The Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac

by Kris D'Agostino

  “Have a nice break,” Arham says. “Have a nice break,” he tells the garbage can outside the bathroom. “Have a nice break,” he says to Rosa, the receptionist. “Have a nice break,” he tells Julio, the maintenance man. Have a nice break. He is a broken record, but he is happy. I make no attempts to teach him anything.

  After lunch, the rain tapers off and the sun comes out from behind the clouds.

  We round up everyone in our section. The retards: Arham, Hendrick, Shaynequa, Franklin, Tyrone, and Samantha. The teachers: Georgie, Angela, Robyn, Elaine, Tracy, and me. We traipse to the yard like cattle. Every five feet someone falls or bumps his head. There is screaming and giggling and a few farts, but eventually we make it out there. I close the gate and stand at the monkey bars, leaning against one of the metal poles. Arham spins around and around in circles. I get nauseated just looking at him. Shaynequa runs to him.

  “Hug,” she says. Arham stops his spinning and the two of them embrace. Shaynequa loses her footing and they both fall into the wood chips, laughing like maniacs. I look at all the kids. I look at Georgie. He is perched on a swing, staring off. The other teachers—Angela, Robyn, Tracy, and Elaine—are hovering around the sandbox, chatting. I feel someone tugging at the bottom of my T-shirt. It wouldn’t be Hendrick if he wasn’t wearing his plastic fireman’s helmet.

  “Some people make a really big poop, like my papi,” he tells me.

  “That’s bathroom talk,” I say.

  “What?” Franklin asks, coming over to us.

  “My daddy makes a big poop,” Hendrick repeats.

  Franklin considers this information.

  “My dad’s hairy like a buffalo,” he says.

  Shaynequa and Arham are back on their feet, standing nearby, listening.

  “Basketball,” Shaynequa says.

  “My daddy hits tennis balls,” Samantha says.

  “Broccoli,” Hendrick says.

  “My dad likes channel surfing,” I tell the kids.

  “What’s that?” Franklin asks, his hand slithering down his pants.

  “It means he likes to watch TV,” I say. “Take your hand out of your pants.”

  “Channel surfing,” Franklin repeats. He smells his fingers. “Channel. Surfing. Channel surfing.” He says it like a hymn, as if the words themselves give him strength. He marches around, stomping his feet. “Channel surfing,” he says, again and again.

  It isn’t long before the others join him.

  “Channel surfing,” Shaynequa says. She jumps up and down.

  “Channel. Surfing,” Arham says.

  The six of them huddle close to one another, bouncing around, yelling, “Channel surfing,” as loud as they can. Tyrone groans and hollers.

  The other teachers approach, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  A PERIOD OF great uncertainty. A period of illness and pregnancy, of intense family “togethering.” I pull out of the parking lot. The squat stucco building dwindles away in the rearview mirror. I will not be back for sixteen days. I’m happy about this. At the same time I’m a little nostalgic. I feel the nagging sensation that, much as I claim to hate that school, much as I tire of Arham saying “peepee,” I’ll miss him. I’ll miss hearing about Georgie’s grand plans for the future and Ceci’s wedding arrangements. Hendrick’s fireman’s hat. I will miss them in a quixotic way, a way in which I can romanticize the job into something wholly different from what it really is.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE, I stand in front of the mirror trying to cobble together something in the realm of appropriate attire for the job interview. The idea is to lay out my whole outfit before going to bed. Have it all prepared so that in the morning I can sleep in awhile, dress, eat some breakfast, and make my way to the train.

  I have one suit. A leftover from my college graduation. I try on the pants. They fit the same as they ever did. I have a white button-down shirt, which came as a hand-me-down from my father, which I had hemmed to fit my thin frame. I comb my hair. I do this for the sake of making a good impression. I will do this again in the morning. I tuck the shirt in and observe. Not bad. I dig through the bottom of my closet and find one of the two ties I own, a green and blue striped thing. I go back to the mirror and hold the tie up against my chest to gauge its fashion effectiveness. I see Chip in the mirror, standing in the doorway, shaking his head.

  “Look at you,” he says.

  “I’m trying,” I say. He looks me up and down. He takes the tie out of my hands.

  “Follow me,” he says. He leads me to his bedroom. Scarface posters adorn the walls. A black light is attached to the ceiling and I see he has recently hung a disco ball.

  “Stand there,” he says, directing me to the full-length mirror near his bed. He opens the door to his closet to reveal the vast array of business attire neatly hanging within. He engages the electric rack and selects a simple black tie. Not too thin, not too wide.

  “Very classic,” he says, handing it to me.

  I take a very long time tying it around my neck. I stand back, smoothing out the shirt beneath.

  “Not bad,” I say.

  “You can’t wear those,” he says, pointing to my white tube socks.

  “I don’t have anything else.”

  He shakes his head and goes to his bureau. He extracts a pair of clean dress socks.

  “And shoes?” he asks. I don’t say anything and he returns to the closet for black leather dress shoes. I sit on his bed, put the socks on and slip into the shoes. They’re surprisingly comfortable.

  “Jil Sander,” my brother points out. “They cost eight hundred bucks, so don’t step in dog shit, okay?”

  “I’ll try not to,” I tell him.

  “You can thank me later,” he says.

  I stand in front of the mirror again.

  “I feel like an asshole,” I say.

  “You look good,” my brother tells me.

  “I look like you.” I start to leave but stop in the doorway. “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem.”

  “I mean it,” I add.

  “I know,” he says.

  << 23 >>

  A young girl seated below giant, glowing corporate signage greets me. She speaks into a microphone attached to her ear, announcing my presence. I am greeted moments later by sleekly dressed Charlotte, who is just as attractive as I pictured her. She is tall in high heels. A black skirt and white blouse, dark hair pulled straight back in a ponytail.

  Charlotte directs me down several corridors. Past offices and supply closets and copy machines. Past the etiquette of office mannerisms. A way of walking down carpeted hallways, the watercooler, the communal kitchen, where you find the coffee machine. A style of speaking, both stylishly uninformative and nonconfrontational. An air of hushed, false calm and claustrophobia in the three-walled cubicle arrays and laser-printer whirs. In all of my daydreaming about the possibility of working at the well-known film company, in all of my idealized envisioning, I have overlooked the simple fact that it would be, at the end of the day, an office job. Furthermore, an entry-level office job. One that just happens to be at a film company. But still, it is a job I could live with. A job at least in some way connected to a field I care about. Or pretend to care about. It seems a step in the right direction. More money than the John W. Manley School has to offer. More longevity.

  My journey with Charlotte ends in a small conference room, where she asks me to sit and make myself comfortable.

  “You’ll be speaking with Rebecca Quinn,” Charlotte says. “Head of production.”

  “Mrs. Quinn,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “Okay.”

  “Would you like any coffee?” Charlotte asks. “Water?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you.”

  And then I’m looking at the back of her head, and her ponytail flips up and down and she is gone. The smell of her perfume is still here and I try my best to bask in all its sexual glory as I wait for the mysterious Mrs. Quinn.

 
; She arrives. A short lady. Midforties. Loose, biblically flowing gray dress. Her neck ensnared in a strand of enormous brown wooden beads. She swirls past me into one of the large seats at the head of the table. She is carrying a stapler and a sheaf of printer paper, which she plunks down in front of her. Her face seems weary and deep. Impossible to read. I’m not sure whether to sit or stand, so I do a sort of half-stand thing, which I know looks extremely awkward, but I’m powerless to stop myself from doing it nonetheless.

  “Mr. . . ?”

  “Moretti,” I say, sitting down finally. “Calvin Moretti.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Moretti,” Quinn continues. There is what feels like a long pause before she speaks again. I find myself unable to hold her gaze for very long. My eyes dart between her face and the view of Midtown Manhattan yawning out the windows behind her. “Are you familiar with stapling?” she asks.

  “Uh, yes,” I say. “I’ve stapled many times.”

  She leans forward, pushes the stapler toward me, arching her eyebrow at the stack of paper.

  “If you’d be so kind.”

  I look behind me at the door. I find no help there.

  Quinn slumps back in her chair and rocks slightly. The beads of her necklace clink and clank together when she moves. Her hair is littered with impressive gray streaks.

  I am slow to gather the papers together. I make a big show of lining up the edges as perfectly as I can. I bang them a few times on the table to get them in order. I pick up the stapler and close its mouth around the upper left corner. Everything goes according to plan. No surprises. The stapler does not explode in my hand. I lay the now-unified stack of papers back on the table.

  Mrs. Quinn reaches out a veined hand to take up my work. She seems to be scrutinizing the angle of the staple in relation to the corner of the paper.

  She holds it up.

  “Allow me to show you what I’m looking for,” she says.

  “By all means,” I say.

  A staple remover is revealed from some hidden pocket in her outfit. She undoes my work. She takes the stapler into her hands and clicks off a new round. This time, instead of the angled approach I took, she makes sure her staple is parallel to the top edge of the pages. She slides the new packet across the table.

  “I see,” I say.

  “This is the precision I expect,” she says. “Don Caulfield in A and R might have his own way. Maybe he’s a little loose. A little easygoing. That’s fine. Not in my shop. Perfection. That’s what makes money.”

  “Of course,” I say. I’m looking for some way to broach the subject of movies. In my mind, this interview involved my talking about my favorite films. I thought I’d be answering questions like, who was the better editor, Walter Murch or Hal Ashby? Which was the superior film, Godfather I or II? I was completely unprepared for the stapler business. Surely the real interview would start any minute.

  Mrs. Quinn is shaking her head like she understands something very crucial to the moment.

  “You have your master’s?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I’m hoping to go back to school for film studies in the near future.” It was a kind of truth. I did think about it from time to time.

  “Your undergraduate degree?”

  “Film,” I say. “I’ve been watching movies since I was little. It’s something I’m really passionate about.”

  “Indeed,” Quinn says. More awkward silence. My breathing is audible. “You know this job pays very little,” she says.

  “More than I make now.” That was a mistake.

  “I’m looking for someone to go the extra mile. Come in early. Stay late if need be. Lots of phone calls. Task juggling. Arrangements. I might even throw a little of my personal billing into the mix.”

  “It all sounds very exciting,” I say. “I’m looking for a job where I have room to grow. And I’m really eager to be around film again.”

  Mrs. Quinn is nodding at me and I’m not sure why.

  She has more questions. They all seem to fall into a strange non-film-related sphere. I’m not quite sure how to respond to any of them. I feel like she is looking through me. When it’s over, she thanks me for my time and says she’ll be in touch. Charlotte has reappeared almost out of nowhere and is ushering me back into the hallway.

  “You live in the city?” I ask, trying to make small talk as we go.

  “Brooklyn,” she says. Her smell.

  “Oh, sure,” I say. “Brooklyn.”

  She stops just short of the reception desk.

  “So, I’ll hear from you guys soon?” I venture.

  “In a couple of weeks, I’d think,” Charlotte says. “Mrs. Quinn always likes to take her time with new hires. Better to be sure than regret it later.”

  “Right,” I say. “Makes sense.”

  “We have your résumé on file,” Charlotte says. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  All the walls in the elevator are mirrors, and if I twist and turn just the right way, I can see the back of my head. I can see the side of my head. I can see myself from every angle.

  On the street, I loosen my tie and walk the ten blocks to Grand Central. I breathe easier back here on the street. The interview seems a complete disaster from start to finish. I’m not sure what kind of impression I made, but it certainly can’t have been a good one. For all I know, I failed the staple test with flying colors. I disappointed Mrs. Quinn before she’s even hired me.

  The Hudson Line rockets north, through Morris Heights. University Heights. Marble Hill. Spuyten Duyvil. Riverdale. Ludlow. Yonkers. Glenwood. Greystone. Hastings-on-Hudson. Dobbs Ferry. Ardsley-on-Hudson. Irvington. I watch the trees slide by against the reflection of my face in the window. I hand the conductor my ticket when he comes through. I get off at Tarrytown. My mother is waiting in the SUV to take me home.

  “You need to sell this car,” I tell her.

  “How’d it go?” she asks.

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  I ENTER THE mind-set of total ambitionless slackerdom. I’ve earned it. I don’t have to think about anything on vacation—that’s why it’s vacation.

  I take Emma for lengthy walks. She is growing on me. I’ve been watching her closely in the few weeks since she joined the family. She has a total disregard for her own personal safety, coupled with an inexhaustible supply of curiosity that drives her into the most daring situations with complete abandon. She hates the mailman. She hates other dogs. She loves my father. She seems skeptical of Chip. All in all she seems to be making the right choices. I see her prance across the kitchen with a cockroach in her mouth. She has no fear.

  Things at home remain focused on the big events. The mortgage. The baby. His recovery. Chip and I continue to do as many chores as we can, to elevate some of the burden from our mother. Chip, also, has begun to focus his attentions on helping out with all the paperwork bogging her down. These days, I often see Chip seated at the kitchen table with our mother, flipping through credit card bills and mortgage papers, conversing about which funds can be funneled into the mortgage. My brother investigates my father’s stock options. He makes phone calls to our parents’ mutual fund and learns that putting him and me through college has drained most of their savings. Seeing him take such an active role makes me even more resolute to secure a job with the well-known film company. To start pulling my own weight.

  Elissa continues to gain her own weight. Continues to mark off the days on the giant calendar. July, and she is on the downward slope now, a spiral trajectory toward the impending big bang.

  “The baby can hear my voice,” she tells me, a Twinkie in her hand.

  “What have you told it?” I ask.

  “How can I explain that to you?” she says.

  “You shouldn’t be eating that.”

  “Give me a break,” she says. “It’s one fucking Twinkie.”

  Wally and I purchase fireworks on eBay. Single-shot aerial tubes, bottle rockets, skyrock
ets, missiles, ground spinners, pinwheels and helicopters, flares, fountains, M-80s, sparklers, black snakes, strobes, tiny tanks that shoot sparks. We make plans to set them off in glorious fashion. We invite David Liebman. I ask Doug M. to bring Gabby. We tell Elissa to come, even Chip. We drive to an empty park near the Hudson. We check for cops. We light the pyrotechnics ceremoniously. We “ooh” as they ascend, “aah” as they burst in color and vanish. We wield fire and are thrilled by it. I catch Gabby’s eye. I smile at my brother.

  I point a Roman candle toward the water. Wally lights it. The wick sizzles. It goes off. Globes of bright, hot flame erupt into the night. They crest outward and sputter away before they ever hit the ground.

  << 24 >>

  Our yearly trip to Grandmother’s house in Cape Cod. A ritual observed by the Moretti family since before I was born. A week spent crammed in a tiny cottage built by my maternal grandfather in the sixties. We swim in the ocean, stroll through the mall, eat fried things from the seafloor, play minigolf, walk down Main Street, buy oversize sweatshirts embroidered with “Cape Cod.”

  I wait for a call from the well-known film company. I wait for news about the job.

  My mother is very keen on reminding everyone about the fragile state of things. “Enjoy your time here,” she warns. “We may not have the money to come next year.” Under her watchful eye, we are implored to enjoy everything. We must enjoy our ice cream cones—they may be our last. We must enjoy the beautiful weather, the sand, the boats—we may never see them again. Most importantly, we must enjoy each other—who knows where we’ll all be this time next year?

  We go to the beach at the end of Sea Street. It’s just a small inlet of the larger bay beyond, but once dusk settles and cool air blows in off the islands and the last sunbathers go home, it is the perfect place to relax. My grandmother stays back at the house boiling lobsters for dinner.