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“Be premed. Or prelaw. Do something practical,” Mom pleaded.
She can’t understand why I want to write movies. Though she hasn’t come right out and said it, she doesn’t think I have a chance in hell of actually succeeding at it. As far as Mom and Dad are concerned, I might as well sell cotton candy at the circus. But I am like a dog with a bone. Sheer tenacity won out over their eventual fatigue.
The front door opens and Dad walks in. He’s carrying a huge box of medical supplies.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, guys. Kylie, want to help with this?”
I get up and help him with the box. Dad’s been trying to sell medical equipment lately. I say trying, because it’s not going very well. Even though people still get sick, nobody wants what he’s selling, which is some new sonogram machine that’s twice the price but ten times more exact.
“So, how’d it go?” I say.
“Not great. Better luck next week, hopefully.” Dad gives me a weak smile.
Dad used to sell electronics at Circuit City, until they went out of business. (Which is kind of weird, considering everyone at Freiburg seems to have a house full of the latest, greatest, shiniest electronics. Rumor has it Deborah Sneeden has a retractable flat screen television in every room in her house. I guess the Sneedens didn’t buy their electronics at Circuit City.)
“Dad, Dad, I learned to play ‘Sergeant Pepper’ on the guitar, wa
“Whoa there, buddy, let’s put that down. Don’t want to break it.”
Jake ignores Dad and starts strumming the guitar. It’s not exactly music, but it’s something. I’m proud of the fact that Jake is trying hard. Who cares if he can hit the right chords?
“I’ll tell you what,” Dad says, preparing for his exit. “Let me relax for a bit, and then maybe we can have a concert. Okay?”
Jake keeps playing, but Dad is already en route to the garage to fiddle with one of his beloved motorcycles, none of which he even rides. He’s much more interested in his old bikes than his kids. He’ll come back into the house for an awkward di
I get that his life sucks (having doors slammed in your face every day must be soul-crushing). I get that selling medical equipment may not have been his lifelong dream (not that I have a clue what he’d rather be doing, since he never talks about his past). But I’d be a lot more sympathetic if he were more pleasant on the rare occasions when he was home. And if he took the time to talk to me or Jake about…anything. Maybe it’s a chemical thing and he just needs some pharmaceuticals (not likely that will ever happen). Or maybe this is just the way Dad is drawn. Anyway, I’ve kind of given up trying to get to know him. I’m outta here. But Jake’s not. So as long as I’m in this house, I’ll fight the good fight for Jakie; not that I actually expect it to yield results.
I follow Dad out the back door.
“You know, Jake notices that you’re always disappearing into the garage. You could spend a little time with him every now and then.”
“Kylie, I do not want to have this conversation. I’ve had a long day.”
“It’s like you avoid him. How do you think that makes him feel?”
Dad turns around and looks at me.
“I don’t ignore him. I’m just tired. Working on the bikes helps me relax. I’ll come back in soon.”
Same old story. I’ve been hearing it for years.
I think Dad blames Jake for his unhappiness. Maybe if he had the perfect son, with whom he could play football or ride bikes, he wouldn’t be hiding away in the garage. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe Dad’s just a complete jerk. I’m not sure. Neither option is particularly appealing. I’m holding out hope for the former, but as the years march on, I have to say, the latter is gaining ground.
“Whatever,” I say, turning and making my way back into the house.
“Kylie…” Dad calls out, feeling a tinge of remorse, I’m guessing. Maybe he is human.
I turn around. “Yeah?”
“I’ll come in in a half hour. And I’ll listen to Jake play. Tell him that, would you?” Dad looks sincere, like he wants to be a better man. I think it’s just an attempt to assuage his guilt.
“’Kay. Sure,” I say. What I don’t say is, I’ll believe it when I see it. Which is never.
Dad has cut himself off from the world. It occurs to me that I cut myself off from the world, too. I may have an inherited tendency, but I’m hoping I’ll outgrow it. Or I’ll learn to fight against it. The one time I saw a different side to my Dad was when my grandmother, my Dad’s mother, was alive. She would come over every Sunday for di
I return to the living room, where Jake is now watching TV. I sit back down on the couch to fold the rest of the laundry. My cell begins buzzing like a cicada.
“Hello?”
“Kylie?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, it’s Max.”
Max? Seriously? How bizarre. I say nothing, though I’m rolling my eyes.
“Kylie?”
“What?”
“Listen, about today. You were right. I, uh, shouldn’t have blown you off.”
I’m a cynical, cold little bitch a lot of the time, but as soon as it’s clear Max is apologizing, I feel a swift rush of warmth spread through my body, and my initial temptation is to forgive him immediately. What a wimp.
“Kylie? Did you hear me?”
“Uh, yeah. And, uh, I’m sorry about walking into your squash game and kicking Charlie. I got a little carried away.” Breaking no records here for verbal dexterity and imaginative retorts, I’m folding like a house of cards.
“Yeah.” Max laughs. “You were pretty worked up. Anyway, if the paper means that much to you, I’ll do it. Or, at least I’ll give you what you need so you can do it for me.”
Max is sorry, but not enough to refuse my idiotic offer to write both papers. It’s my own fault. Several moments of awkward silence go by.
Finally, I manage a weak, “Okay. Whatever.” Jesus, that was lamer than lame.
“How about we meet at Roland’s Coffee Shop down by the pier tomorrow morning?”
“Um, I don’t really know where that is. Can’t we just meet at Starbucks on Randle, at seven thirty?”
“Sure, my treat.”
“I can pay for my own coffee,” I shoot back. I’m so sick of everyone reminding me that I’m the scholarship student. “I already agreed to meet you once, and you didn’t show up. How do I know it won’t happen again?”
“I’ll be there. If I’m not, you can come find me in Shuman’s Calculus and beat the shit out of me.”
“Okay. Whatever.” I’ve got to stop saying that stupid word.
“See you there,” Max says, and then he’s gone.
t’s 7:55 and she’s not here yet. I’ve downed two espressos and now I’ve got a caffeine buzz that’s making me tweaky. Her payback for yesterday, I guess.
I look around the Starbucks and can’t help but feel a
I wish we could have met at Roland’s. I should have just given her directions. Starbucks just pisses me off. I know it’s a cliché to hate Starbucks, and while I try not to be a cliché, I can’t help it. Starbucks is ruining what used to be great about the city.
They’re taking the cool old buildings down and replacing them with big brown boxes.
This one used to be a run-down little doughnut shop with the best coffee ever. It was a stumpy, two-story, red brick building. I used to come in once a week to check out the crowd and take some pictures. All kinds of people came in for coffee, from cops to football players, from Westview High to homeless people. The old guy who owned it weighed, like, three hundred pounds. He had long dreads and a goatee. I took some pretty awesome photos. But then Starbucks swooped in, offered him cash, and leveled the place to make room for the caffeine heads. Like they didn’t already have enough places to go.