by Kevin Shay
“Well, have a seat, grab a bagel, coffee, make yourself at home, and whenever you’re ready we can wander down to the mall.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I sit down to eat, Morgan hovering by my side. Nicole comes in with a meticulously architected platter of food, probably from the fridge in the garage. “You’re up early. We went ahead and ate, I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem.”
She puts the platter into the refrigerator. “Come on, Morgan, let’s get you ready to go. Morgan has a play date today.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’re you playing with, Morg?”
“Fay.”
“Her name’s Phaedre,” Nicole clarifies. “P-h-e, no, wait, P-h-a-e-d-r-e.”
“Phaedre. Interesting.”
“People call her Fay, but her parents hate it.”
“They were asking for it with that name,” Boyd says. “You don’t want a nickname, use a name I can spell. But maybe that’s just me.”
“I’ve never met a Phaedre. But I never met a Dakota or a Madison either, and then all of a sudden at Ogden we had two of each.”
“She and Morgan hit it off in playgroup last year,” Boyd says. “Her dad’s at ABC News.”
“The competition!”
“Sort of. Different circles. He’s on the Pentagon beat.”
“Do you mind if we go in the playroom for a minute?” Nicole asks me. “He usually brings some of his toys when we go to other kids’ houses.”
Of course Morgan would have to take along a selection of his nonpointy, nontoxic, Mom-vetted toys instead of trusting to another parent’s laxer judgment. “Go ahead. I folded up the bed.”
A cell phone rings in Boyd’s pocket. “Boyd!” Nicole barks at him, perturbed. He answers it, gives a couple of two-word responses, and hangs up.
“You promised you wouldn’t keep the phone in your pants pocket anymore.”
“Nicole, does it really matter? I hate the little clippy thing.”
“You’re showering your…personal area with electromagnetic waves that could cause God knows what.”
“None of that’s been proven. We did a segment on it. The research is very ambiguous.”
“It would make me more comfortable if you—”
“All right, all right. I’ll keep it in my jacket.” Spoken like a man accustomed to conceding domestic defeat, but odds are he’ll have the phone back in his pocket, gamma-raying his groin, within the hour.
After breakfast I shower, shave, and throw in a load of rancid laundry. As God is my witness, I’ll never rewear unwashed boxers again. Morgan gets picked up by Phaedre and her mom. Then I’m off with Boyd for our shopping excursion. We take his Jaguar. He loves his Jaguar and drives it right on the line between machismo and recklessness. Ten minutes of needless acceleration later, we arrive at the mall. Boyd points me toward a Supercuts. He has some calls to make, will meet me on a bench by the fountain after I’m shorn.
All four Supercutters are busy Supercutting, but nobody else is waiting. After a few minutes they assign my case to Helena, a young Hispanic woman with very long fingernails. “Just, you know, pretty short and neat,” I tell Helena. “I have a job interview.”
“Oh, yeah? We’ll get you fixed up, then.”
I’ve always preferred to have my hair cut by a middle-aged man with tobacco-smelling fingers who wears a smock and keeps his tools in a jar of Barbicide and, if the place is empty, peppers his conversation with the occasional bigoted remark. Not that I’m a prejudice fan, but that sort of guy invariably gives me a clean, cheap cut. But Helena seems to know what she’s doing and manipulates my hair with confident yanks, somehow wielding scissors and comb without those nails getting in the way. The end product is quite presentable, although I won’t know for sure until I wash out the hairspray and gel she applied without asking. Helena wishes me good luck on the interview.
Sitting on the bench, Boyd whistles appreciatively, claims he almost didn’t recognize me.
“Yeah, they do nice work,” I say.
“I ought to try them myself next time.” We both know he gets the hundred-dollar full-service package from some stylist in Georgetown and isn’t about to become a Supercuts patron, but nice of him to pretend. He would also never buy a suit at the middlebrow men’s store he takes me to next. Thanks to my recent lifestyle, I lack the works: jacket, slacks, shirt, shoes, belt. It takes some digging, but with Boyd’s surprisingly patient help I piece together a respectable ensemble.
“Save ten percent on your purchase by joining our Frequent Buyers’ Club today?” the cashier asks me.
“Not today, thanks.”
At the next register over they’re having some trouble with a credit card. They try running it a few times, then call the manager over. I finish my transaction and head for the exit, but from behind me I hear the manager’s explanation, and my stomach dives through the floor.
“Oh, yeah, that’s been happening lately. See, his card has an expiration in 2000.”
It’s starting, it’s already starting. “Better get used to it,” I call back over my shoulder, but they don’t hear.
“Used to what?” Boyd says.
“Nothing.”
On the return trip we detour to pick up some clothes from the cleaners. “You want me to have them press that shirt for you?” Boyd asks. “They know me, they’d do it while we wait.”
“Nah, let’s not go overboard.”
I ask Boyd what things are like at CNN in the Lewinsky era.
“Like riding the longest roller coaster you ever saw, is what it’s like.” He grins, shakes his head as if unable to believe his good fortune. “Every day there’s the rumor du jour, some new angle. Great time to be in the industry, just great.”
“Will he be impeached, do you think?”
“Impeached, maybe. Convicted, you kidding me? Throw out a sitting president for lying about a blow job? No, Starr’s fucked unless he digs up some really bad shit, which he won’t. Like I’m talking grand larceny, murder, sleeping with Sandra Day O’Connor. Perjury? Please. So the Republicans are in panic mode now, throw shit at the wall, hope some sticks. That’s my take. But hey, my perspective isn’t exactly man on the street. So Randall, what do you think about the whole thing?”
“You know, Boyd, I think it’s a distraction.”
This takes him aback. “Distraction? From what?”
“More important things.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“There’s one—listen, there’s one thing in particular.” The seal is broken. I am short of breath. Keep going. “That I wanted to talk to you guys about, actually. It’s sort of the whole reason I’ve been fighting with my father, driving across the country, acting a little…however I’ve been acting.”
“OK.”
“So I’d really like to discuss it with Nicole and yourself.” What? I never misuse reflexive pronouns. “Maybe later this afternoon.”
“Hey, sure, whenever.”
“Great.”
I lean back, slightly nauseated at the prospect of finally having The Conversation with them after so many mental rehearsals. Neither of us says anything for the rest of the ride.
When we get back to the house, an unfamiliar car sits in the driveway.
“You have company?”
“Ah, probably the cleaning lady.”
“Your cleaning lady drives a Lexus?”
“Or maybe someone Nicole is…” He trails off into an uncharacteristic mumble and gets out of the car. Where have I seen that Lexus before?
Boyd grabs his shirts and walks quickly to the door. I follow him inside and put my new clothes in the basement. The little pieces of hair on my neck are starting to get to me. Time for a shower. I take off my shoes and run back upstairs.
Nicole is waiting for me in the kitchen, her face oddly tense.
“Hey. Looks good!”
“Thanks. You mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Actually…first
can you join me in the living room for a minute?” She sounds frightened, breathless. Has something happened to Morgan?
“Sure. Everything OK?”
I hear voices in there, ones that stop speaking when we approach. She ushers me through the doorway.
Hey, there’s Rob! That’s a surprise, except I saw him last night, so—
Sitting next to Rob on the sofa is my father.
Sitting in chairs opposite them are my mother and, holding her hand, her husband. That’s where I’ve seen that Lexus—it’s Ted’s.
Oh, shit. What the hell is this?
“Oh, shit!” I say.
Got to get out of here. I turn, find Nicole and Boyd standing between me and the doorway, and have a moment of clarity.
Nicole holds her hand out to me. “Randall, we all—”
I spin back toward the seated group. “This is an intervention.”
“No, no,” Boyd says.
Mom stands up, Ted still clutching her hand. “Randall, we’ve all been so concerned. I only—”
“This is a fucking intervention!”
“I told you we shouldn’t spring it on him like this,” my father mutters, studying the carpet. So he did tell Nicole why he and I weren’t speaking. And she never let me know she knew, pretended ignorance all these weeks while this little get-together was being…organized. It was all her idea, wasn’t it? I’m surprised she doesn’t have some counselor on hand to facilitate.
I turn and stare daggers at her. “And did you arrange this?”
Boyd steps to her side, puts an arm around her shoulder. “Randall, why don’t you sit down.”
I want to refuse but am suddenly lightheaded, my legs trembling. I move to the empty armchair, my appointed place, the witness stand. Six faces await my next move. Six people I love. Six people who just Don’t Get It, despite all my efforts. I urged them to take action, and this is the action they chose. They heard the truth and now must heal the messenger. I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose. Tiny hairs torment my neck. I have no shoes on.
“Would someone mind getting me a glass of water?”
Boyd goes to the kitchen. Nicole sits down on the love-seat opposite me. Is someone going to say something? Well, fine, then, I’ll just act like this is a casual family reunion.
“So how was everyone’s trip?”
Silence.
“Dad? Did you fly down?”
“Drove.” Finally he looks up at me. Actually seems in better shape than last time I saw him. Shoulders straighter, skin less blotchy, eating well.
“Where’s your car?”
“I parked around the corner.”
“So I wouldn’t, what, bolt or something?”
He does his trademark shrug.
“Rob, long time no see.”
“Yeah.”
“How was the lawyers’ convention?”
Everyone else looks confused. “There was no convention.” Rob sighs, annoyed that I made him admit it. Boyd comes back with my water.
“Thanks. Mom, you guys drove here from New Mexico?”
“Oh, not straight through.”
“We spent a little time in St. Louis,” Ted says.
“That’s nice. I’m glad you got in some sightseeing on the way to the deprogramming.”
“Randall, please, don’t think of it that way,” Nicole says. “We’re not trying to gang up on you.”
“That’s reassuring.” I drip sarcasm.
“We just thought that as—” Dad begins.
“I needed to know you were—” Mom begins at the same time.
In my indignation, and with everything else horribly wrong with this picture, I almost missed the wrongest element of all: my mother and my father in the same room. Not counting the big, impersonal events—graduations, Nicole’s wedding—how long has it been? Fourteen years, sixteen? They both seem pretty uncomfortable about it, too.
“I’m sorry. Go ahead, Howard.”
“No, please, go ahead.” Yeah, not exactly rekindling any old flames here.
“Well, we just want to know you’re OK, Randall. I mean, you quit your job, move out of your place, and you keep talking about this Year 2K—”
“And you do a great job of not listening, Mom!” In fact, this is her very first acknowledgment that I’ve ever mentioned “Year 2K.”
“I just want to make sure you’re not in…” She balks at finishing the sentence.
Her dutiful daughter helps her out. “In a cult, Randall. Are you?”
“You know, one of those millennial cults?” Mom adds, emboldened now that the four-letter word has been uttered.
“A cult! Of course not. Jesus. Don’t you know me better than that? Absolutely not. I’m the last person who would join some kind of religious—no. Just no.”
“But you do think the world will come to an end in the year 2000,” Dad says with a small sneer that I want badly to punch.
“I do not think the world is going to end because it’s the millennium. I think all our computers are going to fail because the programs weren’t written to handle a new century, and yes, the world as we know it could get so fucked over that it’s unrecognizable for the rest of our lifetimes.” Getting worked up. Have to remain calm, not give them any evidence for whatever psychiatric diagnosis they want to pin on me. “Please. Listen. This has nothing to do with any prophecy or religion or anything like that. It’s a technical problem. I mean, everyone agrees that it’s a bug that does exist. In millions of programs and machines. Right? Does anyone care to argue with that? So the only question is how bad the consequences will be. I happen to have concluded they’ll be very, very bad. And a lot of other people think the same thing. Not some wackos in…in an end-times cult. Computer scientists! People in a position to know!”
A silence, until they’re sure I’m finished. Nicole turns to Rob. “Um, do you have that folder, Rob?”
Rob picks up a manila folder I hadn’t noticed on the coffee table. He takes out a thin stack of papers and gets up to hand them to me.
“I found some information about—well, I just thought you might want to have a look at this.”
I stare at the papers in disbelief for a minute before taking them. Rob, Rob, Rob. I give you hundreds of pages of hard data, and this flimsy dossier is your rebuttal? I leaf through and immediately see Rob’s angle of attack. Pages printed from several different web sites. Not about Y2K itself but about Gary North, the most prominent and gloomiest doomer. The person who’s singlehandedly done more to raise awareness than everyone else put together. Who, unfortunately, happens to be a Christian reconstructionist who rejoices in the prospect of our godless country’s downfall.
“Yeah. Got it. You know, I’ve seen most of this before. I realize he’s pretty far out there. But that’s beside the point.”
“The guy’s a loon, Randall,” my father says. “I mean, this is a man who wants to stone gay people and adulterers to death! He’s who you’re listening to?”
“No! I’m listening to the facts. Congressmen. The geeks, the programmers who’re trying to fix this thing. Rob, did you even look at the material I gave you?”
“I looked at it. And dude, take a look at that Gary North article I printed on computer viruses. Nineteen eighty-five. And the one on AIDS from ten years ago. Same exact rhetoric as he uses in the Y2K stuff you gave me. Terrified when he found out about it! Dire consequences! Chain reaction! Government cover-up! Mainstream media won’t report it! Inevitable social collapse! Dude. All his life he’s been sitting around praying for something to crash our whole economy. Doesn’t that make you question his motives just a little?”
“Can I see that when you’re done?” says Mom, who apparently wasn’t fully briefed.
“Gary North’s motives are irrelevant. The code is broken!”
Now Boyd, who hasn’t yet contributed much to this little star chamber, steps up to the plate. “You have to understand these people, Randall. Crackpots, cranks—I end up interviewing them all
the time. Guy the other day, he tells me every disease known to man could be wiped out if we all just cleaned under our fingernails better. But OK, forget about him, just take the world’s-gonna-enders. See, they start by assuming it’s gotta happen, and then they come up with a theory about why. When one reason doesn’t pan out, they go right on to the next. First it was nuclear war. In the seventies it was overpopulation. Then—whatever! Acid rain, AIDS, computer virus, Y2K. I mean, Ebola, asteroids—you name it, there’s someone out there who can convince you it’s gonna kill us all. You watch”—he reaches over and taps the printouts—“in three years this guy’ll be talking about global warming. Or mad cow, or fossil fuel depletion. Or back to nuclear war again.”
As he talks I remember our conversation in the car, what a nice job he did of pretending not to know what was on my mind. A good liar, my sister’s husband.
“But listen, Boyd, that’s not me! None of that concerns me. Or ever has. So—”
“Oh, but you were definitely afraid of nuclear war when you were little,” my mother says.
“Mom! Everyone in that school was afraid of nuclear war, because they had a bunch of activists teaching in there who ran around scaring the shit out of us and taking us to Geraldine Ferraro rallies. You remember this, Rob?”
“Yeah,” he says reluctantly.
“It was a good school,” my father says.
“Good how, Dad?” An odd time to get this off my chest, but I’m on a roll. “I read On the Beach when I was eleven. They had us role-playing arms-race negotiations in fifth grade! Do you have any idea how inappropriate that is?”
“We did always seem to start World War Three,” Rob says, smiling, trying to keep things light.
“Of course we did—we were in fifth grade!”
“We thought it was a good school,” Dad insists.
“I never thought it was a very good school,” his ex-wife rejoins.
“Of course you did.”