The Pack

by Jason Starr

  The louder and wilder Jeremy got, the more self-conscious Simon got. Was he imagining it or were some of the babysitters laughing at him? One was smirking, texting, maybe telling a friend about the overwhelmed dad in the playground who couldn’t control his son. When Jeremy ran away and grabbed two fistfuls of sand from the sandbox and threw them at Simon’s face Simon had had enough. He grabbed Jeremy and somehow managed to strap him into the stroller and then they hightailed it out of the playground. Jeremy was still wailing so loudly that a couple of cars on Central Park West slowed down as the drivers wanted to see what the hell was going on. Simon decided he’d had it—he was going to push Jeremy around in his stroller until he calmed down or fell asleep, whichever came first.

  About two hours later, Jeremy conked out. Sweaty and exhausted, Simon went into a Starbucks on Broadway. It was almost noon and Alison wouldn’t be home till five thirty, six o’clock, or later. He knew every day wouldn’t be this bad, but he still wasn’t sure he could pull off being a stay-at-home dad without losing his mind.

  He checked his e-mail, hoping for a miracle—Tom had reconsidered, Simon could have his job back. But nope, Tom hadn’t responded yet. Was it possible he hadn’t seen the e-mail yet? He probably had meetings all morning, and if he had a lunch he might not get back to the office until two or later. He’d probably at least read the message on his iPhone already, but sometimes Tom didn’t respond to e-mails on his phone and waited until he was back at his Mac.

  Jeremy woke up from his nap and Simon took him to a pizza place on Amsterdam for lunch. He wasn’t screaming and yelling anymore, but he was still in a grouchy, difficult mood. He asked for a cup of sauce on the side to dip his pizza into, and then of course he promptly spilled the sauce all over himself and the floor.

  Trying to go with the flow, not get too upset, Simon ignored the likely surge in his blood pressure and said, “It’s okay, kiddo, everybody spills things,” as he tried to mop up the sauce with wads of napkins.

  Simon had cleaned up only about half the sauce when Jeremy said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay, we’ll be home in a few minutes,” Simon said. “Can you hold it in?”

  “No.” Jeremy was cringing, his face turning pink.

  Simon and Alison had recently toilet-trained Jeremy, but he’d had a few accidents.

  “Okay, you’re going to have to wait,” Simon said.

  “It’s coming out, Daddy.”

  “It’s not coming out. Think about solid things. Think about bricks, cement . . .”

  Simon picked up Jeremy and carried him to the bathroom in the back of the pizza place. A note was taped to the door: BROKE.

  “Oh come on, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Simon said.

  “I think I’m pooping,” Jeremy said.

  “You’re not pooping,” Simon said. “Steel, concrete, wrought iron . . .” Then to the guy behind the counter, he shouted, “Is there an employees’ bathroom?”

  The guy shook his head.

  Simon carried Jeremy back toward the stroller, saying, “We’re only a few blocks from a bathroom; can you hold it in for two minutes?” but it was too late. Jeremy’s face had turned bright pink and he was making his scrunched-up “pooping face.”

  “No, not the pooping face,” Simon said. “Not the pooping face.” Then he could smell the suddenly overwhelming odor of feces. Other people smelled it too, and a woman winced as she moved to another table with her slice of pepperoni.

  “More’s coming,” Jeremy said.

  Simon could tell Jeremy was getting upset, so he reassured him, saying, “Okay, don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay, kiddo. It’s okay.”

  The smell was getting worse.

  A guy nearby said, “Can’t you take him outside, bro?”

  “Sorry,” Simon said, and, carrying the stroller and pooping son, he went out to the street.

  “I think I’m all done,” Jeremy said.

  The wet poop was leaking through Jeremy’s clothes and over the back of his pants onto Simon’s arm and chest.

  “Okay,” Simon said, “we have to get you in the stroller so we can get you home.”

  “Change me,” Jeremy said.

  “Change you into what? I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”

  “Margaret always brings clothes.”

  “Well, I’m not Margaret.” Simon immediately wished he could suck the words back in and swallow them. Reminding Jeremy that Margaret wasn’t here was the worst thing he could’ve done, especially with Jeremy already in such a vulnerable state.

  “Sorry,” Simon said. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . .”

  But it was too late. Jeremy’s lips quivered and another meltdown ensued.

  Simon tried to calm him down, telling him everything would be okay, bribing him with promises of ice cream, candy bars, new games for his Leapster, but nothing worked. Jeremy was crying hysterically now, fighting as Simon tried to get him into the stroller. There was poop all over Simon’s arms now, and Jeremy was shrieking at the top of his lungs. This day had officially become a nightmare.

  Simon gave up trying to get Jeremy into the stroller and carried him home. In the apartment, he got him out of his poopy clothes and put him right in the tub and turned on the shower. The water was a little too hot at first, and Jeremy screamed and started crying again. It took Simon about half an hour to clean Jeremy up and get him into new clothes.

  Simon needed a break; time for the electronic babysitter. He parked Jeremy in front of the TV, watching PBS Kids, while he went online on his laptop. Still no response from Tom, but he could still be at lunch or in a meeting or involved in something else. Although the long day made it hard to focus, Simon wanted to be as productive as possible. He sent a couple of e-mails to headhunters he knew, though he wasn’t very optimistic about finding a job quickly. Browsing the latest wanted ads was pretty discouraging as well. He could see where this was heading already—he was going to be overqualified for the available jobs, and the jobs he wanted wouldn’t exist. He had a troubling feeling that he was going to be unemployed for a very long time.

  After sending out several more informal queries to headhunters and contacts he had at other agencies, he went to the New York State Department of Labor website to file for unemployment. As he filled out the online form, answering questions like Did you look for work this week? he had a surreal feeling of I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. If someone had told him last week that he’d be filing for unemployment today, he’d have thought that person was insane. Last week he’d been flying high, zeroing in on the Deutsche Bank deal, anticipating a promotion. As he entered his social security number he felt thoroughly humiliated, like he was being fired all over again; he could hear Tom saying, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to eliminate your position, and he could feel the same sudden cramping in his gut.

  At that moment an e-mail arrived. Maybe it was kismet; Tom was getting back to him, telling him he wanted to let bygones be bygones, or better yet, rehire him. Maybe the nightmare was over; he was about to wake up. They’d set up a time to have a drink and smooth things over and soon Simon would be able to resume his old life.

  The message wasn’t from Tom; it was from Joe in HR.Dear Simon Burns,

  Per the e-mail you sent to Mr. Harrison earlier today and per provisions in your pending severance agreement, please cease all communication between yourself and Mr. Harrison effective immediately.

  If you have any further questions on this matter, you may contact me directly.

  Sincerely,

  Joe McElroy

  Associate Director, Human Resources

  Simon was stunned. He stared at the monitor blank-faced until the screen saver came on, and then he stared at the screen saver. Had Tom actually forwarded a personal e-mail to Joe? Simon felt betrayed, humiliated. After everything he’d done for Tom and the agency over the past seven years, all the extra time he’d put in, making him look good on so many campaigns
? Making it worse, this was a guy Simon had considered a friend. Okay, not a friend friend, but how many times had they gone to lunch and after-work drinks, or to entertain clients at Knicks games and Broadway shows? A few years ago when Tom was going through a rough patch in his marriage, Simon had given him some advice to help him through it. Another time, Tom had a relative who was going for bypass surgery; Simon put him in touch with a friend who’d used a renowned surgeon for his heart surgery, and Tom’s friend had wound up using the same surgeon. And after all that, Tom had not only fired him, but forwarded an e-mail to HR? Simon didn’t get what he’d done to deserve this kind of treatment. He hadn’t harassed anyone or committed a crime; he’d been fired and broken a picture frame.

  Simon paced the apartment, trying to figure out what to do next. He wanted to call Tom—e-mail was sometimes such an ineffective way to communicate—and clear the air, but he knew that would only make things worse. Obviously Tom was trying to avoid contact with him, and if Simon started calling now, after the warning to “cease all communication,” maybe the powers that be at S&O would try to screw with Simon’s severance.

  Simon couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. Worse, he had no way to express himself.Yeah, he could write back to Joe in HR. The fact that Joe had acted like such a prick at the office, and sent such a cold, formal note, was yet another humiliation because Simon had always been friendly with Joe. They said hi to each other in the elevator and whenever they passed each other in the hallways and had chatted in the concessions area a few times. Simon could write back to Joe, but say what? That he was upset? Simon still couldn’t get over that Joe had called him “Mr. Burns.”

  Back on his laptop, Simon read the e-mail maybe a dozen more times, still amazed by the coldness of not only Tom, but the whole company. Although Simon had no idea what his colleagues thought about the situation, it wasn’t exactly like his inbox was flooded with fond farewells and words of encouragement. Okay, maybe people were being overly PC, toeing the company line, but Simon couldn’t help imagining that they were all coldly blowing him off, the way Tom and Joe had.

  Simon did some more job hunting, but the more searching and researching he did, the more discouraged he got.

  Alison came home at around six fifteen. After she opened the door, she paused and looked around the apartment. She was probably noticing the dirty dishes in the sink and on the countertop, the dishes from breakfast still on the dining room table, and Jeremy sitting on the rug watching Dora the Explorer with toys splayed out all around him.

  “I guess I didn’t see the weather forecast for today,” she said.

  “Weather forecast?” Simon, still absorbed in thoughts of how his agency had screwed him over, was lost.

  “I didn’t know a hurricane would come through the living room today,” she said.

  Simon didn’t smile. In his current mood, he didn’t think anything was funny.

  “Oh, come on, I’m only joking, sweetie,” she said.

  Alison kissed Jeremy and gave him a big hug, and then she went over to Simon and kissed him and said, “So . . . how was it?”

  “How was what?” Simon asked.

  “Your first day as a stay-at-home dad.”

  His exasperated expression must’ve said it all.

  “That good, huh?”Alison said. “I want to hear all about it later, I just have to do an important conference call in a few minutes. Oh, and guess what, I closed that big deal I’ve been working on.”

  “Deal?” Simon asked.

  “With Dr. Wong. He placed a big order with us today.”

  “That’s great,” Simon said, trying his best to sound happy for her.

  “It is great,” Alison said. “I think it might turn into a lucrative contract, maybe over multiple product lines. Of course, it depends how many actual scripts he writes, but right now it looks very encouraging.” She glanced at Jeremy, sitting Indian style on the rug in front of the TV. “How long has he been watching TV?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon said. “A few hours.”

  “He should only be watching TV for a half hour or an hour a day tops.” She flicked off the TV and said to Jeremy, “Dinnertime.”

  She looked over at the kitchen and said, “You didn’t start making dinner yet? He has to eat at six and be in bed by eight.” Alison’s nostrils flared. “Why does the apartment smell like poop?”

  “You’re on duty now,” Simon said, and took the laptop with him into the bedroom.

  During dinner Simon was still in a grouchy mood and didn’t feel like talking about his day.

  Later, when Jeremy was in bed, Alison sat next to Simon in the living room and said, “So are you ready to talk now?”

  Simon told her about the poop fiasco at the pizza place.

  “Is that what this is all about?”Alison asked. “Because you got a little pooped on?”

  “It wasn’t a little poop, it was a lot of poop.”

  “You know what they say,” Alison said. “Poop happens.”

  Almost smiling, Simon said, “Easy for you to say. You didn’t have to walk five blocks covered in it.”

  “You could’ve taken a cab.”

  “We’re trying to cut down on cabs, remember? And you should’ve seen Jeremy, he was hysterical. I swear it was like I was with Rosemary’s Baby or something. He was shaking, drooling. I think he was crying louder than when he was born.”

  Alison laughed.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “No,” she said, still laughing. “Okay, yes, I think it’s funny.”

  Simon couldn’t help laughing a little himself, but he said, “Trust me, if you were me today you wouldn’t be laughing right now.”

  “If it isn’t poop, it’ll be something else,”Alison said.“He’ll fall off the slide one day and need stitches, or a bee will sting him, or he’ll suddenly get a high fever.You have to just roll with the punches.”

  “That’s not all that happened today,” Simon said.

  “Oh no, what else happened? Did a bird poop on you too?”

  Alison laughed, but Simon was stone-faced.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just joking. Okay, what happened?”

  He told her about the e-mail to Tom and Joe’s response.

  “I know how frustrated you are,”Alison said,“but the past is the past, and your responsibility is to Jeremy now, not to your old job.You have to just let go.”

  “I think I might’ve made a big mistake,” Simon said.

  “Oh stop, it’s just one e-mail. It’s not a big—”

  “No, I mean firing Margaret. I thought I could handle this whole being-a-stay-at-home-dad thing, but I just don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Alison said. “You’re a great dad, and you’re great with Jeremy. And it’s only been one day. You have to give it a chance.”

  “But he keeps asking for her.”

  “He’s three years old. It’s going to take him time to adjust.”

  “Maybe we can pay Margaret out of our savings.”

  “We need that money for the mortgage and maintenance and oh, how about food? Did you forget food? We’ve been through this, crunched all the numbers, and there’s no other way right now.”

  Simon knew she was right. “Well, I don’t know if I can handle another day like today.”

  “I think what you need is a schedule,” Alison said. “You have to make child care regimented, like a job. At nine o’clock you do this, at ten o’clock you do that, lunch at noon, et cetera, et cetera. And you have to change your attitude too. You have to appreciate how lucky you are. Most moms and dads would kill to get to spend more time with their kids, and now you’re getting that chance.” She held his hand and squeezed it. “You’re a dad, you have the best job ever. You make your own hours, you call all the shots, and think about the great job security you have. After all”—she kissed him on the cheek—“nobody can ever fire you from being a father.”

&nbs
p; THREE

  Simon started the next day with a fresh, upbeat attitude. If he was going to be a full-time dad, he wanted to be a great full-time dad, and he definitely didn’t want his situation with Tom to trickle down and affect his parenting. So he took Alison’s advice and made up a schedule. He’d make Jeremy breakfast, then get him dressed and out the door by ten o’clock. They’d go to the Great Lawn and play ball and run around till noon, then have lunch at Subway, and then go to the library for a story hour at two, and then they’d have a snack—granola bars and chocolate milk—before trekking up to the playground near 101st Street in Riverside Park.

  But the schedule got derailed from the get-go. Jeremy wouldn’t eat the French toast Simon made—“It’s too mushy, Daddy”—and he had to make him grilled cheese as a backup. After Jeremy finished breakfast, it was already past ten o’clock, and then it took much longer than Simon had anticipated to get him dressed, and then Jeremy spent maybe half an hour going to the bathroom; he said it was because his tummy hurt, but it was probably actually because he was afraid of having another accident. Finally they got out of the apartment around eleven. When they got to the park it started raining, so that KO’d Wiffle ball and soccer. Though Simon had remembered to pack a jacket and an extra pair of clothes for Jeremy, he’d forgotten to bring the plastic covering for the stroller, so Jeremy got soaked. Instead of changing him out of his wet clothes in a public bathroom, Simon took him back home instead. Of course, right as they entered their apartment building the sun started shining brightly.

  While Simon was changing Jeremy out of his wet clothes, Jeremy asked, “Why can’t Margaret take care of me anymore?”