Eighteen
If not for my best friend, Greg Love, I might not have survived my
childhood. Greg’s family seemed to understand the situation with my mother, and
afforded me stepson status, free to come and go, and to stay for the occasional
sleepover.
One Saturday, when I
was eight, Mom was having a bad hangover, and naturally blaming everybody else
for it, so I walked around the corner and found Greg’s family having a garage
sale. But Greg was out shopping with his mom, so I busied myself looking
through a box of old magazines. Near the bottom, I found a copy of Scientific
American featuring two shots of a funny-looking
fish, turning color from a dull gray to a dazzling red-and-white.
Come mating season,
the male three-spined stickleback (Gasterosteus aculeatus) builds a nest on the sandy bottom of a freshwater shallow and guards
it fiercely. Then he changes to his bright courtship colors and tries to
attract females. Once a female lays eggs in his nest, he sweeps in to fertilize
them, chases the female away and goes looking for another.
After escorting three
to five females through this process, the male’s red color darkens, and he
grows increasingly hostile to females. He guards the nest from predators, fans
water over the eggs to enrich their supply of oxygen, and then watches over the
hatchlings for a day, until they’re able to fend for themselves.
I gave Greg’s father a
nickel, took the magazine home and pinned the cover on my wall. When my mother
asked me about it, I said, “That’s the three-spined stickleback; he’s my hero.”
She assumed I was joking.
I’m looking through some emails from Chicago when I spy Marty’s
cowlick, bobbing over the cubicle wall like a single-wing blackbird. The rest
of him appears at the opening.
“Hopkins! I wanted to
congratulate you.”
“Hi, Marty. From what
I hear, you’re the one who gets congratulated.
When do you leave for Chi-town?”
He looks puzzled. “Shy
Town?”
“Man! We gotta get you
lingo’d up. The Windy City. City of Broad Shoulders. That Toddlin’ Town. Are
you aware that Sinatra had two hit songs about Chicago?”
He cocks his head like
a curious puppy. “Sinatra?”
“Oh! Marty!” I hide my
face in my hands – but in truth, I love Marty’s cultural gaps. They illustrate
all the assumptions that Americans make about being the center of the world.
Despite my joshing, Marty’s expression turns serious.
“Do you think,
Hopkins, that I will make a good leader?”
I give this a thorough
consideration. Marty is intensely skeptical, and will not fall for the usual
platitudes.
“Yes. But you have to
find a leadership style that suits your personality. I see you as someone who
builds respect in a quiet manner, by conferring with your colleagues before
making big decisions, and making sure they know what’s expected of them. A
democratic leader – a diplomat.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll
keep that in mind.” He lifts a foot and taps the ground nervously. “I am
assuming… from the good news, that the information I had previously… that
things have worked out?”
I’m distracted by a
photo on my desk, Laura beaming from a piano.
“Yes, Marty. It was
tricky. But yes, everything worked out. And I appreciate your ability to keep a
secret. That’s another thing that will serve you well in Chicago.”
Marty smiles. “The
City of Shy Shoulders?”
“I’m gonna miss you,
Marty.”
“I will miss you, too.
Oh, and we will have a going-away party on Thursday.”
“Great! I’ll see you
then.”
Marty’s cowlick flies
away down the hall, and I return to my email. But then I notice the clock, and
grab my jacket.
Times have changed. When I see Pisarro at Café Borrone, I lift her off
the ground, right in front of the patio diners. We order a couple of paninis
and find a table next to the fountain.
“How’s life at the
lab?” she asks – but something’s up. Her eyes are even larger than usual. One
of these days, she’s going to stretch those peepers too far and sprain a
ligament.
“The lab is fine, oh
walking dictionary.”
“Pardon?”
“’Cause I can read you
like a book. You don’t give a rat’s ass about the lab.”
She grins and reaches
into her purse. “I guess I’ll just have to show you.”
She presents me with a
black velvet box, and clicks it open to reveal a large sapphire in a platinum
setting.
“Wow!” I take it out
and give it a close study. The sunlight comes through from behind, winking in
the facets. The color is a bright royal blue, remarkably clear.
“No diamonds? I mean,
around the edges?”
“Must I recite the
‘diamonds are imperialist bullshit’ lecture once more? Sparkly, inflated
nothings? Give me blue.”
I lean over to kiss
her. “You are a wonder of style and taste.”
“Yes, I am. And thanks
for letting me handle this. I realize it goes against the norm.”
“Norms are not my
interest.”
“And for you…” She
hands me a second box, containing a platinum band. I slip it on; it’s perfect.
Were it white gold, it would be exactly the same as my first wedding band.
Pisarro gives me a concerned look.
“It’s not too soon?”
I take her hand. “It’s
about fifteen years too late.”
She kisses my ring
finger. “What about the kids?”
“Won’t be easy. It’s a
fine balance. Don’t try to be a mom the moment we get back from the honeymoon.
But don’t let them play on your guilt, either. They give you any trouble, you
send them to Papa.”
“Have you been…
preparing them?”
“Yes. I talk to them a
lot.”
“What do you say?”
“I tell them the
truth, in the nicest way I can manage.”
“Minus the porn site?”
“There’s truth, and
there’s mental abuse.”
Pisarro starts a laugh
that gets out of control, elevating to giggles before she squashes them in her
hand and stares at the fountain.
“God, Grinder. I’m a giddy
schoolgirl. One minute I’m hovering down the sidewalk, the next I’m in a
complete panic. It’s terrifying! And incredibly exciting.”
“We’ll be good,
Pisarro. Now eat your panini! We have to get back to work.”
After work, I head to an industrial park, one of many left vacant by
the Silicon Valley cooldown. The parking lot is ghostly empty, but the
bordering lawns are still lush and green. I peer into the windows at long
fields of cubicles, then cut around the corner of the building to a baseball field,
backed up against the high sound-walls of the interstate.
Most of the team is
packing up and leaving, but Marcus crouches at third, tackling grounders and
making erratic throws to first. The first baseman leaps this way and that, like
a man with a butterfly net going after hummingbirds. Marcus’s coach, Ed
Collitos, stands at the plate, shouting advice.
“You’re still
thinking, Marcus! You’re still aiming. Try it this way: imagine that the ball
is covered with a deadly substance. Get rid of that thing as fast as you can,
and don’t worry if Karl catches it. Okay?”
He hits a slow hopper.
Marcus charges it, nabs it with his glove and throws mid-step. The ball
short-hops Karl and bounces away.
“Yes!” says Ed.
“That was awful!”
Marcus complains.
“Style, not results.
Now remember – poisonball!” He smacks a one-hopper. Marcus catches the ball at
his knees and fires across the diamond. Karl smacks it into his glove,
chest-high.
Ed raises both hands.
“Yes! You see? You see how that feels? Remember that feeling. Time to quit –
your dad’s here.”
I arrive at the dugout
as Marcus is untying his laces.
“Third base, huh?”
“Yeah. If I learn to
throw.”
“Last one looked
good.”
“Hmmph. You missed the
other twenty-seven.”
I’m not in the mood to
press my case, so I try a different tack.
“Third’s a lot of fun.
Y’gotta learn how to yell, though. When a runner’s trying to score from second,
you got the best seat in the house, so you have to tell your cutoff man if he’s
got a chance.”
“Geez, I’m not good at
yelling.”
“I know.”
“What do I say?”
“Just yell the base.
‘Home!’ ‘Third!’ ‘Second!’”
He ties up his tennies
and zips his bat-bag. “Did you want to be a ballplayer, Dad?”
“Ha! Me and every kid
in America.”
We start across the
field. During the past year, my fatherhood satellite dish has become very
finely tuned, and I’m picking up something… fidgety in Marcus’s manner. It
doesn’t come out till we’re in the car, waiting to get on the freeway.
“John Wehner’s parents
got divorced, and his mom moved to Florida. He says he never sees her.”
We stop next to a
homeless guy with a cardboard sign, all the usual stuff: Vietnam vet, God
bless, two hungry children. How soon till we get ‘Iraq vet’?”
“You know your mom’s
staying here, right? And she’ll come to your games, and you’ll see her all
summer?”
He taps his glove
against the dash. “Yeah. I know.”
I can read his next
thought: You also said, “Till death do us part.” In the stream of failure that is divorce, you spend a lot of time
wondering if you should make any promises at all. Why should they believe a
single thing you say?
“I guess all I can
say, Marcus, is that your mother and I have spent a lot of time planning this
out. And your mother and I are still friends.”
“Don’t say ‘your
mother.’”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t say ‘your
mother.’ And don’t freak out – it’s not some big symbolic thing. Just call her
‘Jessie,’ like you would if you were talking to an adult.”
I can’t help it. The
kid makes me smile.
“What?” he says.
“I guess I am talking to an adult. And Jessie’s not going to Florida.”
The light turns, and
we climb the onramp. Marcus takes off his cap and puts it on inside-out. In
baseball parlance, this is what’s known as a “rally cap.”
“See?” he says. “Was
that so hard?”
I manage to prepare a decent dinner (God bless that Hamburger Helper)
and am soon embarked on the Get Thee to Bed routine with Laura. This is a
steady countdown of alerts – the thirty-minute alert, the ten-minute alert, the
I-really-mean-it alert – designed to nudge my darling daughter to the trinity
of toilet, toothbrush and bed. I have considered purchasing a cattle prod (but
what parent hasn’t?).
Before my departure, I
stop by to tuck her in. She regards me coolly, like a lawyer sizing up his
opponent.
“Dadsalish.”
I sit bedside, in an
old kitchen chair.
“Lauralish.”
“I’d like to ask you
some questions.”
“Okay. But I’m short
on time. Can we make it three questions?”
She smiles. “Like a
genie?”
“Exactly. Fire away.”
She crosses her arms
over the edge of her blanket. “First question: what, exactly, will be my
relationship with Pisarro?”
This is a good sign.
She’s noticed the way that Pisarro and I call each other by our last names, and
has adopted it for herself.
“Your father loves Dr.
Pisarro very much, and holds a deep admiration for her. If you value your
father’s judgement – and I suspect you do – you will look for these same fine
qualities that he sees in her, and I expect that you will find them.”
“Daddy? Why are you
talking about yourself like you’re not here?”
“Sorry. Daddy’s been
watching too many sports interviews. Where was I? Oh! Your mother. Your mother
will always be your mother. Pisarro will never try to take her place. But,
Pisarro is an adult, and during those times when I ask her to look out for you,
I will expect you to obey and respect her.”
“Okay.”
I cross my arms,
genie-like. “Next question!”
“Okay. You know how
Mom visits us, here at the house?”
“Yes.”
“Will you do that when
we’re staying with Mom?”
“Absolutely. Except
for August…”
“When you and Pisarro
go to Ireland.”
“Exactamundo. Next!”
“Okay.” She fiddles
with the satin fringe on her blanket. This one’s a toughie.
“Lauralish? What did
we say about questions?”
“No matter what the
question, or how dumb it might seem…”
“Ask it!” I finish.
“Okay. Was it… me?”
I expect more, but
it’s not coming. “Was it you… what?”
“Did I do something to
break up you and Mom?”
Shew. I’ve been
expecting this one. But how much of it do you truly answer? The stock reply is,
It’s not about you, honey. But a Daughter of Grinder deserves
something more substantial.
“Your mother and I
have had problems for a lot of years, honey. We tried to work those problems
out, and stay together, because we love you and Marcus very much, and we
thought staying together was what would be best for you. After a while, though,
we realized that our problems were too big – that we were spending all of our
time on our problems instead of on raising you. So we decided… it was time for
a change.
“So no, honey. It’s
not something that you did. But we are always thinking of what’s best for you,
and we always will. Okay?”
“I still wish you were
together.”
I grip her shoulder
and kiss her on the cheek. “I know, honey. You gonna sleep now?”
“Mmmaybe.”
“Maybe my rear end!
Let’s hear some Z’s!”
She closes her eyes
and lets out a snore loud enough for a 300-pound man.
“That’s what I like to
hear. Marcus is in charge till I get back, okay?”
She opens one eye. “Do
I have to obey and respect him?”
“Well. At least obey.”
She snickers as I
switch off the light.
“Good night,
Lauralish.”
“’Night, Popsalish.”
It’s a long trip – all the way to I-5, north of Stockton. Just when you
think you’re in bumfuck nowhere, a red sign sprouts from the fields: ADULT
SHOPPE, Open 24 Hours. The old-fashioned spelling cracks
me up. It’s a short turn off the freeway, a sharp right off the farm road and
I’m pulling into the parking lot, headlights glaring back in the double glass
doors.
I enter to the jangle
of bells and miles of shelving: DVDs, videos, magazines, lubes, whips,
handcuffs, artificial vaginas, cheerleader outfits and Nefertiti.
“Hi! Welcome to
Jessie’s House of Orgasms. Hopkins.”
I point a playful
finger. “You naughty girl!”
“Yeah.” She’s wearing
a low-cut Indian maiden vest with fringes. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m hoping I can…
make amends?”
“Why, if I wasn’t a
married and simultaneously engaged man…”
Jessie makes her
appearance through a curtain of hanging beads.
“Actually, she’s
already making amends. Neffie’s running the store while I take care of your children. Hi Jasper!”
A burly trucker
jangles in, wearing an old cowboy hat of brown suede.
“Hi Jess. Got the new Naughty
Neighbors?”
“Yep. You know where
they are. Geez, Jasper. Maybe you should just subscribe.”
“And leave a paper
trail for the matrimonial detective agency? I don’t think so. That’s the beauty
of truckin’, honey. Gives a man some time away to indulge his crasser
instincts. During my stints at home, I am the most perfectly behaved husband in
the world.”
Jasper tips his cap,
and proceeds to the magazine aisle.
Jessie smiles, and
turns back to me.
“Well. There’s your
marketing report. That’s why we’re way the heck out here. Truckers are the best customers. Half the time, they’re just happy to get off the road for a
minute.”
“I’ll relay that to
your silent partner.”
In a strictly business
sense, I’m sure Richard would be pleased. A quick scan reveals a dozen
customers, including a couple college-age girls giggling at the inflatable
hermaphrodites.
“We’re a ways from
making back our initial investment,” says Jessie. “But we’re getting there much
faster than I expected.”
“That’s great.” I use
my next question as an excuse to look back at Neffie – but of course I’m
running more private video than Aisle D. “Any place we can talk alone?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
She walks me back
through the beads into Jessie’s Hall of Dildos, which is exactly like a
porcupine turned inside-out.
“I wanted to give each
its own special ‘product placement,’” says Jessie. “See that one in the
bullseye? Go ahead – give it a yank.”
“Eew! Do I have to?”
She dresses me down
with a look. “Like you haven’t yanked your own a gazillion times.”
“Oh fine.”
The bullseye penis
triggers a hundred luminescent cousins, dangling from the ceiling in rainbow
colors.
“My God!” I exclaim.
“It’s a veritable dickstorm!”
“Yeah,” Jessie laughs.
“And that one in the bullseye is a life-cast of Damon.”
“Double-eew! Get me
outta here.”
She lets out that
witchy cackle that I still haven’t gotten used to and opens a door to the back
lot. Across the gravel spread is a warehouse-looking building with metal walls.
We enter through a small door, into an office. Except for a dozen copies of Adult Video
News and a wind-up breast on the desk, it’s pretty
normal-looking. I notice a framed picture next to her computer, Laura and
Marcus at Christmas, adorning each other’s faces with bows and ribbons. Jessie
takes great pleasure in perching on her large leather desk chair.
“Please. Take a seat
on my… casting couch.”
“I’ve heard about you
producers – but I’m not that kind of guy.”
“According to Neffie,
you’re exactly that kind of guy.”
“Okay, you got me.”
Trying to get into the spirit of things, I pick up a copy of Pleasant
Plumpers. “So. Did you get the papers?”
“Sent them in
yesterday. We’ll soon be official.”
“You’re all set for
the summer?”
“Yes. I got this
wonderful place in Mountain View. Two blocks from downtown, but really quiet.
Right across from the library.”
I find a perky blonde
pudge with marvelous round ass-cheeks. “No… business while you’re there?”
“As agreed. Neffie is
under strict orders to deny my existence. Damon is on call for emergency
decisions. And neither of them will have my phone number.”
I look up, realizing
I’m getting too attached to Helga’s rear-end. “God, Jessie! I’m so impressed.”
Jessie crosses her
legs and beats a tattoo on her kneecap.
“I wasn’t exactly
thrilled by Dad’s… requirements. But I’m trying to look at it this way: in the
short time I’ve been in the biz, I’ve met a lot of people who are profoundly
jaded. Some of them don’t even like sex anymore. I’m thinking a virginal summer
might be just the thing to recharge the batteries.”
From somewhere in the
building, I hear a woman screaming, repeatedly. Jessie hears it too, and cracks
up.
“Whoops! Sorry, I should
have warned you. I’m not doing any productions till the autumn, but meanwhile
I’m renting the space to Damon. Wanna watch?”
“Wouldn’t we be…
intruding?”
She pulls a remote
from her desk and fires up a monitor in the corner. A big-breasted redhead is
perched on a bed, receiving doggie-style ministrations from a large black man.
“Horace!” says Jessie,
clapping her hands together. “And Amber Day Lishus. What a pro.”
Amber pounds back into
Horace, letting out a series of yelps that gathers into a full-throated scream.
“Do you know that’s
not even fake? Amber says she’s always screamed like that. Lost a couple
boyfriends that way. And take note of the cheek-wobble! Just enough fat to
produce that playful Jell-O jiggle. She is such a piece!”
I am compelled to
agree. Horace pulls out and deposits a load of semen on Amber’s cheeks. Amber
makes a show of spreading it around, Horace produces an appreciative grin –
then Damon decides they’ve got enough.
“Outstanding, Horace!
Great fucking, Miss Amber. Let’s all take a ten.”
A crewmember passes
towels to Amber and Horace, someone comes in to change the bedclothes, and the
camera guys head outside for a smoke.
“Why don’t I walk you
out?” says Jessie. “I’m on the next shoot.”
“Oh.” I get up and
follow her into the parking lot. “Are you… participating?”
“Nope. Just helping
out. Picking up some tips from Damon. Maybe some fluff-work, if I’m feeling
frisky.
“Fluff-work?”
“Hopkins! You don’t
know ‘fluff-work’?”
“Um… no?”
“Keeping the guy erect
between scenes. A little handwork, a little oral. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes.” I
laugh and swing an arm around my wife’s shoulder.
I’m also taking
classes,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Psychology.
Maybe a master’s in sex therapy.”
“Jessie! That’s
great.”
We arrive at my car,
and Jessie gets all shy, which seems tremendously out of place.
“I want you to visit
this summer,” she says, half to the ground. “Whenever you want. Call ahead and
I’ll make you dinner.”
“Thanks, Jess. I will.
You know… it’s so good to see you happy.”
“I finally got the
formula, Hopkins. I’m a freak. And I like being a
freak. And you’ve got Pisarro.”
“Well, I…”
She puts a hand on my
shoulder and presses with her fingers.
“It’s love, Hop. Don’t
discount it. I hope to find it myself one day. You be good to her.”
I’ve had enough
miraculous statements for one night. “I’d… better get rollin’.”
“Me, too,” she says.
“Give my love to those amazing children.”
She places a hand on
my jawline and gives me a courtly kiss.
“We did okay, Hopkins.”
Damon pops out of the
studio.
“Hey, Jess! Ready to
roll?”
I head south on I-5 till the red sign drops from the rear-view. It
occurs to me that I have done everything absolutely, profoundly wrong for the
past fifteen years, and have been rewarded with the perfect life. There’s your
karmic balance. There’s your just reward. The scientist pops up one more time
to have a good laugh. Followed by my cell phone.
“Yello.”
“Hi Dad. Can I go to
bed now?”
“Yeah, son. I’ll be
back in an hour. Thanks for covering.”
“No prob, dude.”
It strikes me that
Marcus has dropped the old-fashioned sayings. He’s become a teenager, and may
never say “Hell’s bells” again.
“Oh, and Marcus?”
“Ye-es?”
“Your mother loves
you.”
“You mean Jessie?”
“I mean your mother.”
Marcus laughs. “Just
kidding, Dad. Good night.”
“‘Night, Marcus.”
Photo by MJV
