by Jon Methven
Gopa is in a state of chaos when we arrive. Nannies and parents congregate on the front sidewalk, gaping at the media vans parked in the drop-off zone, causing the traffic to snare several blocks as security personnel argue with drivers. There are only three, but their presence causes havoc for taxis and SUVs idling toward the curb. The Channel Fourteen logo is on one van, but I do not recognize the reporter, young and affable, recording footage of the school, just-in-case filler, a follow-up to last night’s news.
Laura and Iliza distance themselves when we arrive. I cannot blame them. Since the scuffle, I have been asked by Lieutenant Misch’s people to wait near the front windows, just past the security desk, a special section where noncredentialed drivers and part-time nannies with oversized strollers congregate. Topher cannot go inside either, not until the bad vibes settle, and we keep to separate ends in Gopa purgatory, careful not to make it worse. Gus sticks by me, his geriatric impersonation so pure I am certain he will be mistaken for one of the part-timers.
Across the room, Allie weeps near consoling moms who squeeze generous dabs of antibacterial gel into palms. Harry and the lacrosse dads huddle, each with one hand pursed in the other elbow, a hand over the mouth, carbon copies of strategy and sobriety. Russ Haverly’s boat was found seventeen miles south on a Staten Island beach, having drifted there from the Lower Bay. There was no sign of foul play. Investigators believe Russ got stuck in a current and was taken out to sea. The theory is he had possibly been drinking and fell out of the boat. The body is still missing. The school issued a statement last night just after I received a call from Lieutenant Misch with more questions. Where does he dock the boat? How does a high school lacrosse coach afford it? When was the last time I was on the boat? I have not mentioned the phone call to anyone, the media vans and security officers arguing over the sidewalk real estate.
Everyone fears the worst. The children check Lustfizzle on their phones. We wear black patches with the initials RH, all we can do in the perishable state of our constant recuperation. I feel self-conscious about my patch, as if Topher and the others realize I only wear it to fit in. The biggest game of the year against Darien is coming up, an event that has virtually no impact on my life other than I must drive there to deliver the Standcakes and show Gopa unity.
In the lobby, I discuss sunscreen and parenting methods with a mother of triplets who has hired three nannies, the seven of them causing a logjam. She wears a hat to which an umbrella has been cleverly attached, which she lowers via a remote control tucked into her jacket. The umbrella hat and jacket with remote control retails for $280 on VillageShop. A modern weatherman could use one of these. I stare lustfully at the contraption as she tells me about bingo therapy.
“…and checkers therapy and quintessential Monopoly and the studio is planning to offer Twister meditation in the autumn.”
“I don’t believe I would kill my nanny, if that’s what you heard.”
“It’s a way to blend the homey-ness of board games with the madness of civilization without having to get your hands dirty and play board games yourself because who has the time anymore. They have certified college students who engineer the games and the kids just adore…”
“They’re infants. The necks don’t work. I might have killed her, I don’t know for sure anymore. She was stealing from us, opened up a credit card on VillageShop. She was having the stuff delivered next door, to the Hendersons, who are never home, long story, and reselling it online. How can they follow what’s happening with a board game?”
“Oh they know. Trust me, they know.” I have offended this mom and she is lowering the visor via remote, making eyes at the nannies that are discussing me in a foreign tongue. “Board games instill gamesmanship and skill. Why would you say something like that?”
I am constantly shocked at how much of an advantage other people have over my parenting skills. They are forever finding innovative ways to prepare their children for the broader world, whereas I carry a BB gun to bruise the skin of any would-be rapist or groper or critter. The Millers found a new studio in Brooklyn where Christopher goes to play in a controlled scrap heap, boards with nails jutting out, old PVC piping, broken pots and dishes. Rehabilitated felons, who sing and strut about their experiences, run an improvisational tap dance course in the East Village. I have the kids in kickboxing and wrestling and chess and theater and therapy for Gus and a math tutor for Iliza. But am I doing enough? Are other parents gaining a leg up on me while I stand in the lobby insulting what’s-her-name?
“Remedial Candy Land has proven benefits. Why are you smiling? Stop doing that. I’ll have you reported.”
Here come the worthy: lacrosse players, cellists, softball moms, banker dads, the honor students, the faculty, all of us parading forth. I enjoy my perch near security since everyone must pass, front row to our faux affection. We are a juggernaut of shared sanitizer and sunscreen and moisturizer, half-consumed water bottles, leftover spittle on bronzed cheeks, of collagen-infused lips colliding with perfect skin, of useless selfies of a random morning, of darlings and sweeties, of promises of Hamptons and cocktails. All the moms touch and kiss when they converse, the dads shake hands and bump fists and rub necks, collaborative foreplay.
I pick up a few juicy morsels. The committee announced the first child selected for the ECI program on the Gopa website this morning, a boy by the name of Rory Stokes. His father is Iranian, a supermarket billionaire who donated funds for the library—not that Rory did not earn the selection on his own merit. His mother, Vichian, who friends fondly refer to as “Vicious,” is complaining to other mothers about the media vans and the buildup in the lobby and the fact that there has not been an official verbal announcement about her son’s designation.
“He was the first selected,” Vicious complains loudly. She’s Malaysian, or Vietnamese, a beauty pageant winner of a forgotten geography lesson who does not wish to be lumped into an ethnic designation. “Am I just being bitchy or isn’t it important?”
It is important, the other moms confirm, kissing and handling her, because we are all frightened of the size of her lips and the rumors from the nanny chain that she once pitched a delivery boy down her front stoop for staring too long at her large feet. The nanny chain embellishes. It is important, we reason without discussing it, because her husband purchased their shitty kid a spot in the ECI program, which means there are only seventeen spots left for children without supermarket moguls in the family tree. Vicious is a customer of Russ Haverly, weekly deliveries of barbiturates and marijuana that billionaire moms are not supposed to possess. His absence is having similar effects for Vicious that I, too, am experiencing: night sweats, bad moods, perpetual hangovers—she probably does not get the painful erections. She wears dark glasses and her normally glowing skin seems patchy. There are many parents, I notice from the security lounge, suffering from lacrosse coach withdrawal.
The bunnies are a minor theme this morning, a new one born with oversized ears, pictures of the adorable critter on the Gopa website. But what the pictures do not show is that the bunny is too weak to pull its ears around and it just sits in the corner, waiting to be photographed or euthanized. The ears smell faintly of rotten basil and feces, and the one child who held it cannot seem to get the smell off her hands. Daily, a half dozen rabbits succumb to birth defects, but because we have not dealt with the problem, an additional half dozen new rabbits are born each week. The birth rate is worsening as we stand around discussing the politics.
I contemplate all this while staring at my reflection in the window; slight shadows to my creatures that I know are there, passengers who would like a turn at the wheel. A new problem drifts into the gateway. There has been a terrible accident, a man bleeding from his forehead and arm, his raincoat badly torn, the black RH patch intact. I stare at his wounds, the patch, neglecting to identify the victim who I would like to tell—it is not going to rain today.
Ray McClu
tchen sports a worried scowl, the trike hanging over his parka. The Jays are suddenly in my quarantined sector, as are the Sedlocks and Laura, Gus shaking his head and inspecting the damaged wheel. Clutch is popular with the lacrosse dads and all the mothers who read his self-help nonsense. A huge gust of “what happened” and “get him a towel” is made over these injuries that the nanny chain claims are a product of a car-bicycle fender bender.
“It was no accident,” Ray tells security. “I keep my bikes in pristine condition.”
Because of the third wheel, the proper designation is tricycle, though Ray never mentions this. A back wheel loosened this morning and he veered out of the bike lane into traffic, swiping a vehicle and landing hard against the pavement. He watches me. I shake my head and cross my arms, mime, What can you do? I cannot stop smiling. My erection is doomed to join the morning.
“Someone tampered with my bicycle,” he says. “Pisser, you were outside this morning. Did you see anyone?”
My neighbors are aware I am sleeping outdoors. Everyone awaits my explanation. Jackson and Jay were also hunting for their naked daughter this morning, so we all know who was present. “It’s a tricycle, Ray.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Stop begging.” I put a hand on his shoulder to explain. “You said someone tampered with your bicycle. It’s not a bike. It’s a tricycle.”
Ray is not his usual positive, noncombative self, the gash in his forehead having scabbed. A school nurse works balm into the wound. “It’s an urban trike, Pisser. I’m asking if you saw anyone this morning who shouldn’t have been there.”
I examine the trike, savages chortling inside, strange arrogance as I watch the blood. “A grown man on a tricycle, Ray.” I click my dry tongue too many times. “You need to start taking the shuttle with the rest of the adults.”
Nine Out Of Ten Demographics Are Not Your Demographic
There are more people at the Channel Fourteen offices than usual this morning. Whitman is in the control room with Charles Kreb, the news anchor, who is doing his first show in twenty years without his desk mate, Allison Lovato. He will be joined by Emcee Dough, a barely nubile hip-hop artist who will be rapping about the Syrian refugee crisis, stock fatigue, and ninety thousand gallons of oil that spilled in the Gulf of Mexico earlier this week. Everyone seems excited about the new format except for the traffic reporter, Melanie Trotter, who climbs out of the makeup chair and falls into my arms.
“It’s awful, just awful.” She means the departure of Allison, but it drifts into a complaint about Whitman and millennial creatures. Melanie has been weepy for weeks, and this morning makes it impossible to get her makeup correct. The smudged mascara and red eyes are the perfect look for a traffic reporter, the emotions of anyone stuck in gridlock.
I tell her everything will be okay even though I know a truck carrying mannequin parts jackknifed on the BQE causing mass confusion about fatalities, and everyone will blame Melanie when it turns out to be fiberglass. Even though I see Whitman and Lustfizzle more each day, the way they hover over the decaf coffee and green mint tea and fruit bars, and nod victoriously as they greet each other. I do not want to despise the youth movement of our organization. I accept that they are smart and energized and all types of witty. But it is the terminal optimism that shards me, the perpetual Kumbaya-ness of their message, a satirical renaissance they hope to deliver to smart phones with each digital breath. And while rapping the news might be savvy and fresh, I believe news is serious and dire and should be spoken not sung.
I fist bump Whitman and two others I have never met and take a call on my cell phone, Bill Chuck, the head of Slancy’s security. One of my neighbors filed a complaint this morning, claiming I tampered with his bicycle.
“It’s a tricycle, Bill. Not a bicycle.”
Bill sighs. “Yeah, I know. He sent pictures. Just protocol that I have to interview the accused. You don’t know anything about it then?”
“Grown men shouldn’t ride tricycles. It’s a traffic hazard to drivers. I can put the traffic reporter on to explain.” My other pocket buzzes, Tug’s phone. Melanie weeps loudly while a transgender kid fixes her hair. “And I’m busy, Bill. I can’t be bothered every time some nitwit falls off a bicycle.”
“A tricycle you mean.” We do not laugh, but we both like it. “Sorry to trouble you, Tom. Last thing. You heard about the boat?”
“I did.”
“Anything more you can tell Misch, probably help down the road. Not that I think you had anything to do with it. Just that people talk.”
My pocket buzzes and Whitman waves and Melanie howls. I am vaguely aware something important is happening around me as I lean into the phone. “Something I heard the other day,” I say. “Russ Haverly. Might have been dealing drugs at the school.”
“No shit?” This excites Bill who has a bland job watching security cameras. Drugs and murder he remembers from his precinct days. “What do you got?”
“Mothers. Nannies. I don’t know much, just something I heard. You didn’t get it from me.”
We hang up. I answer the other phone, Angela from VillageShop, raspy and impatient. She has a new list of items that were ordered on Tug’s phone and sent to the Hendersons: a power saw, a termite colony, some ibuprofen, a bicycle repair kit.
“You sound sick,” I say.
“Picked up the flu. It’s going around.” We’ve lost the playful banter. “Do you own a bicycle, Mister Reynolds?”
I do own a bicycle. I just have no idea where it is. “What’s this about?”
“The bicycle kit you had delivered to the address. It’s near the house of a member of a VillageShop school community who was injured in a bike accident this morning.”
It was not a bike accident. It was an urban trike accident. “Was anyone hurt?”
“A bit, yes.” Whitman and the others are trying to get my attention, a raucous across the room. “It could have been serious. We need to meet,” she says.
“I’m afraid I have to run, Angela.”
“How’s tonight work?”
“Not good.”
“Your place after dark.”
“No, that won’t work at all.” Why would she even suggest my home? Do minimum wage retail employees make house calls? Things are strange enough without my VillageShop representative wandering around the backyard. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea.”
Angela raises her voice. The distraction across the room perseveres into my realm. “I know who you are,” she says. “I know where you live, Tom.”
I want to be stunned but there is no time. A strange phenomenon has enveloped the Channel Fourteen newsroom. When I reach the epicenter, Whitman and the others smile and encourage me to step forward to the source of the disruption. She is introduced as Penelope Garcia, my new weather assistant, and this is how I know my career is nearly complete. Penelope is clothed in a pink dress so tight it holds her remarkable breasts and buttocks perfectly still, a pose learned from a pageant or runway. Regardless if she read me last year’s weather or the wrong answers to tomorrow’s crossword, I would hang onto every syllable, as will our viewers, morning therapy before the workday. Worse, she poses in front of my weather center that has unironically been renamed, in neon blue letters, THE PISSER REPORT.
“What do you think?” Whitman asks. Everyone waits for my response as though this Columbian woman is a gift for me, new golf clubs, a handsome washer-dryer combo. She is, in a way, a retirement gift.
“The girl or the sign?”
“I’m Penelope Garcia,” she says in perfect pitch.
“Everything.” Whitman ushers me onto the stage. “See, Pisser, the weather is changing. Strange patterns, dire expectations, events with no historical basis, end of times. You dig?”
“I should mention I’ve correctly predicted the weather for thirty-eight straight days. I’m sure if we check
ed it would be some kind of record.”
Whitman waves it off. “No one watches our weather report. Besides, I’m not talking about accuracy. I’m talking about shaking things up. Making the weather an event.”
“An event,” I say, staring at the sign with my nickname. “It seems vulgar for a news segment.”
“Pisser is a colloquialism for a rainy day.”
“As in, ‘It’s a real pisser out there,’” someone adds.
“That’s one of your catchphrases. She won’t be able to use any of your catchphrases,” Whitman says, reassuring me.
“I’m Penelope Garcia,” she reminds me.
“Twenty-nine percent of our viewership is Hispanic,” Whitman says. “With her background and your predictions, this will be the go-to place for weather events.”
“Hispanics.” I slap him on his weenie back and try to contain my hatred of my own evolution, that Whitman and Penelope and all of them will forget about me moments after I depart. They do not need me. They need and want this twenty-two-year-old reading cue cards of weather patterns plagiarized from more knowledgeable reporters, posing in front of a graphical map of Manhattan. Melanie weeps inconsolably, which means we’ll be delaying the traffic report again. Whitman offers a sympathetic hand on my shoulder that feels suspicious.