Men of the Year

by Colleen McMillan

  Mom calls me as I leave for work, the sirens blaring in the background. Hysterical, she sobs into the phone and I can hardly understand one word in five.

  “I—can—he—do—this—other—why—can’t—meet—nice—no—left—me!”

  “Mom slow down, what’s the matter?” She hasn’t cried to me in years. Always a flinty woman, my mother believes that negative outward emotion should be kept to a minimum. Happy faces are a must, even if someone’s flinging excrement at you. Considering the time, she’s at work, which makes the outburst more urgent. “Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom, where else would I be?”

  “You called me!” When she gets like this it’s best to get everything out in the open right away, otherwise it takes too long to drag it out of her. Once she realizes she’s talking to an actual person, her inner English Queen mode activates, and all is miraculously well again. Making her mad is one way to keep the emotion coming.

  “It’s your father!” She wails again, and I imagine snot bubbles forming in her nose. Honking comes from the speaker as she blows her nose.

  “Is Dad okay? Did something happen?” Jesus he’s dead, he’s had a heart attack and he’s dead. “Mom is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. Not a care in the world for other people’s feelings.” Her tone is acidic, usually reserved when discussing Dad, but today there’s fire behind the resentment. “Not that I care about how he lives his life, but really, does he have to rub it in my face like we’re in middle school?”

  “What are you talking about? I thought he had an accident or something.” I clutch my chest and my heart is thumping. Bile rises in my throat, but I push it back, gagging slightly.

  “He’s fine. Didn’t I just say that? You’re just like him. Never listen to anything I say. You two were always like that, ganging up on me. Joel’s not here to take my side, you know.”

  “How did this become my fault?”

  “It’s not your fault, Cassie, it’s this woman.”

  “You’re making about as much sense as Aunt Josephine after one of her ‘nights out.’”

  “I’m not drunk. Your father, loathsome creature that he is, updated his website thingy this morning. His blog.”

  “Dad has a website?” Mystified at the prospect of my parents following current social-networking fads, I lose track of Mom’s rant. When did Dad have time to set up a website? Why didn’t he tell me about it? And how did Mom find it?

  “Oh yes and what a veritable laugh-fest it is. A friend of mine follows his blog and said I should read it. It has his elementary school picture on it. I thought, ‘he’s the most boring person on the planet. How does he have a website?’”

  I didn’t know Dad knew how to use the Internet much less set up web pages. I don’t even know how to set up web pages. “Where does a woman fit into this?”

  “He -” her voice quavers and I hear toilet tissue unravel. “He went on a date last night and just wrote how much fun he had.” Upon finishing the sentence, she devolves into a crying wreck and drops the phone.

  Dad went on a date? Has the whole world gone mad? Dad only dated two people his entire life. He’s not adventurous, nor does he have time to meet anyone outside work. Maybe it’s a co-worker.

  Mom picks the phone up and continues, “Apparently he’s been chatting with this harlot online for weeks. He’s been anticipating their meeting for quite some time. But then why hasn’t he mentioned it before?” More sobs. Mom has found out that Internet stalking is never a good idea, especially if the stalked is your ex-husband.

  “Calm down Mom, just breathe for a minute.”

  “How can I breathe if he’s out there having sex and I’m not?” Crap. Situation just got monumentally worse. There is a globally accepted doctrine that states: “No child, no matter their age, wants to hear about his or her parents having sex, even if they had to have sex in order to conceive him or her.” I didn’t think it would come to conversation about sex or lack thereof. Never want to imagine parents engaging in any kind of intimacy. Brain checks out for briefest moment, so I miss what she said after “sex and I’m not.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t say ‘huh’ Cassie it makes you sound uneducated.”

  “Wha?”

  “I can see that you’ve no interest in comforting me,” she says and blows her nose. It’s back to automaton mode. “I better get back to my desk or Nancy will think something’s up.” Nancy is her nosy cubicle neighbor, the bane of Mom’s job existence.

  “Come on Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sure Dad’s just—”

  “Don’t try to make me feel better, you never succeed. I just have to face the fact that your father is dating again. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “He’s not ugly, and he has a decent job and a car and a nice apartment. What woman wouldn’t find that attractive?” I get defensive whenever Mom starts bashing my dad, mainly because he was always on my side during maternal arguments. And because he buys me snow cones at the State Fair every year.

  “I knew you’d take his side.”

  “It’s not about taking sides. You’re attractive too.”

  “Too late. Now that I know where you stand, I feel better about wallowing in my own misery. Joel will understand.” I’ve sent her spiraling further downhill. I never know how to talk to my mother without making her upset or dissatisfied with me.

  “Call Joel. If he answers, say I’m pissed at him.”

  “What do I care if you’re angry with him? I need some actual advice about what to do with this situation. Goodbye.”

  The line clicks, and she’s gone. I hope she went back to work and didn’t call my brother, because he’s probably still in bed with some trollop or another. The last thing Mom needs to hear is that someone else besides her is having sex. Maybe that’s why she called me first. She knows I haven’t gotten laid in years.

  I tell Kevin everything when I get to work about Tony, Alicia’s insistence that I carry on with the dating, my dad’s love life, and my mother’s mental breakdown.

  “It’s so weird, thinking about them dating.”

  “What’s weirder is them having sex. I mean they’re old,” he says, a terrified gleam in his eyes.

  “You had to mention sex. I’ll have nightmares for weeks.” I start for my office, but Kevin follows me, always ready for more gossip. “Why are you following me? Don’t you have some press statements to write?”

  “You don’t get away that easily. Where’s my copy of your journal? I was promised vicarious romance.”

  I walk into my office and try to slam the door on him, but the sly devil slithers in and sits behind my desk. “No work until I get those scandalous pages.”

  “There’s nothing scandalous about it. I had a good date then a bad date. The end. Get out.” I put my briefcase on the desk, pull out his copy, and throw it across the desk at him. He catches it and leans back in my chair, preparing to read. “Please read it somewhere else.”

  “If you tell me to leave one more time, I’ll loan this to Justin for editing.”

  “I don’t care if Justin reads it. It’s crap.” He scans the first page then flips to the second and makes a face. “It certainly is. What were you thinking using a word like ‘troglodyte?’ So passé. And is that a spelling error?”

  I lunge for him across the desk, but he leaps up and runs around me.

  “I’m kidding. Just give me fifteen minutes and we’ll discuss further.”

  “This is not a book club! We’re not discussing anything!” But he’s out the door.

  Discussion Questions for “Cassandra’s Journal” by Kevin Jones

  Considering the author’s emotional state, how do you think the dates with Anthony really went? First person narratives are notoriously unreliable, as experienced with Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. What parts of the narrative sound real? Which seem made up or embellished?

  How do you view the narrator as a character in her own journal? Is she li
keable, or do you find her personality cloying? Do you enjoy spending time in her head?

  And what about the three friends? Do they seem arbitrary or cliché? Do you find the absence of a gay best friend character shocking and disappointing? Make up your own character and see if he or she fits into the narrative. (Make it a gay best friend character and you get extra points.)

  Do you think Cassandra gets her point across? Why do you think she is so averse to dating? Is it that ex-boyfriend lurking in the shadows?

  Email: FellbeeotchLinds@hotmail.com to Shakespearelover@gmail.com

  Date Three Information:

  Tristan Howard, age 32, height 5’9,” is an actor who also works as a bartender in the Cities. He enjoys comedies, musical theater, and playing his fiddle. (An actor and a musician! I know you’ll like him.) He likes exotic food.

  Destination: Calypso Café in Minneapolis at noon tomorrow for lunch, it’s Greek, so be prepared for lots of fun! Don’t make fun of him because he’s an actor. I know you think people should have steady jobs, but everyone’s not like you.

  Linds

  Before I go on phase two of the dating fiasco, I call my dad and plan on getting the scoop on his date. First, I look up his blog. It’s a modest little page with a plain backsplash and Times New Roman font, nothing spectacular. He has a lot of followers, though, so I click on a random update. It’s from a year ago! Dad’s been Internet-literate for at least a year and has never mentioned it! I thought Mom had stumbled upon some new venture, but he’s been working on this for a while. I go back to his first post, which is tentative but humorous. Dad’s got the self-deprecation thing down. Must be the Irish coming out in him.

  “I guess this is supposed to welcome you all into my life, which, to tell you the truth, isn’t all that exciting. I am fifty-six years old, have had the same job since my thirties, and have been divorced for sixteen years. My ex-wife still berates me for my averageness, but that’s something I can’t help. Would I rather be a rock star or sports athlete? Not really. I have two great kids and a cabin up north if not much else. I shook hands with and said goodbye to my dignity long ago, so let’s not dwell on that. All in all, this website is a chance to talk about the things people don’t like to talk about: failed marriage, the fact that your kids might be screwed up, and how much you hate your job. They say you shouldn’t talk about that stuff online, but my boss isn’t much of a web-surfer. So here goes. The average joe’s online journal. I hope somebody reads it besides my friend Carl.”

  The fact that my dad wrote “web-surfer” and “failed marriage” with such straight-faced honesty frightens me. Does he really think Joel and I are screwed up? If my dad doesn’t believe in me who will for Christ’s sake? Judging by the number of his followers, Dad is quite the popular guy. He’s done what so many nerdy teenage boys have done: made themselves Internet gods, mini cartel bosses with braces and acne.

  I breeze through his comments, and best friend Carl Landon contributes a lot, but most posts are from unrecognizable names. Many are from women throwing themselves at Dad. Jeez, he must get a lot more action than I know about. One comment invites an illicit act I have the decency not to mention here. Why do people find it so easy to be crass and inappropriate online as if it has no consequences?

  The fact that my father has become more popular than many Twittering celebrities makes me feel nauseated. How in the hell did he pull off famous writing before me? My inner novelist swells with jealousy, and I forget that I’m thinking of my dad for a few seconds and plan the blogger’s demise. Why can’t I do what Dad did? Why can’t I find my writing voice?

  I open Microsoft Word and pull up my first journal. It’s ten pages long, quite a feat for someone who has been afraid of her laptop for three years. I don’t know if other writers get irrationally skittish around their computers, but the thought of so many blank white pages and a blinking curser still gives me nightmares. In the most recurring one, the blinking curser of doom chases me through the Weston’s office, screaming that I’m a pretend writer:

  “Rubbish! All garbage! Not one word makes sense! Whoever said you could write is a fool!” it scolds, and I race around in circles trying to outrun it. In dreams you can never outrun anything threatening, so as it closes in, I wake up, sweating and clutching my comforter. For me, there’s no worse feeling than failure.

  Dad answers on the third ring, “Hi pumpkin,” he sighs, “I’m a bit backed up here. What’s going on with you?” Even though he’s busy, Dad always has time for my calls, so I ignore his comment and say, “I just read some of your blog.”

  “Really?” Now he sounds interested, giddy. “How’d you like it? I was nervous about telling you. Your editing talents are formidable. I don’t know how people bear to send you their work.” Did he just say formidable?

  “When did all this start? Is it because Mom told all your old friends that you’re dull? She didn’t mean it. People say stupid things when they’re mad.”

  “She was right. I am dull. It’s just that some people like that sort of thing.” I imagine him shrugging on the other line, a smile on his lips. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.

  “So, I read.”

  “Don’t pay attention to what people say online. Most of them are a bit bonkers.”

  “No kidding. Where did you meet this woman you’re dating?” I’m praying she isn’t one of the blog commentators, because God knows what she’s really like. I now hope it’s someone from his job, even though workplace romance leads to other problems. I don’t think couples should be in close proximity to each other so often.

  “Carl introduced us. He talked me into going out one night and bam! There she was! Sandy is such a nice woman. You’d like her.”

  “That’s not important, Dad. I’m sure I would, but why didn’t you tell me about this little project? You tell me everything.”

  “I didn’t think you’d like it,” he says, a little defiant. “Can’t I have one thing for myself?”

  “You sound like Mom.”

  He laughs—bellows practically—and says, “I suppose so, but she’s right. I deserve something private.”

  “But it’s not private! You have over four thousand followers!”

  “Apparently that’s not very many. And what’s the matter with that? Most of them have never met me and never will.”

  I don’t understand where his new bravado came from, but it irks me. Mom’s going crazy. Dad’s got a lady friend, and I’m being pushed around my life strapped to a gurney. Who decided to turn my snow globe upside down and shake it?

  “Is it okay that I read it? I found it by accident.” A little lie never hurt anyone, and Mom would not be pleased if I told Dad she tracked him online like an inept hunter. Hopefully he didn’t know, otherwise things could get hairy.

  “Sure. There’s really nothing in there about you. It’s mostly about work and my life in general.” I sense an unsaid yet in there, and I’m not part of his life in general? What did he mean by saying he screwed us up? But I can’t get up the courage to ask. Sometimes living in mystery is beneficial.

  “You leave everything anonymous right? Besides the grade school picture.” I’ve seen and heard about people getting fired or reprimanded for things they say online about their jobs. The last thing I want is for my dad to lose his job over some stupid Internet meltdown.

  “Of course,” he says, affronted, “I’m not stupid.”

  “I know. Well, I need to get back to work. Have a good day.”

  “You too, sweetie! I’ll talk to you later! Say! How would you like to meet Sandy?”

  I’d rather meet Fidel Castro in a dark, Cuban alley.

  It’s not that I mind if people don’t have good jobs. I’m not judgmental or anything. But if a person is past thirty and still hasn’t grown up, I feel weird interacting with them. I dreamt of writing professionally in college, but once I graduated, everything got real. Bills piled up and I needed a place to live that had a working refrigerator and air conditio
ning. Once “the facts of life,” as my mom calls them, set in, I ditched writing and got the job at Weston’s.

  I reach Calypso Café at ten to noon and sit down outside. I’ve never been to this small restaurant, but I enjoy Greek food, so I intend to have a good time. Getting ready for this date was much easier than last time. I guess repetition really does make things simpler. Or my brain has finally gotten used to the dating idea and acquiesced to the torture.

  It rained last night, so the sidewalk shone, and small tree branches shaken loose from their trunks litter the gutters. I like the smell of wet leaves drying in the sun: bittersweet and tangy with a slight moldy scent. It’s the smell of age, a reminder that things move along faster than you’d like. It makes me think of our old house in fall when Dad raked massive leaf piles around the yard only to watch Joel and I decimate them with one leap. Leaves caught in my hair, Dad threw me in the air and caught me, laughing and scolding.

  Two people leave the restaurant, and the fresh pastry smell wafts out. It’s noon and no sight of my date. Not sure what to do, I wait a few more minutes then go in and sit at one of the red table-clothed booths. By twenty after I’m annoyed. Remember what I said about lateness.

  He strolls in at half past and looks around the place, trying to spot me. It’s easy to find me in a crowd, red hair glaringly obvious, and he waves and walks over, the host chasing after him.

  “Hello!” his lilting voice carries, and people turn to stare, lunches interrupted. He nearly hits the host with a flying elbow, and she drops her menus. “Oh! Sorry!” He stoops to help with the menus, and I’m slightly less angry. At least he’s polite to restaurant staff.

  He’s incredibly handsome, which probably gets him out of a lot of trouble, but his wiry frame moves in every direction like a marionette. Blond hair and pale eyebrows and lashes give him an almost invisible quality, but startling green eyes make you take a second look. He’s quick to smile and look sheepish. The host can’t help but beam at him as she sets the menus on the table. Definitely an actor, what charisma. I recall I’m perturbed with his tardiness. When he sits, he looks so abashed that I feel like a strict grade schoolteacher slapping his hand.