People Roulette

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. You 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.

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

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.”

First time I saw my wife

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

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.

Christmas Letter 2009

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