret and turn into one of those awful dads you hear about: the blaring, red-faced, veins bulging, die-of-a-heart-attack-at-forty-three kind.

“What the fuck, Gabriel? How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“How old is your little brother?”

“Ten.”

“Are you the older brother, or the younger brother?”

“I’m the younger brother. I mean the older brother.”

I put my hands on my knees and bend down to get eye-to-eye with him. My face is inches from his. I’m six-foot-one, two-hundred and ten pounds and no stranger to the weight-room. From my son’s perspective, I must look absolutely terrifying.

My lips tighten,“Gabriel,” I say, thrusting my finger into his chest, “You’re three years older than Jonah and I expect more from you. You could have told him to stop spraying the fence. You could have told him it was wrong. You could have said something to mommy, but instead you chose to take part in it yourself. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know…I”

“Are you the baby of the family, now? Is that it?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” he says, starting to cry.

“‘I don’t know’ is a stupid answer. Are you stupid?”

“No, sir.”

“Then stop doing purposefully stupid shit, O.K? What’s between you ears, Gabriel?” He just stares at me.

“Between your ears, Gabriel. What’s that called?”

“My skull?”

I can’t tell if he’s sassing me. “And what’s inside your skull, Gabriel?” He’s looking at me fearfully, unsure of what I’ll do. I don’t wait for his answer. “Your brain,” I bark, “Your brain is between your ears, Gabriel. Do you ever plan on using it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“I don’t… I”

“You’re going to clean this up and I don’t care if it takes you all night. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

I head to the garage and grab an extension cord and drill. I can’t find the stripping brush among all the tools scattered on my workbench. They’ve probably done something with it, damn it. They’re always messing with my stuff. How am I supposed to keep anything organized with those little pricks in my business? I find the stiff wire drill-bit where I left it and carry the gear around back. Gabriel’s not there.

As I prepare to see if my setup will remove the paint, Elizabeth comes quickly walking towards me. I know what she’s going to say and I’m fairly determined to ignore her.

She reaches for my arm and quietly says to me, “I don’t think now’s the time.”

“He’s doing it now and I don’t care if it takes him all night,” I say. She should see that I’m at the point where opposition only strengthens my resolve. But she doesn’t.

“I think he should clean it up, I just don’t think it’s necessary he does it now. Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” I say, resentfully. Screw her fancy logic and reasonable advice.

“He’s got his small-group coming over any minute, don’t you think he could use…”

“Listen. Let me be the dad, O.K.? This is the consequence of his retarded choices, he needs to fix the mess he made.”

“Fine, I just think you’re being hard-headed.”

“Then leave me alone and let me be hard-headed.”

She walks away, shaking her head, and I begin sanding off the paint, muttering to myself. I call Gabriel back outside. There’s no answer and I have to call him again. When he arrives, I show him how to use the drill, but he’s hesitant about it.

“I can’t do it,” he says, after a weak attempt.

“No, not if you don’t try and just quit every few seconds.”

“I am trying. It keeps jumping off,” his tears begin again. “Can’t I do this another way?”

“You’re going to do it, and you’re going to do it like I showed you. It’s the quickest, most effective way.”

“O.K. But if I lose a finger, and have to go to the hospital, it’s not my fault.”

“You won’t lose a finger.”

I walk back inside the house, listening to make sure the drill is working it’s magic. A few guys from Gabriel’s small-group/Bible-study are starting to trickle in. The contradiction isn’t lost on me that mere seconds ago I was emotionally drowning my son and now I’m endorsing his learning the Bible. Maybe I should practice some of it myself.

I hastily exit, avoiding the group leaders, and leave to get more paint-removal supplies.

Alone in my car, storm clouds form in my head. Isn’t my home supposed to be my castle? My safe haven? Aren’t my wife and kids supposed to be my side? Friends don’t go around tagging their friends stuff, do they? Throwing up roadblocks on purpose? Breaking and losing my things. This is when I hate being married. This is when I wish I never had kids. People who hate me would show me more respect. This isn’t what I signed up for.

I slip into my favorite hallucination where the 39-year-old, present day me is somehow transported back in time to have a talk with the 21-year-old, Little-Shit Me. Backwards I drift through the years before moving to Seattle; before Atlanta and the births of Gabriel and Jonah; before the death of our first son, Christian; before the shotgun wedding and before getting Elizabeth pregnant. “Listen, dumb-ass,” I say to Little-Shit-Me, “You have no idea what you’re doing with this woman and her son. You have no clue how this will…What? Yes, yes, I know she’s a beautiful and you love them both and all that, please let me continue. You’re playing with fire, my friend. You’re going to sacrifice all your freedom for…What’s that? Yes, I understand the ‘physical aspects’ of your relationship are top-notch; that’s fine, let me finish. You might be having fun now but you’re in for a tough road, mister. It’ll be the hardest thing you ever…Hey! Where are you going? Come back here! I haven’t told you about… Oh, wow, he’s so much faster than me. Come back, you stupid, love-sick fool!”

It’s not one of my more satisfying daydreams. I prefer the ones where I change Little-Shit Me’s mind and he heeds Bitter Older Me’s advice: he stays single, thereby creating an alternate present where I’m a rich, famous, artist and playboy with an inexplicable head full of great hair. There’s also the simplified version where I just go back in time and kick Little-Shit Me’s ass, purely for spite. That’s pretty gratifying, too.

I continue fantasizing for most of the ride to the hardware store. By the time I get there, I’m steeped in lugubrious self-pity and blame. While I wander the aisles, searching for materials, my anger starts to dissipate and the image of Gabriel’s frustrated, tear-streaked face begins to come into focus. When the picture becomes completely clear, I study his broken expression and finally feel a great heart-pang. I was really hard on the little guy. He must think I’m a monster. I know I would.

As more sanity sets in, I think about how our little opera wasn’t so much about this one event. It was like all trivial conflicts that turn melodramatic: it was really about the back-story.

Gabriel and I have never had the kind of close relationship I’ve had with my other two boys. From the get-go he’s just been more difficult. As a baby, he cried louder and longer. He pitched bigger fits and was frequently inconsolable. He defied all forms of correction. The rewards and punishments that worked to discipline his brothers had an inverse effect on Gabriel. I had to spank my oldest son twice in his whole life; my youngest son only a handful more. Spanking Gabriel never did anything except harden him more, at which I became increasingly severe.

An older buddy of mine, also with three sons, once told me that no matter how many kids you have, there’s always one that takes up 80 percent of your energy. Gabriel is that child, for me. He’s also the child that Elizabeth says is most like me, which makes his behavior all the more personally irritating. He confounds me regularly and I don’t think there’s an area of my life where I feel more incompetent.

It doesn’t matter what bullshit, jargony acronym you ascribe to his condition either: ADD, ADHD – whatever. None of the technical terms are any more clarifying or descriptive than just saying he’s a Spazz, and I worry that he’ll never outgrow it. I fast-forward to the worst-case scenarios: he’ll end up on the streets because he can’t hold a job; he’ll be miserable and become a drug addict; he’ll be institutionalized or become a Reality TV host.

I can only imagine what a difficult path he’s going to have and it scares me to no end. Unfortunately for him, my immaturity dictates that volume and anger are the best ways for me to handle the fear. My efforts with Gabriel are, at best, clumsy; and I know he deserves better. I fully expect that many years from now, I’ll receive a greeting card from his psychoanalyst that says:

Dear Mr. Andrews,

Thanks for being such a mediocre father. Your son, Gabriel, comes to see me regularly in an attempt to undo all the damage you caused. I’m sure you can imagine, that’s quite a big job! Thanks to your ham-fisted efforts, I just bought a new Porsche 911 GT5 for $250,000. It rides like a dream and it’s really helped my social life! Maybe you and I can go for a ride sometime.

Best Regards,

Dr. Cranium

Most of the time, when I get down on being a family-man, it’s a case of the baker complaining about the bread. I set the tone. I choose the ingredients. Then I’m upset when things aren’t to my liking. It’s an American approach to things – perhaps the unintended by-product of being carpet-bombed with 4000 marketing messages a day – where I view all things, especially relationships, through a consumer lens. “What’s in it for me?” I ask, “What do I get out of this?”

The worst thing about starting with those two questions is that they make gratitude almost impossible. When I’m worried about ‘What do I get out of this’ I stop seeing or appreciating my family as valuable. I see what they cost me, and little else.

There’s this old Puritan expression I recently heard, that I’ve thought a lot about: “The same sun that melts the ice, hardens the clay.” The saying is about religious truth and how people react to hearing it, but I think it works for my situation too: Being surrounded by my wife and kids can either melt my heart or harden it, depending on the sort of man I am. They can make me better or bitter. Where I land on that is up to me.

I’m of the mind that all humanity is broken, to varying degrees. My brokenness shows up mostly at home. Everyone else sees the edited version of me, with the most acceptable parts put clearly on display. Only my wife knows my deepest insecurities and the lengths I’ll go to defend them. Others get mere glimpses, but Elizabeth and the boys know the whole truth about the ugliness and pettiness I’m capable of. Still, they somehow manage to act like they want me around once in a while. I don’t understand how they do it. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one night, to find the lot of them, standing around my bed, holding Bic lighters, cans of gasoline and exchanging anxious glances – now that I would understand completely.

Sometimes I find their grace downright heroic. At these moments, I appreciate their efforts to drag me, against my will, into something that vaguely resembles adulthood. Their mere presence – with their needs, wants and desires so frequently counter to mine – has the power to forge me into a decent man.

Someday.

On the way back home from the hardware store, I know I’ve got some apologies to make. I need to tell Gabriel that I was out of line. I need to tell him that I was mean and that he didn’t deserve the extra helping of harsh words I dumped on him. I’ll tell him about the time I carved big stars on an oak desk that belonged to my dad; and that I’ll never forget the bewildered and reproachful look on my father’s face when he confronted me about it. I need to let Gabriel know that I look at him in that same way, far too often. I’ll tell him that I know what it’s like to desperately want a father’s approval even when it’s completely undeserved. I’ll tell him that I love him.

Then I'll ask my son to forgive me, knowing, full and well, it won’t be the last time I’ll

have to.

The Underdog

2010-02-13T10:52:00.000-08:00

Just a little mini-documentary I put together from my middle son's wrestling final's. I'm so proud of the little guy.

Christmas Letter 2009

2010-01-02T22:36:00.001-08:00

Last time I wrote a letter for Christmas it was 2007. The economy was jumping. I lived with the persistant assumption that each year will be better than the last. Next year, the thinking went, I’ll make more money, have a better house and drive a better car. I’ll have a superior title at work, I’ll create higher profile stuff, I’ll be more satisfied. It’s the idea of infinite growth - up without down - and for the previous 13 years of my professional career, it’s been the truth. The last two years brought with them not only widespread layoffs, and economic downturn, but the end of one man’s particularly naive worldview.

For much of 2008 and 2009 I was commuting back and forth to Las Vegas. The situation was run, run , run during the week, at the ad agency I was working for, then run to the airport on Friday and fly back to Seattle. It was vainly attempting to squeeze a week’s worth of quality time in with Elizabeth and our three boys. It was strange arguments, tears, and making up, then running to the airport Sunday evening for the return flight to that desert arm-pit only to start the mess all over again on Monday.

The upside was I really liked the agency where I was working and I got to meet some great people, but man, I hated that town with the kind of intense passion you might only hate another Hitler. Decaying old people like zombies in front of noisy, blinking machines: that’s what comes to mind when I hear Las Vegas. Not glamour. Not showgirls. Not excitement. Not fun. Just a sea of wretched, overfed creatures desperately looking for a moments diversion. Ten months there and it made me think a nuclear Armegedon might not be all bad.

Since the lay off, when I’m not freelancing or looking for full-time work, I’ve been making up for the time I lost with my family. I’ve been riding bikes with the kids to school, helping to coach wrestling, going to parent/teacher conferences and begging forgiveness from the wife. There’s been lots of that last bit as I’m not that easy to be around when I fret.

Being home has been a mixed bag. While I’m truly ecstatic to be back with my family I simultaneously hate their very existence. Not them personally so much as the pressure of being responsible for them. Their pesky need for food, shelter and clothing can be such a bother at times. I’ve thought about going out for a pack of smokes and never coming back, but they’re clever and would surely figure me out. They know I hate cigarettes.

It’s been two years of transitions for the rest of the family as well. David graduated high-school and started college. He had an epic summer trip to Europe and Africa which gave him a new perspective on the world and a dandy case of malaria. As a result he’ll never be able to donate blood. He may also better heed the explicit instructions of medical professionals in the future.

Gabriel and Jonah are maturing. Physically, anyway. Gabriel’s very proud of his new ‘man hairs’ and has a microscopic one under his arm that he loves to show off. Jonah has lost his hockey smile and now sports a varied assortment of disproportionately large grown-up teeth. He’s learned to use his new smile to his advantage which explains his meteoric rise up the 4th grade social ladder. He won the seat of class president and lords over his fellow students with an iron fist.

Elizabeth’s latest passion is going to the dog-park. She’ll easily spend an hour there watching our Staffy, Petey, tumble around the dirt with the other dogs. Her excessive fondness for dogs is new and scares me. “Oh, Steve. Look at Petey” she’ll say fawningly, “He’s licking himself.” Or “Oh, Steve. Look at Petey – he’s breathing.” She gets annoyed with me when I fail to share her enthusiasm, shaking her head at me in astonishment as if I were unable to appreciate the beauty of the Mona Lisa. I tell her that the line between ‘dog lover’ and ‘crazy-dog-lady’ is a fine one.

There’s no telling what’s around the corner for our family. We’d love to stay in Seattle, but I honestly fear we may have to leave for greener professional pastures elsewhere. It’s my hope that we would be open to whatever the good Lord has in mind for us regardless of how crappy it looks to us. The most meaningful thing I’ve heard in church in the last few years is simply that God walks us through The Valley, not around it. I somehow find great solace in this.

My hope for my family and friends is that we would all develop an optimism that goes beyond our immediate circumstances - one that doesn’t hinge on the fragile conditions of comfort and affluence. My hope is that we would all grow stronger through these trying times and develop that virtue of old we’ve had no need of for so long, namely grace under pressure.

God bless you and best wishes for the New Year.

-The Andrews Family

Pioneer Square, I Think I Love You

2009-10-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

Rounding the corner to my job near Seattle’s Pioneer Square, I slip on:

A) A pile of poop.
B) A puddle of bum puke.
C) A used condom.

The answer could easily be “A”. In most places you might assume a pile of poop on the sidewalk was created by a dog. Not so, around here. With the high number of homeless in the area, every pile is questionable.

“B” is also a good possibility. One time, while walking to the bank, a wobbly man ahead of me leans over and begins to violently empty the contents of his stomach all over the sidewalk. “Oh nice,” I say out loud, half-disgusted, half-amused. I think he’s done but he staggers a few steps and begins again, this time bracing himself against the building wall next to him. I can’t believe a human being’s stomach can hold so much. The vomit just keeps on coming like some gastrointestinal clown car. As I pass him I notice that the vomit looks just the way I’d imagine a wino’s puke should look: a 90/10 ratio of liquid to solid matter.

If you answered “C” you would be correct. I slipped on a used condom. I was mortified. Partly by the condom and partly by the accompanying image that formed in my mind. That of two pasty-bodied, Seattlites in the throws of passion; their creased, tattooed rolls of fat rippling as they really lay into each another. I tried to shut the picture out of my mind but, by some psychological law, whatever you focus on expands. The idea was only magnified and permanently etched in my memory banks. Typically, in my imagination, it’s only good looking people that have sex. But thanks to this event, my horizons were expanded. I basked in the glow of cultural enrichment.

That’s the beauty of Pioneer Square. In this, Seattle’s oldest and most storied part of town, there’s no telling what surprising delights a day might hold for you. Here, I never tire of seeing things that either astonish or confuse. Such as a few weeks ago, when I saw an otherwise normal looking man punching a tree.

Take a typical lunchtime outing. On the first summer-ish day Seattle had in 6 months, the kind of day that makes you remember you actually choose to live here versus feeling sentenced to it, I wander two blocks over to Occidental Park (also known as Crackhead Park) where, to my joy, a man and a woman are performing live music. I buy a sandwich at a nearby café and grab a table to listen.

The guy on the guitar is ‘singing’ Jimmy Buffet completely out of key. He’s easily fifty and chunky. Hair in a ponytail, the bald on top kind, wearing high, cut-off jeans shorts and an unfortunately snug tie-dye t-shirt. A sort of dispossessed IT guy.

The woman on the mic next to him wears thick glasses and has deep lines in her skin. Her gray hair in pig-tails dangling from under a worn sailor’s cap. She’s singing back-up to ‘Margaritaville’ and rattling a shaker out of time, the wrinkly excess skin under her arms flapping wildly.

The two sound horrible. Really. They’re completely awful. But I’m loving every moment. What the duo lack in talent, they more than make up for with that elusive quality that not everyone appreciates: character. Were it two virtuosos performing, I’d likely soon forget them. I’ve seen enough technically proficient, mechanically precise performances over the years. But these two, singing their hearts out, missed notes and all, I’ll remember these guys.

Perfectionism and cleanliness have their place, don’t get me wrong; viruses aren’t as likely to grow in hospitals because of them, and that’s good thing. But an absence of dirt isn’t always appealing. I’ve worked with 3-D animators over the years who’ve told me about the great pains they take to purposefully create visual imperfections in the characters and scenery they design. The eye, they tell me, sees the smooth, pristine shapes drawn by computers as unpleasing. Cold, anitseptic and off-putting. It takes untold hours and detailed craftsmanship for someone to go over the images, ‘messing things up’, enough to where they feel natural.

In the same way, new cities that don’t have the occasional dumpy bar or hole in the wall café, suffer from a lack of personality. Drive cross-country and you’ll see hundreds of small towns that look like carbon copies of each other. Oh, look, there’s a Chili’s and an Olive Garden. A Home Depot and a Walmart, just where you’d expect them to be. It’s the same when you walk into a middle-tier hotel room and you know exactly where the light switches will be, and all the pictures look familiar. A formula exists that’s been tried, tested, refined and established. In newer towns, unique environments are rejected in favor of mass produced chains because a mediocre but predictable consistency has proven to be profitable. It’s only the rare businessman who wants to gamble on something with individuality.

Nothing grows in a sterile environment and I think that goes for my children as well. While I surely desire a safe neighborhood for my children, I worry that the lifestyle of my three boys on Mercer Island, where they’re among children of Ferrari driving Microsoft elites, comes with a great cost. The small concern is that my children won’t develop an appreciation for character, the larger concern is that they’ll learn to fear it. Like when I overheard my oldest son’s friend say, “David, you’re going to Ballard? I don’t know, man, that place is pretty sketchy.” I’ve heard Ballard described as ‘artsy’, sometimes ‘hip’, but ‘sketchy’? It was just the sort of comment you might expect from a kid who’s grown up cloistered in an affluent, white ghetto.

I don’t want my boys lobotomized by the scalpels of comfort, convenience, and contentment. I worry that if they aren’t exposed to a broader range of life experiences, they’ll grow up aspiring to live in cookie-cutter homes and lead cookie-cutter lives. That they’ll love wearing khakis, listening to classic rock and hanging out with guys named Chad. I fear that they’ll develop a particular brand of white, suburban angst that I find ridiculous – the kind that, while in the car, hastily fumbles for door-locks at the approach of a black man in a business suit.

I take my boys downtown as much as possible in an attempt to counteract the anaesthetizing effects of suburban life. We’ll stroll through Pioneer Square and they’ll nervously hold my hands; pulling closer to me they'll whisper, “Daddy, who is that man yelling at? There’s nobody there.” Maybe we’ll hit Elliot Bay Books, or grab an obscenely large caramel coated apple from The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Once in a while, we’ll make our way up to the Seattle Art Museum, but the cultural experience my boys get inside SAM never compares to the one they got walking there.

So much of our lives has been pasteurized, made to go down smooth and easy. I’m glad to have a place like Pioneer Square nearby. For me, it’s a welcome protest against all that’s non-offensive and uniformly dull. Sure, walking around might give you the occasional uneasy feeling, and rightly so. It’s gritty and not entirely safe. But it’s also alive and real. Available for the asking. A little touch of Venice Beach, minus the tan.

The Scoutmaster's Apprentice

2009-10-10T23:05:00.000-07:00

I was hoping to avoid the whole Boy Scouts thing with my youngest son, Jonah. I had already logged enough time in it with my first two boys. David, the oldest, almost stayed with them up through Eagle, but my middle son, Gabriel, mercifully lost interest early on. Now Jonah, my youngest, is literally begging to be part of it.

The kid is all about being part of The Team. An example of this bizarre behavior is his passion for football. I don’t even like the sport. I never watch it. But he’s somehow gotten this overwhelming excitement for it through the ether. He knows all the players names. He knows their stats and personal histories. “LaDainian Tomlinson was born in Fort Worth Texas and started his career in 2006,” he’ll say, “He had the most rushing yards in 2007. Even more than Adrian Peterson.” I honestly have know idea who Adrian Peterson is, but I can’t help smile as I listen to my boy expound on the virtues of a Gap Fire defense, his enthusiasm far outreaching his ability to formulate coherent sentences.

“I need to be early for practice,” he’ll admonish his mother. “Jonah,” she’ll say, “for the last time, it’s only four o’clock. Practice isn’t until five.” Five minutes later he’ll ask again. And then in ten. Fifteen minutes later he’ll be in the passenger seat with his pads on, in route to the football field, silent and content at having successfully worn down his mother’s defenses. She’ll drop him off, wave bye-bye and shake her head as he skips off on the empty lawn, throwing a football to himself.

And now his zeal is being directed at WEBELOS. They’re the group in between Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. WEBELOS, Jonah informs me, is an acronym for,”WE’ll BE LOyal Scouts.” More importantly, it means two den meetings a month and one pack gathering. It’s field trips on weekends for Merit badges. Camping on other weekends. It’s a whole juggernaut of schedules, requirements, ceremonies, goals and get-togethers that I really don’t want any part of. I know from experience how consuming this stuff can be and it’s not even the end of football season.

“Tonight, you need to pick Jonah and Malcom up from football practice and take them to Scouts,” said my wife. I knew what the words meant and I didn’t protest. An hour later, I’m driving to the field to get Jonah and his best friend. “Did you get the bag out of mommy’s car?” he asks. “Yes, Jonah,” I say. He runs to the car, pulls his uniform out of a paper bag and starts to put on his Scout shirt. Malcom doesn’t have his uniform. He’s all sweaty from practice and his contrasting appearance makes Jonah all the more satisfied. We get in the car and I hand the boys some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Along the way to the Den meeting, the boys’ mouths are stuffed as they quiz each other on the Boy Scout basics, correcting each other on the finer points of the motto, or ‘Moat-O’, as Jonah pronounces it.

I’ve somehow managed to elude attending any of the first few meetings, so I accept that it’s right for me to be sentenced to this one. All the same, I’m dreading it. Not dark dread, more like having your teeth cleaned, dread. I’d rather be just about anywhere except in someone’s house I don’t know, having to make small talk with people I don’t like and act interested in things I don't care about.

We’re 15 minutes late to the meeting and it pleases me. It’s 15 minutes less to suffer through. Approaching the front door we hear the loud, unruly shouts of prepubescent boys at play. We’re greeted by a pudgy, middle aged guy with reading glasses and gray thinning hair. There’s just something about a grown man in a Boy Scout uniform that I find inherently disturbing, but he’s friendly and welcomes us in.

I notice the furniture is traditional, but not in the refined manner. Not taking any chances, I should say. The interior design equivalent to a Toyota Camry. Hanging on the walls are aged landscape oils and antique photos from generations past. I zero-in on a curio cabinet boasting a collection elephants made out of porcelain and other materials. Scattered around the room are other nick-nacks and chotskies of the crafty variety. Items knitted. Snow globes and whatnot.

The Scoutmaster does his best to get the boys situated. He begins to lead us through his presentation on the concepts of air pressure and lift so the boys can get their Science merit badges. I watch the scene with detached curiosity. My wife had said that she didn’t like most of the boys and now I can see why. The Scoutmaster is repeatedly interrupted by one spastic kid after another. The parents of these kids, a couple of fathers, downcast and drowning their sorrows in their Blackberry’s, and a couple of exhausted looking moms, do nothing to reel their children in.

I don’t have a ton of specific goals for my boys, but in general, I just don’t want to raise them to become douche bags. I start to worry that leaving my son in the company of this group is not a good idea. One kid blurts out random noises every 30 seconds or so, in an attempt to make the other boys laugh. I catch Jonah staring at me, widening his eyes for effect, as if to say, “You’re seeing this freak too, right, Dad?” I notice the restrained tension in the Scoutmaster’s voice as he attempts settle the offending child down. “Alistair,” he says, “Are you paying attention? It’s difficult to talk and pay attention at the same time isn’t it, Alistair?” The kid just laughs and makes another goofy noise. By the man’s clenched, pedantic tone, I assume The Spazz is his own son.

Moving closer to the mantle, I’m drawn into an unintentionally amusing assortment of family portraits, the subjects all over-lit, awkwardly posed and forced to smile in front of blue, dappled backgrounds. I notice one studio portrait of the Scoutmaster and his three big-eared boys in Christmas sweaters, one of which is Alistair. There’s another photo in which Alistair, maybe aged five at the time, is seated on a Shetland pony. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and so is his mother. She’s in a sweater with Poodles on it and she looms over her son, engulfing him protectively in her arms. She’s a smothering figure and the expression on his snot-nosed little face reads despair. His furrowed brow telegraphing, “Please help me. Dear God, please help me.” That explains it, I think to myself, this poor kid doesn’t stand a chance. I can only imagine what it’s been like for this child, growing up, under her tyrannical control. No doubt rectal thermometers were involved.

As the Scoutmaster continues, I start to feel guilty for laughing at him. The guy’s really trying, and that’s so much more than can be said for most dads. He’s just so disproportionately excited about it all - that’s what I find comedic. The majority of the boys continue to be unengaged and disruptive. The parents all texting on their cell phones. Behind the Scoutmaster is a large spreadsheet identifying checkpoints and criteria, a 5-year plan so the entire group can make Eagle Scout by the time they graduate high-school. I feel like grabbing the boys I came with and running for the doors. But, watching my son sit calmly, surrounded by ten fidgety, obnoxious little devils, his tousled hair poking out from underneath his Scout hat, his dark eyes alert and following the leader’s every move, I can see he’s really into it. When the leader asks a question, Jonah raises his hand eagerly and, when called upon, answers that the Cub Scout motto is, Do Your Best. “That’s right,” the Scoutmaster says, “Great job, Jonah.” My little boy just beams and oh, how beautiful he is to me at this moment. This is when I accept, yet again, that parenthood is a sacrificial endeavor and that’s what we all sign up for whether we like it or not. How can I deprive him of something that brings him so much joy even though it’s misery to me?

I understand as well as anyone, begrudging your family, and responsibilities. It’s not something a lot of people talk about, but I get it. I confess I’ve harbored a great deal of resentment towards my family over the years. I married young, under less than ideal circumstances, and the financial costs, the lack of freedom, and fact that I don’t’ drive a Porshe have all become an emotional legal case I frequently hold against my wife and kids. Sure, my choices brought me here, but that’s no consolation. When the weight and pressures of life begin to bear down on me, of which there’s been much lately, it’s easy to view my wife and kids as a burden. I don’t hide this well, either. But the act of sacrifice can be transformative and I think it’s only through such a crucible that there’s hope of me one day becoming something more than just a big, overgrown boy.

If you buy into Ayn Rand’s depiction of selflessness painted in ‘Atlas Shrugged’ or if you’re just a pragmatist or materialist, talk of sacrifice appears silly. Again, I get it and frequently find myself in that line of thinking. There is no question that family is impractical and spending my time doing something I don’t want to do sounds stupid. It’s irrational to desire a situation where you’re stressed. But, by the same reasoning, going to the gym in order to needlessly stress my body is also irrational. I happen to love the gym and I love getting stronger. So, as hokey as it sounds, is my family a 'gym' capable of making me emotionally and spiritually stronger? I think it is. I just can’t see the muscles I’m developing when I look in the mirror.

Before we leave, the Scoutmaster asks excitedly, “Alright, who would be interested in taking the 3 hour tour at the Washington State Court House this Friday, so the kids can achieve their Civil Service badges?” There’s an awkward silence. No takers. Disappointment flashes on the leader’s face but he quickly rebounds. “Well, that’s O.K.” he says, “maybe we’ll try again next time.”

On the way out, Malcom, Jonah and I thank the Scoutmaster and shake his hand. “See you in two weeks,” he says to me, more in the form of a question. “Sure,” I say, doing my best not to sigh melodramatically, “I’ll see you in two weeks.”