Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 8
Christmas morning Dave took his BMW and headed for Bayonne.
Last minute nerves took over and the rumble in his stomach matched that of the engine. It wasn’t that he feared seeing his father on his home turf; it was his mother. Four years prior when he announced he would marry Lucretia, Mom, who had met her with others present for all of forty minutes, said that Dave would be disowned if he did. Mom said; “She’s crazy.”
Dave considered that one of her stronger points and wasn’t about to debate a nebulous word, especially when he thought he could predict the adamant nature of Mom’s position and wasn’t about to change his own mind. She didn’t want to let go no matter the woman in question as she had been insisting since he was fifteen that they should all live together in a two-family house in Sayreville. Not being particularly expensive Dave offered to buy her one eight years ago and his offer was rejected over the course of a nonsensical conversation which ended with Mom saying; “Nobody tells me what to do,” and storming out of the room.
Dad had always taken care of her needs, but who knew how long he would last. Dave thought he looked pretty old at forty.
To complicate matters Dave remembered that Dad always supported Mom, including when Dave took his side in a discussion/argument.
This was confusing to all parties present as Dad would seem to be taking one stance when talking to Mom, but if Dave took his side he would switch to the other outlook and agree with Mom, who must have been glad to get her way, but sad to be abruptly curtailed in her enjoyment of a good argument. Dad would say to Dave; “That’s your mother,” and after being informed as such about fifty times Dave concluded that his father believed that was true or that he was compelled to oversell a weak position.
So, here he was in his quickly-becoming-gray, black BMW, slogging through the soot-mixed puddles on the streets paving the way to Factoryville, NJ and to see his mother for the first time in four years. Dave was always one to find the silver lining and he thought; “No doubt Dad came to see me at the instruction of Mom, so she must want to see me and not have to openly admit it. When I was a kid I probably got the benefit of an excellent baseball education, because it was an excuse for Dad to be away from Mom for long periods. Necessary ‘work’ and all that. This must have been the one thing he defied her about, as she always spoke of the possibility of injury. It didn’t match her interest at all. ...... It’s kind of comical that when I got older I relied on my physical prowess, rather than making use of the knowledge imparted. Ah, at least I helped in getting him out of the house.”
About five miles from his destination he realized that he was lost. Perhaps new roads built since his departure caused confusion; perhaps he was dazzled by the Christmas decorations; or perhaps he unconsciously didn’t want to get there. Whatever the reason he found himself on a short back road he couldn’t recall ever seeing previously. It was always a bit tricky to get into Bayonne, the “oasis” sandwiched between Jersey City and Newark, but he had made the trip countless previous times and wasn’t concentrating on the road, the same way he had mindlessly pitched. The road was parallel with some still body of water and had “suburban” type houses on a quarter of an acre rising from the road on the other side. It reminded him of Lodi after a heavy rainfall. With minimal traffic to impede him he drove slowly hoping for a sign which might lead him in the right direction. At the corner of a road coming from the development he found many signs posted. They indicated that 386 was this way with a horizontal arrow; 444 was that way with a bent arrow pointing at the low, dull sky; and that 517 was the other way with another bent arrow pointing to the ground. He wished things still had names.
He decided to stay his course thinking that if it proved to be the wrong one he could easily double back to this spot and try another route. After a mile the road turned inland and ended, splitting into two other nameless numbers. He knew he had
made the right choice when he saw John’s Bargain Store on a rise to his right. The 1940’s forerunner of today’s deep discount department store chains was a landmark to him. Every Bayonne habitué had spent hours at John’s and despite the prices now being higher than importers from China locals were loyal.
Bayonne was always a union town and a sizable elderly contingent still descends on City Hall whenever a modern discounter tries to establish a presence, careening wildly in their wheelchairs, pounding their crutches and asking their nearest neighbor; “What did that crook say?” whenever a politician spoke.
Dave went right, onto the four lane Boulevard. He took it to Seventeenth Street making a left and then made another left onto Avenue C. He parked across the street from the four story apartment building and viewed his first home. He thought that he caught a fleeting glimpse of his Mom in a fourth story window.
The figure moved away and he felt as if he was fifteen years old again, coming home late from some exciting excursion, readying himself to be given the third degree. He would be required to tell where he was, why he was there, why he lost track of time and contritely promise to never do it again. At that point Mom would say that she was worried to death, what a good boy Anthony Chludzinski is, and how his mother never had to put up with the things that she suffered. She cared.
As Dave crossed the street he looked at the brick building and its similar attached mate. He expected that at any moment Margie, Sandra, Big Joe or Ryan would turn a corner looking precisely as cool or goofy as they did when they were fifteen, with their over-confident, king or queen-big-cat gaits. But, like him, they must be elsewhere. The fronting fire escape appeared as rickety as ever, with nothing of a ninety degree angle left anywhere. It probably had not been used since 1987
when Richie, a rotund boy with Down’s syndrome who played with the other kids, locked himself in a bathroom and forgot how to get out. His single mother was helpless. So a cop climbed the shaking, rattling and rolling piece of government decreed safety and rescued crying Richie by entering the second floor window and opening the door. Dave climbed two steps and pushed open the heavy iron door, entering the small lobby, home of the mailboxes and not much else. He pushed the buzzer and got an echo, allowing him to open the inside door. He climbed the stairs in the staircase devoid of light. Four floors and he saw them both standing half in the hall and half in the house. He mumbled a feeble “Merry Christmas” and hugged his mother. She bristled and kept her arms at her sides. He let go and she said; “Where are my presents?”
Dave stepped back, extended his arms to the sides and said;
“Moi.”
Dad grimaced and made a snorting sound.
Mom said; “Well, come on in anyway.”
Dave followed his mother past what was once his room, the kitchen and into the living room with his father imitating a caboose.
Dave started to sit in a slipcovered plushy chair when Mom said; “Don’t you want to see the tree?”
Dave straightened back out and answered; “Is it still the pink one?” He was immediately sorry and was reminded that he should only attempt public speaking armed with a script. The tree had been a bone of contention ever since Mom bought the artificial two foot midget when he was a teenager. Years ago he had laughed at it, called it a crime against nature and ridiculous, and when he was in a really foul mood he would say that it wasn’t Christmas with a stupid pink tree.
Mom stiffened and said; “Okay, if you don’t you don’t.”
Dave said; “Of course I want to see the Christmas tree.
It’s the spirit that matters.”
They all entered the adjoining bedroom and there it was; as pink as ever with garlands, tinsel, tiny multi-colored lights, a few miniature gold-leafed saints, red and green balls that proportionally seemed the size of grapefruits, and at the very top was a flying white porcelain woman in a blue wrap. Nothing
had changed. As a kid Dave wondered who the flying woman was, asked, but got no definitive answer. He tried again.
He was surprised to find out that mom now claimed to know the winged one’s identity, stating that she was one of the Morrigans, technically classified as war goddesses, but who would fly over fields of battle and somehow end the skirmish.
She said that they were revered in Ireland where there is an annual celebration and she made a limp wristed hand gesture and slanted eyes.
Dave wondered if she made up the story. He said; “That really is a great tree. It just takes some getting used to; an acquired taste.”
Mom braced and waved her formerly limp hand dismissively, saying; “Ah, I got it at a post-Christmas sale for a dollar ninety-nine twenty five years ago. Get your eyes off the top and see the base.”
Dave saw an envelope with his name on it, “Little Dave,”
ostensibly to avoid confusion. He was accustomed to receiving cash presents in his adulthood. He thought that his mother was just too lazy to shop, but she insisted that she had no idea what he wants. Right now, he could use the cash. He opened the envelope and found that his mother had gotten creative. She had obtained a color photo of Lucretia in a bikini and substituted strings of tiny replicas of paper currency for it. There was
also a proportionately refrigerator sized hundred dollar bill that she seemed to be ogling. Dave broke into a grin which became wider and wider. He said; “Very appropriate, mother.”
As Mom smiled and nodded, Dave added; “But, tell me one woman you know who is unconcerned with the almighty buck. Maybe Lucretia is just more up-front about it.”
For the ten thousandth time Dave’s Dad informed him of his maternal kinship, and that it was his mother who he was talking to, once more being enlightening or over-selling. Dave sensed that the situation had become dangerous, when Mom excused herself and went into the bathroom. He couldn’t think of anything safe to say and couldn’t get out of the room without scampering across the bed as he was blocked in by his father.
Neither spoke for a few seconds, each preferring the rebuttal position. Dad finally gave in and said; “You always have to say something ‘smart.’”
Now Dave had a few directions open to him and he replied;
“She knows that’s a sore point and after four years that’s the first thing she brings up.” He was again reminded that she was his mother. He hoped there would be no detectable sobbing.
Mom exited the bathroom, acted as if she was fine and said;
“Why’s everybody standing around the ridiculous tree? Come on in the kitchen and eat.”
Dave took a burnt sienna, bent tubing exposed, modestly upholstered chair in the kitchen which was hot with oven balminess and a strong scent of turkey. He rested his elbows on the plasticized cover decorating the table he had never seen, because of its penchant for staying safeguarded. The few cigarette burns on the beige cover were testimony to its wise decision. The table rocked as he leaned and he jumped back to an unassisted sitting position. He said; “I forgot that this wobbled.” The yams, green beans, corn and pumpernickel bread already sat in dishes on the table and Mom opened the oven door to retrieve the turkey raising the heat level and fragrance to mid-day tropical and potent. He found it pleasant to mildly perspire in the dead of winter. The alley-viewing kitchen window fogged over depriving him of a vision of the light reflecting storm windows across the way. Mom poured ice tea and sat.
As everyone filled their plates Dave and Dad commented on the appeal of what Mom had prepared, especially the tenderness of the turkey. Somewhat embarrassed at the compliments of a task which didn’t seem all that extraordinary, Mom changed the subject saying flatly; “So, I hear you’re out of work.”
The phraseology made Dave laugh. He never thought of himself as one who worked. He responded somewhat generally saying; “That’s one of the weird things about being a ballplayer. While others keep working until they’re 62 or 65,
we’re retired in our middle thirties. It leaves us a lot of time to fill.”
Mom said; “You can always get another job.”
Dave responded; “I never wanted a job.”
Dad said; “With your name recognition, you could do well at insurance sales. Everybody wants to talk to athletes.”
Dave recalled that this was something his father had always said when he was a kid; before they were sure that he’d become a pro. He didn’t like the idea of peddling then and the years hadn’t changed his outlook. He said; “We’ll see,” in an unconvincing manner.
Mom said; “Are you too good to sell insurance?”
Another dinosaur approached, but Dave fended it off with ease. He said; “Of course not. I just don’t like it; that’s all.
Can you imagine going into someone’s home and telling them that if they insure their car with your company they can reduce their monthly payment from $183 to $139, fully aware that you’re able to accomplish this magic by reducing their coverage in a way you hope they don’t detect, at the same time listening to the husband’s memories of how you pitched to Randy Wadsworth a decade ago and how he knew how to do it better. And if you’re successful in not insulting his limited baseball knowledge and they don’t find where their coverage has been diminished you make about a hundred bucks.”
Mom seemed to understand, or at least wasn’t very able to counter. She said; “What do you like to do?”
“I don’t know. ......... Checking to see that the automatic credit went into my account. Finding the dollar value of my investments. ......... Do you remember when I took that test before college? I didn’t know what to major in, so you found this testing place to determine what I was most suited for. The questions were like; ‘Do you prefer working indoors or out?’ and
‘Would you rather work alone or with a team?’ That kind of stuff. Well, I went and answered all their questions honestly and the results came back; ‘No particular interest in anything.’
I take their word. The experts have spoken.” Dave found this not-the-first-time-told story amusing, but neither of his parents was laughing.
Mom shook her head and spoke to Dad. She said; “See, he takes after your side of the family.”
Dad said; “No way. He’s more like your brother who knows everything about everything and does nothing.”
Mom vehemently retorted; “No, no, no. He reminds me of that cop brother of yours. The one who got himself assigned to the supply depot, because he doesn’t like people.”
Dave said; “Wait a minute. I ......”
Mom and Dad didn’t even look his way and Dad responded to Mom, saying; “It’s not that Walter doesn’t like people. It’s
that he doesn’t like getting shot at. Dave’s more like your nut father who locked himself in his room for twenty years.”
Dave tried again, saying; “I don’t think ......”
Mom cut him off; “My nut father had good reason to require some privacy. He had seven children, six of them girls in four rooms. Now, you want to talk about nuts. How about your brother, Adolph, hanging around with schvatzas and fighting with dogs.”
Dave said; “I like dogs. I never ......”
Dad interrupted to say; “No. He’s more like your pretentious sister Virginia with the piano that neither she nor any of her kids can play. Remember when we visited her and had to sit through three of her brats clanging on the thing and then having to say how good they were at it.”
Dave sighed and ate his turkey while it was still warm.
Mom said; “I never really liked Virginia anyway. I just wanted to visit her that once because she was always talking about what a big deal house she had. Remember when she had the gall to put it on her Christmas cards. But, how about that sister of yours; Terry was supposed to be his (Dave’s) godmother and the last time she saw him was at the Christening. That’s where he gets that stuff from.”
Dave looked at the ceiling as he re-remembered tales of his illustrious gene pool. He only knew them from tales as he never met any one of them more than three times as his father
intensely disliked his mother’s family and his mother felt the same way about Dad’s and often her own. Dave thought;
“Considering the circumstances it’s quite an accomplishment for me to not have axe-murdered anybody. In a very real way I’m flattered as I never wanted to be like any of them and here they are adamantly saying that I got my wish.”
Dad said; “That stuff you’re talking about is more like the stuff that other sister of yours pulled all her life. She started screwing guys when she was thirteen and at age 60, she’s hanging around bars trying to get someone to screw her. She never had a job in her life.”
Dave said; “Come on. I’ve never screwed a guy and I can’t even remember the last time I was in a bar.”
Mom looked in Dave’s direction, but really didn’t hear what he was saying as she was trying to think of some retort to Dad’s last familial observation. She was not successful, so she glowered at her husband and said; “To be continued. This is Christmas and we’re being very poor hosts.” She looked at Dave and continued; “How do you like the turkey, darling? Oh, I see that you’ve finished it. You must have. Would you like some more? I’ll reheat it. Mine’s cold now.” She stood up and said;
“But, before I do that there’s something I want you to see. Your father won’t like this, but that’s his problem. Did you know that he kept a scrapbook of all your exploits?”
Dad went rigid and said; “Don’t.”
Dave said a mild “No.”
Mom left the kitchen and Dad followed her nervously. Dave heard a drawer open, then a scuffle with papers falling, and cries of “Gimme,” “Gimme,” and “Gimme.” Dave went to their new altercation area and saw that each had two hands on a frayed photo-album-type-of-book. Dad took a final violent pull and had it in his possession. Mom said; “You might as well let him see it now. He knows what it is anyway.”
Dad carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the table in front of Dave’s seat. Dave turned the pages and saw that it was about him; whenever he had done something worthy of note the newspaper notice was clipped and taped to the thick leaves. He chose to start at the beginning and the first entry was a box score of a baseball game dated 9-1-87 in which he saw his name as having 1 AB, 0 R and 1 H. He remembered the significance of the day, as it was his eight year old first season in the Little League; the last game of the season in which he registered his only hit of the year. At the time he was convinced that he would be embarrassed to be one of the few players to not get a hit all year long, but on this day he hit a soft liner over the shortstop’s head to finish the season at 1-25, a batting average of .040. He recalled that he was generally hitting the ball someplace, but invariably to one of the fielders. His other
eight year old competitors struck out regularly, but when they did manage to make contact the ball went to the right place. As a consequence the others teased him, calling him “the hitless wonder,” which now required revision. He said; “I remember that day. A guy named Connolly was pitching; a left hander with a tailing fastball and not much else. I was afraid that the shortstop would go get it.”
Dad said; “He should have caught it. He got a late start.”
The next entry was a newspaper photo of him and his father; seemingly instructional. They were seated and Dad was holding out his right hand, palm up and fingers together. At the time Mom said to Dad that he talked like a Ginny, with his hands. In actuality he rarely did that, but this was the pose requested by the photographer-journalist. The date was 7-9-88 and it was Dave’s first flirtation with glory, as the purpose of the article was to highlight him as potentially the first nine year old Little Leaguer in Bayonne’s history to bat .300. In actuality he finished at .292, but it was close enough.
There was another entry the same month, a box score dated 7-25-88. Dave pitched for the first time. He had been bugging his father, now the manager, all year to let him as he had already mastered the curveball. Dad declined saying; “It will look like I’m showing favoritism and the twelve-year-olds deserve their chance.” However, as the year progressed, the team
did badly and the twelve-year-olds seemed to get worse with each outing. So, Dave got his first chance and proceeded to pitch a no-hitter into the bottom of the last inning (the sixth), when a left-handed hitter named Donovan homered after Dave walked someone, to end the game with a 2-1 score. Dave told his father;
“I’ve often referred to this game when talking to other players.
I tell them that in the first game I ever pitched at age nine, I had a no-hitter going into the last inning. They usually look at me as if I was full of something. I tell them that indeed it was true, but that the real reason for it was that my fastball was so slow the hitters kept over-swinging, looking for a home run, and as a consequence kept hitting little pop-ups.”
Dad nodded and made a tiny, tight-lipped grin.
Mom said something, which reflected her lack of baseball player understanding, to the effect that Dave was being unduly modest.
After the last clipping it was off to the races. At the age of ten, Dave pitched the season’s opener on 6-9-89 and an oversized headline said; “CARVE OUT A NICHE IN THE HALL OF FAME
FOR DAVE NELSON,” as he had pitched a real no-hitter on opening day. During the off-season Dad and he had worked on his stride; extending it, resulting in a competent hard one to accompany the curve.
Dave said; “That was the day I knew that I’d play in the big leagues someday.”
Dad said; “That was pre-mature.”
“Oh yeah. I know that now. I also learned that every guy in the majors and some that never made it would have a scrapbook like this if their fathers had kept one. One of my pet peeves is when a fan says something like they could do better when a pro messes up. They don’t realize that they couldn’t come close as all these guys are damn near flawless in what they do, and they all were heads and shoulders above the local competition. Sure some hit .300 and others .250, not noticeable to anyone without the use of long term statistics, but a fan would bat .040, if that high. And with a handful of exceptions they play the field perfectly. If the fans have any doubts about that they ought to try watching a few double A games, to see how sloppy this beautiful game can look, played by people much better than themselves.”
Mom said; “You’re all so great. Is that what you’re saying?”
Dave said; “No, closer to the opposite. When we’re together we don’t talk about our great accomplishments. Nobody wants to hear that and we all have stories. We tell each other about the games we messed up and what we couldn’t do. For me, there was this guy named Kessler I pitched to about forty times in
college. I think he batted .900 against me. Left hand hitting first baseman, no power, would just slap at the ball. He’d wear me out. He’d foul pitches off and I’d throw him what seemed like ten pitches every at-bat. I’d mix in fastballs, overhand curves, three-quarter curves, sidearm curves, changeups, even a submariner here and there. And I’d always wind up walking him or he’d hit a little liner somewhere deep in the count. Anyway, I was pitching to him one really hot day, Arizona, and it must have been 120 degrees on the field. I got ahead of him, 0-2, and then he starts fouling everything off. I miss a few and the count goes to 3-2. I swear to God that by this time I must have thrown him fifteen pitches. He’s seen everything I can throw twice in this one at-bat, so I didn’t know what to give him next. I go to my best pitch, a hard three-quarters curve and he lines it over the second baseman’s head. I’m dripping sweat and thinking that if I had to pitch to only Kesslers I’d only last about ten batters and nine of them would have gotten on base. I decided right there that if he comes up again without anyone on base I’m just going to lob the ball in real easy and hope he hits the first one. He’s going to get on base anyway and at least I won’t get worn out by one batter.”
Dad asked; “Did you do that?”
Dave said; “No. That was the last time I faced him. I heard he got hit in the face by some really hard thrower and quit.”
Mom flinched and said; “Ooooh. Did he do it on purpose?”
Dave answered; “I doubt it, but only he knows for sure. The thing is that when a guy is throwing 98-104 miles per hour, to have any chance of hitting it, a hitter has to start his swing before he even sees the ball. Once he’s committed, if the ball comes at him, there’s no time to get out of the way. And some of these college pitchers are wild. Some of the triple A pitchers are wild. In fact the biggest differences between a major league game and a triple A one is that in the majors pitchers throw strikes and batters hit for power or have speed.”
Mom shook her head and looked at Dad, saying; “See, I thought this was a dangerous game. That’s why I didn’t want him playing.”
As his father squirmed in his seat and grimaced, looking for the right words, Dave jumped in ahead of him and said; “When a pitcher wants to hit you it’s pretty easy to tell. You can see if a pitcher has got his good control and then righty versus righty or lefty versus lefty, they throw a hard curve or a cut fast ball, formerly known as a slider behind the hitter. It freezes him and he gets hit in the back. People rarely aim at the head, because head shots are hard to do and helmets are worn. It’s too easy to duck.” Dave laughed solitarily.
Mom said; “How come it freezes the hitter?”
Dave said; “It’s a mental thing. Keep in mind they only have a fraction of a second to think about it. Batters get used to backing away from pitches that come at them. When one starts out behind them, their instinct is to back up, but instantaneously their mind says; ‘No, that’s where the ball is, stupid,’ and they are paralyzed. What they really should do is move forward, across the plate, but they can’t.”
Mom said; “Did you ever purposely hit anyone?”
Dave said; “Honestly, no. I’m not saying that to sound like some nice guy, either. I just never wanted to walk anyone or let them get to first base without having hit the ball somewhere.
You know, earn it.”
Mom said; “Did you ever get hit with a pitch?”
Dave said; “Sure. I doubt if any were purposeful. I never got hit in the head. Pitchers are particularly cautious about hitting the other pitcher as it could start an out and out war.”
Dad addresses himself to Mom and says; “Why are we going through all this stuff? I’ve already gone through it with you at length.”
Mom said; “I’m just checking to see if he gives me the same garbage you do.”
Dave chuckled, Dad grimaced and Mom was stone faced.
Dave turned pages, but refrained from speaking about any more of the clippings. While it was tempting he didn’t want to
spend Christmas bringing up old Dave stories. It produced an odd feeling for a pitcher, in that he really didn’t want to be the center of attention. He would rather listen to his parents tell him about their exploits, old and new. He got to the end quickly and said; “I’d like to spend a lot more time with this. Can I take it with me?”
Dad said; “It’s yours in my will.”
Mom directed her voice to Dad and said; “Oh, come on. Let him. He’ll bring it back.” Dad did his customary acquiescence and nodded approval.
Dave said; “Good. Now, you two tell me all about what you’ve been up to lately.”
Mom stood and asked if anyone wanted some wine, hearing two
“Sure’s.”
When delivered and settled Dave re-iterated his query.
Mom and Dad looked at each other as if they would silently communicate who would answer the stupid question. With no clear volunteer, Mom said; “You know your cousin Joe has moved into a trailer park.”
Dave said; “He left Bayonne?”
Mom said; “No. He bought that attached house for $330,000
five or six years ago and I found out that he hasn’t paid the mortgage in two years. He had it up for sale, but the only offer was $150,000. So, the bank took possession of it and he’s in a
trailer, and the heat and water don’t work right.” She showed the slightest bit of a smile.
Dave said; “Is it just a trailer or a trailer park? I don’t know of any in Bayonne.”
Mom excitedly said; “No, it’s a real trailer park and I didn’t know there were any here either. It’s down at the end of Twenty-Fourth Street by the bay.”
Dave said; “Have you seen it.”
Mom replied; “Yeah. Your father and I took a ride there, but we didn’t stay long.”
Dave said; “Did you go in?”
Mom said; “No, no. We just took a look.”
Conversation paused noticeably and Mom broke the lull, saying; “He’s been trying to borrow money from everybody the last two years. He lied to me and said that he was paying the mortgage, so I gave him a few bucks that I’ll never see again.
When you owe $300,000 on a mortgage, the bank takes the house and it’s only worth $150,000, do you still owe the difference?”
Dave said; “I haven’t the slightest.”
Mom said; “Oh, come on. You do too.”
Dave said; “No, really.”
Mom said; “Ah, what the hell did you go to college for?”
With a straight face Dave answered; “To play baseball.”
In the ensuing silence Dave became powerfully aware of the stagnant air, heavy with the aroma of hot turkey. He glanced at his mother’s reddish-blond hair sitting firmly in place courtesy of Helen’s beauty parlor and hairspray. The style was not one easily categorized. It was curled with large rollers and hadn’t changed in Dave’s lifetime. It was merely her. The onslaughts of age had thus far only had minimal effects, making her ears seem somewhat larger, her un-spectacled eyes still focused on items of interest, anxiously darting around, and her thin lips were sealed without the help of lipstick. Dad sat almost perfectly still, occasionally flexing his back against the chair and looking at something on the ceiling. He didn’t move his eyes as much as his whole head turned upward when he flexed. The sole undraped window was still blocked with heat condensation, which here and there ran to the sill in tiny streams only to be immediately replaced by more obscuring moisture.
Dave felt hot, a bit light-headed and silly to be at something of a stifling graveyard reunion and said; “So, tell me what’s new and interesting in your lives?”
He was answered with shrugs and grimaces, which was not unexpected as his parents seemed to never change. While their contemporaries were moving to the suburbs, taking overseas vacations and joining dance clubs they sat here. Dave wasn’t sure if they were bored, content or addicted to barbiturates.
He said; “I don’t watch much TV. Is there anything good on?”
His parents uncomfortably looked at each other, hoping the other had some response. Mom finally said; “There’s a whole bunch of unreal ‘reality’ programming and it all stinks.”
Dave thought he might have an inroad and offered; “I saw one about four adult Italian couples going down the Jersey shore. They were in their late twenties or early thirties and the guys were most interested in getting into a fight. Pretty retarded.”
Mom asked; “Did they get into one?”
Dave said; “Sort of. They started up with some people on the boardwalk. But, what kind of fight are you going to get with a commentator and camera crew right there? That’s probably why they felt so ‘bad.’”
Mom asked; “What were the wives doing?”
Dave responded; “Not much. Sitting in the hotel room comparing purses.”
The conversation flowed the remainder of Dave’s visit as each told of moronic things they had seen on TV, Dad being a sporadic fan of Jerry Springer. He drove home at dusk, scrapbook in tow, feeling out of sorts. He wasn’t unhappy. He wasn’t elated. He wondered if this was what families do at gatherings.
This was the only family he knew and this was fairly typical.
The TV families he had seen usually were more excited about something in their personal lives and chanted to each other shaking with exhilaration. He decided that TV provided the fantasy viewers wished were their own lives.
Still, there was an empty space and he filled it by turning on the car radio. He skipped over channels playing happy Christmas songs and settled in on one which devoted itself to urban "reality.” He heard DTMC (Determined To Make Currency) rap;
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! You can’t be like me.
Bad, big, black and drippin’ credibility.
No stupid job, just a good time.
Livin’ the life of a star.
You can shove your dime.
..........................
..........................
..........................
Dave was thankful that wasn’t his family reality and didn’t think it was DTMO’s either.