by Dave Connis
Beautiful faice.
Loveloy legspdfpn.
Uhisoiasepuhn.
Addy snaps her fingers. “Lil’ bro, do I need to send in a rescue team?”
“What? Hey, don’t call me lil’ bro.”
She takes a sip of her milkshake. “Do I need to find out her name?”
That wakes me up. “Oh, nah. She’s not my type.”
Addy laughs. “BS! The formula for your type is girl plus that’s it.”
“Not true.”
She stands. “Right. You tell yourself that, Papi.”
“What’s Papi? Addy … Addy, where are you going?”
She walks toward the apex of a woman, and I have no idea what she’s going to do, and I don’t know if I can watch her destroy my chance with the most beautiful girl in the universe, so I go back to my milkshake. As I turn, I make awkward eye contact with Mr. Crotcher. He doesn’t know what I need. He doesn’t know anything about me. No one does.
My phone buzzes.
Her name is Desiree, but she goes by Dez and you literally need to marry her.
I’ll stick with a literal no marriage for now.
Adam … if you don’t come over here, I’m going to propose for you.
Let me know how the wedding goes.
You’re pathetic.
I’ve been given multiple awards for my extraordinary dignity,
thank you very much.
Any award received in France doesn’t count.
Come back so we can finish our milkshakes.
Fine.
What? Addy doesn’t say fine. I look for them and see Addy’s head in the furthest booth away in the center aisle, sitting with the so-called Dez. Dez catches me looking, smiles, then holds up Addy’s phone and wiggles it back and forth.
You’re really missing out, Frenchie.
I smile back and somehow, despite myself, walking toward her. She has beauty like a tractor beam.
I walk over to her table. “Hey, I’m Adam, which you probably already know.”
Dez doesn’t respond. Instead, she types D-E-Z into Addy’s phone, then holds it up so I can see it.
Addy motions for her phone. Dez gives it to her.
Isn’t she darling?
What are you two doing?
Addy shows the message to Dez. Dez takes the phone back.
Using mystique to lure you into a situation you don’t understand, therefore disabling your ability to label our interaction. In other words, I’m giving you a judgment-free “Talk to Dez” card.
“You’re welcome,” Dez says as Addy slides out of the booth so an older man with giant glasses can take her place. He smiles and nods at me.
“It was nice meeting you two,” Dez says.
Addy laughs. “Likewise. Come on, Gape-y.”
“Thanks for the card,” I say. “My French dignity appreciates it.”
Dez laughs. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle.”
As we walk back to our booth, Addy puts her hands over her eyes and says, “Oh my God, Adam. Why didn’t you get her number? It really seems like you were born yesterday.”
“Phone numbers don’t jive with my stance on relationships.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Tell me, then.”
“I align with the wise, postmodern, Western philosopher 50 Cent. In his song, ‘In Da Club,’ he quotes a tenant of his life philosophy, ‘I’m into having sex, not into making love.’ When everyone is out for themselves, what’s the point of love? Is love even possible?”
Addy looks at me with this half-smile, half-furrowed brow face, and I know I’ve said too much. I change the topic. “Did Dad know you were coming?”
We slide back into the booth, and even though she looks disappointed, she nods. “I told him a while back so he could make sure you weren’t doing anything.”
“You were home when Dad heard about school, right? Does he actually have emotions about the situation?”
She nodded. “The emotion you’re thinking of is ‘pissed,’” she says, turning on what I call The Addcent. “But no worries, honey, you will have life just the same.”
Addy has talked in The Addcent since I can remember. Isn’t any particular accent, but it’s heavily influenced by the fact that she’s fluent in Spanish and French. She learned French in high school, but she learned Spanish by working construction. That’s one of the reasons her company keeps promoting her; she can talk to everyone. She’s so used to switching from English to Spanish at breakneck speed on the job that that’s become a habit off the job, too. I asked her about it once, and she just said, “Sometimes I think of words in Spanish and in English at the same time and that’s just how it comes out.”
Surprised that my dad is actually having a reaction, I ask, “Did Dad tell you anything he’s thinking?”
She jabs a fork into a waffle fry as big as my palm and then folds it, gravy and all, into her mouth. She chews, regards, swallows, and then says, “Dad doesn’t tell people things. Remember? You guys are twins that way.”
I shrug and turn to look at the front of the diner.
Addy sighs. “Are you ever going to tell me things again?”
“I used to have things to tell,” I say. “What happened at school’s not a big deal.”
She gives me not-a-big-deal?-then-why-are-you-expelled-for-eighty-days look, then asks, “Why’d you stop? Telling me things, I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. What’s wrong, Adam? Something’s wrong.”
“Really, it’s nothing, Addy. I’m fine.”
“If you don’t tell me, who are you going to tell?”
This is exactly what my ex-friend Jason used to do—badger me with questions like this. That’s why he’s an ex-friend. I don’t want them, and I don’t want Addy to turn into Jason. Besides, Addy gave up her right to be told things.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
Addy’s eyes glisten. “Adam …”
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
I still don’t want to go home, so I hop in Genny and drive to downtown Bothell. I just walk around a bit with a to-go Thin Mint and Oreo milkshake sipping cookie chunks through the straw. The discipline papers are rolled into a tube in my pocket and they press into my thigh as I move. Downtown Bothell is undergoing a massive reno after a big fire, and every time I come here, I never know what will be done and what will be under construction.
I pass a swanky little chocolate store called The Chocomotive and see a woman inside. She’s trying to hold a bag of chocolates, push a stroller, and open the door at the same time. I walk up to the door and prop it open with my foot.
The woman sees me, sticks the bag of chocolates in her teeth, and shoves the stroller onto the sidewalk. Once she’s out of the store, she takes the bag out of her mouth and flashes me a genuine smile.
“Thank you so much,” she says.
I just nod and pull my foot away from the door.
She unrolls the bag of chocolates and holds them toward me. “Here.”
I reach for one, hoping to get something caramel-y, but right as my hand dips into the bag she says, “Your mother deserves a medal for raising such a gentleman.”
I pull my hand out and walk away.
PULL AWAY
Is it weird that my dad’s yelling at me and I’m kind of enjoying it? I don’t think I’ve been yelled at for at least two years.
He crosses his arms. “Really, Adam? What do …”
Addy walks into the house. I look at her. She avoids my glance and lies on the couch, playing some game on her phone.
Dad slams his fist on the table. “If you think …”
When The Woman left, I came up with these two formulas in Mr. Crotcher’s Bio 101 class.
ADAM’S FORMULA OF LIFE SCREWAGE A
People who think + life = get screwed
ADAM’S FORMULA OF LIFE
SCREWAGE B
People who don’t think + life = get screwed
I’ve thought about these a bit, not too much, just a bit, and come to a few conclusions.
My dad throws his hands up in disgust. “… You are going to go to everything Colin Cratcher has …”
CONCLUSION ONE
People who think = People who don’t think
This seems true by logical deduction; however, I’m pretty sure it’s false. Why? Because my dad’s warier than I am about the bucket’a’bull life dumps on you from day-to-day. I mean, look at him. He’s yelling, but the slouch of his shoulders and his half open eyes are saying “this is the last thing I need right now.” Lately, what he thinks he needs is Nicholas Sparks. Yes… My dad loves Nick Sparks. He’s read all of his books. Twice. But none of that romantic bucket’a’bull helped him when The Woman said she wanted a divorce. Getting your relational acumen from Nick Sparks is about the same as getting it from Cosmo.
CONCLUSION TWO
There is a variable that doesn’t change in either of the formulae: life, and that forces the equation to spit out the same sum.
So, according to Conclusion Two, it doesn’t matter how you carry yourself, because somewhere between the plus and the equal sign in Adam’s Formula of Life Screwage A and B, everything goes up in flames.
Sounds pretty accurate to me.
“If your mother were here …”
I stare at him. Is he really going to use The Woman as a discipline point?
“She’d be appalled. Come on, Adam why would you—”
“But she isn’t here,” I say.
“That’s not the point. The point is women are—”
“People who leave you. It’s all BS, Dad. You did everything right, and look at you. You’ve been reduced to reading Nicholas Sparks to figure out how to get her back. She’s destroyed your life, and you did nothing but treat her like a celebrity. You cared about someone, something, and it got you nowhere. Same goes for everything else. Why bother?”
Addy’s sitting up now. Staring at me. Hurt. I see it shimmer across the lines between her eyebrows. I see it in the tears pooling at the side of her eyes. I want to tell her “This isn’t about you,” but if I was honest? The pie chart of what this is about would have a slice, albeit a smaller one, designated to Addy.
Dad runs his hand through his silver hair. They come to rest over his eyes. When he says, “I’ve taught you better than this,” his voice is muffled as it escapes from behind his palms.
He hasn’t taught me anything in the last year that makes me think otherwise. He’s barely looked at me since The Woman left. He’s obsessed with being the best he can be for her, all while she’s with some other guy. I refuse to end up like that.
With nothing else to say, I shake my head, leave my dad at the table, take the steps two at a time to my room, lock my door, and dig my computer out of my bag. This is me. This is how I relax. It’s not an addiction; it’s how I relax. Tell the guy who relaxes by doing the dishes after dinner that he’s a dish addict and needs to go to an AA group for it. After today, I need a naked girl named Glitter to remind me that the world isn’t just a useless pit of obnoxious misery.
—
There’s a man in my room. This man looks like my dad. He never comes into my room.
Dad + my room = never.
“It’s 4:50. You’re late for Mr. Cratcher’s.”
“I didn’t set my alarm for a reason,” I mumble. “I’m sure you can deduce what it is.”
“I’m sure you can deduce that this is me overriding that deduction.”
“Dad.”
“Adam.”
“You’ve been ignoring me for the last year. You can’t just get interested when all the fun starts.”
“Adam, get out of bed, put your pants on, and go. We’ll talk about my shortcomings as a father when you get home.”
I make my way downstairs. Addy isn’t here. I look out into the driveway. Her twenty year-old sky blue Ford F-150 is gone.
I made her leave. I hate myself.
I put together some breakfast, but Dad doesn’t let me eat because I’m too late.
—
The early morning lullaby of NPR and random thoughts of that Dez girl distract me from my impending counseling session with Mr. Crotcher. I pull into his driveway, but I don’t get out of Genevieve. I’ve never been early to his classes, so why should I be early to our love-is-all-you-need session? I pull my phone out of my pocket and send Addy a text.
I’m sorry.
I stare at the screen, touching it when it tries to shut off, but after five minutes of staring, she hasn’t texted back. It makes my brain and heart bicker back and forth like Gollum and Sméagol:
Addy’s just trying to help you.
My feelings are mine, Precious. I’ll hurts them. They’ll hurts me.
Do you care?
Glitter doesn’t hurts me. Gollum! She protects me, it does.
But you’re still a mess.
Nothing changes mess until heart burns red and you are dead.
So why not feel as good as possible?
Yes! Gollum! That’s it, it is. I swears.
I stare at Mr. Crotcher’s front door. I don’t think I’ve ever come here by myself. Back during the frequent dinners with Mr. Crotcher, we came here ia few times. After The Woman left, and took Addy with her, our interaction with the outside world died. It’s not that we didn’t want to go places; it’s just that she robbed us of table conversation not based on the divorce. She turned dinner into a scratched CD, repeating, “How are you holding up?” or “How can I help?” or “I’m sure it’s been hard.”
I know people were trying to help, but that doesn’t change the fact that certain kinds of tragedies—divorce and losing a limb being two examples—have a tendency to make people treat you like a toddler. Encouragement starts sounding like, “You’re such a big boy for dealing with this,” or “Wow, look at how strong you are. Good job eating all your food!” After a while, that kind of interaction gets old.
At 5:09, I climb Mr. Crotcher’s stairs. As I ring the doorbell, I accidentally drop the discipline report paperwork. He opens the door while I’m scrambling to pick up the pages stuck to the railing slats before they blow into the street.
“Good morning, Adam,” he says, his voice bright and wretchedly cheery. “Come in.”
His living room is lined wall-to-wall with books. He has no TV.
Of course.
“You haven’t been here in a while,” he says. “Not since your mother left, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve added a study studio in the attic, but that’s about all that’s changed. Haven’t felt like changing much else. So,” he continues, “you’re starting everything on a Thursday. That means tonight is the Addiction Fighters meeting at the Civic Center. I really am sorry you won’t get to interact with your Transparency Forum beforehand, but in my defense, we had an extra night last night so we could finish discussing that book before you joined, and you had a chance for introductions then. However, I have faith that tonight’s group sharing time will be as good of an introduction as you can get.”
We walk up a dark stairwell. The walls are covered with pictures of him and Gabby. I never met Gabby. Also of note, there are no pictures of kids. So either Mr. Crotcher and Gabs didn’t get down or they never had any. As a guy who doesn’t have a TV in his house, my guess is the former.
At the top of the stairs, we turn left, walk down a long hallway, and step into his study. The room’s wide and open. Instruments line the walls, and a computer desk the size of Noah’s Ark sits in the far right corner. Behind the computer, by a rectangular window with a clear view of the neighborhood, is a small room. The door is open, and the inside walls are covered with gray cubes of wavy foam. A microphone rests in a stand pointed toward the back wall.
“Is that a recording studio?” I ask.
Mr. Crotcher nods. “Yes. It’s taken me a while to de
cide which pieces of my equipment I wanted to switch from analog to digital. Digital equipment is much easier to work with and has an incredible amount of capabilities. However, I will always be of the opinion that analog equipment has a warmer sound more conducive to the kind of music I play. That’s why, when I record, I use both.”
I poke one of the gray sheets of foam. My finger disappears. “Why do you have a recording studio? Do all your … people … record with you?”
“No, no. Just you. It takes a poet to keep up with the demands of the studio. You’ve always seemed to fit the bill. Music production has always been a passion of mine. In a past life, I was a sound engineer.”
That’s not something you hear an ancient high school chemistry teacher say every day.
He points to the walls. “I mixed and recorded a few of Johnny and June’s albums.”
Tons of framed records hang around the room, Johnny Cash and Roger Miller among the names.
“You’re about to lay into me for eighty days about how I need to stop wasting my life when you had the chance to be a music mogul in Nashville?” I’ve got to admit, the man just ascended a few levels of awesome in my head, but not enough to lose the name Mr. Crotcher.
“My life would’ve been a waste if I didn’t choose to teach high school chemistry.”
“Why would you choose teaching over being a giant in the music industry?”
“I’d just gotten engaged to Gabby and was in the process of destroying myself with alcohol and drugs. She made me choose between lives. Luckily, I chose her, and we left any trace of that old life behind to come here and build a life we both wanted. Our story is much more complicated than that, of course, but what isn’t complicated is that choices change you. Especially the life and death ones, and life and death choices are exactly why you are here.”
I study his clean-shaven face and note that he’s incredibly dramatic.
He crosses his arms, his familiar sternness showing. “Here is what to expect from our meetings. I’m not going to ask you about your feelings, your father, or your mother, and we’re not going to talk about what you did or didn’t do. For eighty days, from five to seven a.m., you are going to help me record the album I’ve been working on for the last forty years.”