by Jeff Strand
"That's not so bad. Some people never call their parents."
"I should call them more. As you may have guessed, phone contact isn't one of my strengths."
"Do you e-mail them?"
"No."
"Were you close?"
I nod. "Yeah, I think it was a pretty standard parent-child relationship. I'm an only child, but they didn't really spoil me. I went through my bratty toddler years, and my whiny self-absorbed teenager years, and I leeched off them a little bit after college, but there weren't any falling-outs or anything. We've never not spoken to each other. I just don't call them enough. That's going to change."
"Are you going to call them right now?"
"No. That would be rude to you."
"You're not a bad son. Some kids only call when they want to borrow money."
"I haven't borrowed money from my mom and dad since I was...well, technically, I've never borrowed money from them. I haven't allowed them to purchase goods or services for me since I was twenty-three." I pump my fist in an exaggerated victory gesture. "Yes! Financial independence! What about your parents?"
"Magicians."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Well, a magician and his assistant. The assistant does all of the real work, you know."
"That's beyond awesome. So you got to spend your childhood touring with a magic act?"
Amy shakes her head. "They weren't successful magicians. Some shows, but mostly birthday parties. Lots of balloon animals. My dad was--is--a genius with balloon animals, but twisting a balloon into a wiener dog doesn't really compare to being on the stage in Vegas, right?"
"Balloon animals are pretty amazing, but I can see your point. Are they still together?"
"No."
"Sorry."
"It was the best thing. Lots of bitterness there. Oh, they could do a children's show and make you think they were the happiest couple in the world. But once the show was over, there was a lot of blame over the fact that they'd just done a show in somebody's backyard for fifteen snot-nosed seven-year-olds, and the blame all came from her."
"That's too bad."
"Yeah. She used to beat him."
"She beat him?"
"Uh-huh. And it sounds like it should be kind of funny, right? My dad is this six-foot-two guy, solid build, more like a Penn Jillette than the skinny-geeky magician type. And my mom was this petite little wisp of a woman. When she'd start hitting him, there was no way he was going to fight back. And there was no way in hell he was going to call the police for domestic abuse. So my dad would literally have to stand there, maybe a couple of times a week, and let this woman pound on him--I mean actual punches with her fists--and there wasn't anything he could do but just take it."
"What did he do while she was hitting him? Anything?"
"He'd say 'Rosanna, this needs to stop.' That's all he'd ever say. And once when she went for his face he blocked her hand. But that's it. 'Rosanna, this needs to stop.'"
"How old were you?"
"They were magicians when I was born. Things didn't start to get outwardly bad until I was eight or nine, maybe. It was a slow-working poison."
"What did you do?"
"Cried a lot. My mom didn't try to hide any of it. I'd be right there in the living room while she was abusing him. Even if she was so much smaller than him, and she wasn't causing him any visible harm, it was abuse. It might conjure up a funny image, but it wasn't funny at all."
"It doesn't sound funny."
"One time I was staying with my uncle--my dad's brother--and I started crying out of nowhere. He asked me what was wrong, and I said nothing was wrong, and he persisted, and so I told him. And he laughed his ass off. Laughed his ass off."
"Did he talk to your dad?" I ask.
"Oh yeah. My dad was not a yeller, but he sure yelled at me that night. Said I'd humiliated him. Told me to mind my own goddamn business."
"Jesus."
"He apologized in the morning, and it was sincere, but you'd better believe that I didn't tell anybody else. I didn't talk about it again until I got married."
"What did your husband say?"
"Credit where it's due: he didn't laugh his ass off."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that. Makes me feel kind of bad for having such a normal childhood."
"You should never feel bad about things going well," Amy tells me. "Though you should call your parents more."
"I will."
"They finally got divorced, and since the abuse was totally off the record, I ended up living with my mom. Fortunately, the target of her failed dreams didn't shift to me. My teenage years weren't so bad, I mean aside from being your standard depressed lonely teenaged girl. But I was never abused myself or molested or anything, so I got through life pretty well."
"Is your dad still a magician?"
Amy shakes her head. "He started working in retail after the divorce. He still does. I used to beg him to do card tricks, and if I kept begging long and loud enough he'd eventually do something cool. But one time he messed up the trick, and I could just see the heartbreak in his face, and I quit begging."
"That really makes me sad," I say. "Maybe it's just because I like magicians."
"I can't watch them anymore."
"That makes me sad, too."
"What's the saddest thing you've ever seen?"
"Seen or had happen to me?"
"Seen. In real life--not on the news or in a movie or anything."
I think for a moment. "Seeing homeless people in New York made me sad."
"That's too general. Give me one specific instance of the saddest thing you've ever seen."
"My default answer on this would be one time when I was a kid and I saw a dog get run over in front of its owner. This nice bulldog's collar came off and it ran into the street and got hit by a car. But what's horrible about that incident is that, yes, it made me sad, but my reaction was really more about going to my friends and saying 'Oh my God, you won't believe what I saw today!'"
"That's how kids are."
"I know. I remember the owner shrieking, but my reaction to that was barely sympathy--it was just 'Whoa! The lady went totally nuts!' I feel like a complete bastard sharing that. If a bulldog got hit in front of us right now, I assure you I'd feel much sadder."
"Noted."
"The one that sticks with me the most, and it's really nothing, was this guy in the airport. Tattoos, leather jacket, beard--complete Hell's Angel looking guy. This was maybe five years ago. And he was there with his son, this kid who was maybe twelve. And he was talking to the kid, and he was laughing, and he was all upbeat, and then it was time for the kid to go through the security line, so he ruffled his hair, and he gave him a thumbs-up sign, and he shook the kid's hand because apparently they weren't a hugging family, and then he sent the kid through and walked away. When he turned away, he immediately wiped a tear from his eye. Like he'd been holding himself together the whole time and broke the second he turned away. That's it. One little tear and it just about killed me to see it."
"Sometimes it's the little things that stick with you," says Amy.
"Yep. I've seen dogs get hit, homeless people, an old lady in a bus station reading a letter and sobbing, I've been to a funeral for each of my grandparents--and I'm on my way to a fifth one--but the thing I flash back to is that biker guy wiping away a tear. It's really weird."
"Are we thoroughly depressed yet?"
"Nah. Let's talk about leukemia."
"What's the funniest thing you've ever seen?" asks Amy.
"Well, one time my co-workers and I snuck a monkey into the building, but that's probably more of a 'you had to be there' moment. I'll show you the video sometime."
"I'm always up for a monkey video."
"If we continue the theme of images that have stuck with me, even if it's not the most ha-ha funny moment of my life, I was at a drive-in. Not a movie, a restaurant. Is that what they're called? Drive-ins? What are they called?"
"
Drive-in restaurants."
"Okay. I don't know why I thought they were called something else. So I was there with my sort-of-but-not-quite girlfriend. The service was insanely slow, and the burgers had this thick layer of brown sludge on the top, but Lucy and I were both introverts and we weren't going to say anything. It was fine. The fries were good."
"The fries are the most important component of any drive-in meal."
"I disagree with that," I say. "It's the milkshakes."
"I retract my statement."
"Thank you. You could eat in your car like any other drive-in, but there were also some outdoor tables. This old guy--well, I guess he was middle-aged, not old--had obviously had the same bad experience that we did, and he was pissed. He stormed away from the table and threw his entire meal onto the ground. Just flung it down right in the middle of the parking lot. But then he just stood there, because he wanted somebody who worked there to see what he'd done, but nobody had. I may have been the only one. And the poor guy didn't know what to do. He was frozen there, looking around like 'Why has nobody noticed my tantrum?' He would take a couple of steps away, look around, and walk back, and I could tell that it was driving him absolutely insane that nobody had seen him throw that food. He kept looking down at it like he wanted to pick it back up and throw it again."
"Did he?"
"No. Finally he went back to his car and left. But you could see the unbelievable frustration. I picture the guy lying in bed, tossing and turning, knowing that when they did find the food on the ground they probably just assumed that somebody accidentally spilled it and was too lazy to clean it up."
"Sucks to be him."
"Big-time."
"Okay, lightning round. What's your--"
"No, wait, what's the funniest thing you've ever seen?" I ask.
"Oh. Sorry. Once, when I was with my parents at a magic show, I accidentally walked in on two clowns having sex."
"Seriously?"
"No, they were doing it humorously."
"Ha-ha."
"Every time he thrust, he honked his nose."
"Bullshit."
"I swear to God. I am not making this up. He was taking her from behind, and he honked his big red nose every time he thrust. Honest truth."
"You're making that up."
"I am not making this up."
"You're trying to top my story about the man throwing his food."
"No offense, but I could have topped that with any reasonably amusing anecdote."
"You did not see two clowns having sex."
"I did."
"In full makeup?"
"Yes. And they both had their clown costumes on, except for their pants."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Did you even know what was happening?"
"Sure. I recognized the sight of two clowns boinking."
"Did it traumatize you?"
"Nah. Although I guess that since I myself have never had sex with a clown, maybe the damage is there."
"I still think you're making that up."
"Put me under hypnosis."
"We've known each other since Saturday. How did the clown sex story not appear in our conversation until now? How was that not the first thing you told me? I mean, you have to have flashed back to that moment every hour of your life since then, haven't you?"
"Honestly, since we met, I hadn't thought about it until I asked you the funniest thing you've ever seen."
"And yet you were going to move on to something else before you answered the question yourself. If I hadn't said anything, I still wouldn't know that you'd watched two clowns screw. That's just incomprehensible to me."
"Well, I'd thought I might save it for an awkward silence."
"Admit it, you're at least making up the part where he was honking his nose."
"Nope."
"Was she honking her nose?"
"No. She might have been before I walked in, but her nose had fallen off. So, yeah, they might have both been honking their noses at the beginning, and then maybe the rough motion that was caused by his repeated pelvic thrusts caused her nose to fall off, and she was too preoccupied to put it back on, as any of us would be in that situation."
"Did they just keep going when you walked in?"
"No, no, no. I'd come inside to use the bathroom, and I heard the honking inside the bedroom, which is what compelled me to open the door. He only did a couple more thrusts and honks before they saw me."
"Did you tell anybody?"
"Nah. They bribed me with a balloon to keep quiet. And I didn't want to get a couple of poor clowns in trouble."
I shake my head in disbelief. "I would have run out of the house shouting 'Clowny sex! Clowny sex!'"
"The balloon was shaped like a great big purple penis."
"Really?"
"No. That part I made up. Everything else is true."
"I think your life has been more eventful than mine."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"I guess it was inevitable that we'd be fighting an army of killer robots. Still kind of a bummer, though."
--Exit Red, Season 6, Episode 2
"Favorite color?" Amy asks.
"Green."
"Any particular shade of green?"
"Kermit-green."
"Mine's red. Blood-red, but not because of blood. Favorite animal?"
"Dog."
"What kind of dog?"
"Any dog under fifteen pounds. You?"
Amy considers the question. "Hippo."
"Hippo? You know they're killing machines, right?"
"I meant that they're my favorite animal when they're not being killing machines. Have you seen them bounce around in the water? No animal is happier."
"I can't get behind that choice," I tell her. "You might as well say that your favorite animal is a shark with a baby between its teeth."
"I won't lie. That's up there. Favorite stand-up comedian?"
"Bill Cosby."
"I was going to say Steven Wright, but now I'm going to change my answer to Bill Cosby. Chicken heart!"
"Favorite sport?" I ask, even though I personally do not have a favorite sport.
"Baseball. You?"
"Baseball."
"What's your favorite team?"
"I like them all equally."
"Favorite football team?" she asks.
"Equal preference there, too. They all work really hard."
"I like the Orange City Ropers."
"They're okay."
"That's not a real team."
"Yes, it is. They played from 1973 to 1978. Made it to the Super Bowl."
"Did I really just make up a real team name?"
"No."
"Smartass."
"You don't get to call me a smartass if I'm continuing your lie," I inform her.
"I figured that maybe I'd heard the team name before and it stuck in my subconscious and I just thought I was making it up."
"Nope."
"New topic. What was your last breakup like?"
"That story is boring."
"What about the one before that?"
I don't want to tell her this.
* * *
Charlotte was cheating on me. I knew this because the bed sheets were rumpled, there were several empty beer bottles on her nightstand, and there were some condom wrappers on the floor.
I felt that I should confront her about this.
"Did you have somebody over?" I asked.
Her eyes darted to the floor. Her guilt was intense. "Yes," she said, in a very quiet voice.
At this kind of revelation, you're supposed to feel like you've been punched in the stomach, but for me it was more like being kicked in the head.
"Who was it?"
"His name is Steve. You don't know him. I don't know him very well, either."
"Oh, well, that makes me feel so much better."
"Are you mad?"
"Uh, yeah."
Her eyes glistene
d with tears. "I'm so sorry, Todd."
I surveyed all of the evidence of what she'd done. "Couldn't you at least have cleaned it up before I got here? This is insulting."
"I wanted you to discover it for yourself. I thought it would be less emasculating."
"This is like rubbing my face in it. Letting me see the room like this is one small step away from literally rubbing my face in the wet spot."
Now the tears fell. "That wasn't my intention. As soon as it happened, I knew it was a mistake, and I knew I had to confess to you. I thought this would make it easier to handle than if I told you with no warning."
"You didn't decide it was a mistake as soon as it happened. There are three condom wrappers."
Charlotte looked down at the floor again. I thought it was shame, then I realized that she was glancing down at a fourth wrapper.
"For God's sake," I said.
"We didn't do it four times," she insisted. "One of those was when we switched from..." She trailed off. "Will it help the healing process if I tell you everything?"
"No! I don't want to know anything!"
She threw her arms around me, hugged me tight, and began to sob. "I'm so, so sorry, Todd. I love you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I don't want to lose what we have together. Please forgive me. I'm begging for your forgiveness. It was a mistake. An awful mistake. I screwed up so badly, I know that, and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm asking you for it anyway. I can't promise this will never happen again, but if you take me back--"
"What?"
"What do you mean by 'what'?"
I broke the hug and stepped away from her. "Did you really say that you can't promise me this will never happen again?"
She wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded.
"Why would you even tell me that?" I asked.
"Would you rather I lied about it?"
"Yes! Yes! In this particular scenario, I'd rather you lie about it! You can't just tell me that you're going to cheat on me again and expect that I'm going to take you back!"
"I didn't say I was going to cheat on you. I said that I couldn't promise it wouldn't happen again. There's a big difference."
I wished I were the kind of person who expressed his rage by throwing furniture across a room. That would have made me feel so much better.