She’s hovering around the cereal aisle, I think, as I duck behind displays and make my way to the ingredients I need. But now I’ve lost her. Shit. Even if I score everything I need, I’m bound to get stuck behind someone chatty in line, and then she’ll walk up right behind me. And then we’re sunk.
I’m going to wait for the right moment and then just make a run for it.
layla
This is bad. I’m so fucked in the head that I swear I see Brett through the front window, running across the parking lot with his jacket up around his ears. It’s clearly time to just abandon my cart and go home. My ability to play at normalcy must have a limit, so I’ll come back tomorrow.
Absolutely sure that every eye in the entire place is fixed on miserable me, I sleepwalk out of there and drive away, grocery-less.
brett
Back at the ranch.
After a quick detour to a liquor store, it’s a humiliating return that I cover for by being hostile: “Here,” I say, shoving a beer and a bag of chips at Jared, “and don’t say a fucking word about the mudballs.”
He looks at the bottle. “If this were some cheap shit, I’d be tempted,” he replies. “But since you knew not to insult me, you have bought my silence.”
Apparently, about ten seconds’ worth.
“Dumbass,” he says.
I could have used a mudball, too.
• • •
Life is unfair. That’s just a fact. My sister reminds me of this Thursday, after barging into my apartment and treating the place like a hazardous waste site, which it isn’t—not yet. I mean, it could still get worse. After I list all the bad stuff that has happened to me recently, Layla and the state of my team, she says, “Life’s unfair,” and I consider it a point proven and a job well done. God bless her, shitty people skills and all.
She starts in on me then. She doesn’t bring up Layla, but I get all manner of finger-wagging about checking out, my losing team, how I’m probably not giving my players the commitment they deserve, and about adopting the diet of a twelve-year-old trapped overnight in a 7-Eleven. She has other concerns, too.
I’m tough enough to listen to about half of it, not bothering to give any defense, then I basically kick her out of the apartment. What does she know? She doesn’t know anything about my job; she’s only going by the recent losses, the burrito wrappers, and the empty Mountain Dew and Miller bottles. And the smell. There is admittedly a mild odor about the place, but I’ve called the landlord.
I’m kind of surprised things have gotten as bad as they have. I’m usually excellent at putting on a front. Out in public, I can always appear to be my commanding self. At least I could until some point during this week. I was coming home at night and just getting into bed to stare at the ceiling, true, but up until that moment I was on the field screaming until my throat bled about lapses on special teams, mental mistakes, lazy footwork, you name it. But at some point Wednesday, or maybe Tuesday, I must have been feeling particularly empty, must have gotten a little too close to choking up over a mistake—maybe my voice even cracked when I said, “Crawford, if Williams makes one more catch today, I’m going to staple you to him!”
Anyway, he looked at me carefully and said, “Sorry, Coach. I’ll try harder.”
Deron Crawford never says “Sorry” or “I’ll try harder.” And I said, “Thank you.” I never say “Thank you.” I didn’t say another word for about a half hour. Then I went home.
Frankly, the novelty of the bachelor pad wears off pretty quickly when you’re not doing anything to really enjoy being a bachelor. Being pissed off, sad, and miserable gets you so far. There are only so many times you can eat day-old (okay, I don’t know exactly how old) pizza, only so many sports highlight reels you can watch, only so many days you can not shave, go without bathing, basically live in filth, before the mere sight of yourself is repulsive.
For that reason, today I’ve woken up. I mean, I’ve been awake technically, but truly I’ve been sleepwalking. I’ve done okay with the team for the most part, but when you’re only eighty or ninety percent there, and the job requires about double that level of involvement—triple when you have a team of mostly newbies like mine—you’re shortchanging them. I missed the last coaches’ meeting, claiming the flu, but the truth was I was sitting home with the shades drawn, drinking Miller High Life. Trish pointed out that I’ve been listening to a little too much weepy chick music lately, and she’s right.
I have a job. I have a life. And now, although I’ve actually been conscious and wide-eyed since about four a.m., wallowing in self-pity—which really should be self-hate, because I brought this on myself—I can respect the notion that sometimes the world needs you more than you need it.
It’s with this fact in mind that I pick myself up and actually take a shower, which is a good thing, because as I walk to the UCCC administration building at about ten a.m. on Friday morning, I bump into Heather. And when she starts flirting with me again—we’ve been jokingly flirty since the night at Norms, at least I think she’s been joking—suddenly something comes to me: Spending time with another woman is no longer cheating. Which is kind of interesting. Especially since in addition to the ten thousand other “traditions” that Layla introduced to our family, we have the corn-maze fiasco coming up, and I’ve been dreading it.
I’m torn, because I don’t want to see Layla and yet I don’t want to abandon the family right now—especially not when she’s looking like the good kid to my bad one. Maybe if I bring a date, not only will it make the night more enjoyable, it will show Layla that she’s being ridiculous. That it’s time for her to move on as well.
“What are your thoughts on corn?” I ask Heather.
“Corn?” she repeats with a funny smile—probably due to my out-of-left-field question. “I love corn. I like it on the cob, off the cob, buttered, with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, white, yellow, creamed, popped…. I love corn.”
“That is a much more enthusiastic answer than I expected,” I admit.
“What can I say? I’m a fan. Of corn.”
“That is very good news,” I reply, and she cocks an eyebrow. “Because my family does this corn-maze thing, and it’s happening this weekend, and I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“Kind of,” I admit. “Yes.”
“A first date?”
“Yes?”
“With your family?”
“Er, weird?” I ask, realizing her point.
“Yes,” she says.
“Well, the corn maze is Sunday,” I point out. “We could have a first date tonight, so the corn extravaganza wouldn’t be it. Hell, we could even have a second date tomorrow. But that would make the corn maze our third date, and …”
I stop talking, but it’s too late.
“And technically, that’s the date where I’m supposed to put out.”
“No,” I say incredulously. “Well, yes. Technically, I believe the rule is three—five if she’s hot.”
“Charming,” she replies.
I go for broke: “So as long as you wouldn’t mind having sex for the first time in front of my family, in a corn maze …”
“No, I wouldn’t mind that at all,” she says. “Tell you what. I will take you up on a date between now and then. Tonight or Saturday, you decide. Worse comes to worst, we can always go out for burgers after your game tomorrow.” She winks. “I will subsequently decide if there will be a second date. We can take it from there.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“There’s one other thing I like about corn,” she says. “Those little things that you stick on the ends of a cob. Bonus if they look like miniature corn.”
“I could like you,” I say. Then, “That was out loud, wasn’t it?”
She nods and smiles.
Well, mystery has definitely never been my strong suit.
layla
The first of what became our annual corn-maze event—
or, as I named it, the Foster Family Maize Maze—started about six years ago. Living in L.A., you tend to get jaded. You’re so caught up in all things Los Angeles that you can miss out on some incredible traditions practiced across America. I’d only read about corn mazes, but it sounded like a fun thing that we could do as a family.
That day, I called everyone and said I had a big surprise for them. I told them to be at Casa Foster at eight a.m., to wear comfortable shoes they didn’t mind getting dirty, and to be prepared to do some walking.
We all got to the house and hopped into the SUV. The whole way there, everyone kept asking where we were going and where I was taking them, but I wouldn’t tell. I just turned the radio up louder and sang.
When we pulled up to the maze, Trish was the first to speak up.
“Are you fucking kidding me? A corn maze?” she said.
“Have you ever been to one?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t,” she replied. “By choice.”
“What the hell is a corn maze?” Brett asked.
“She kept it from you, too?” Bill said. “Good going, Lay-lay!”
“Can someone clue me in?” Scott asked. “I knew about it,” Ginny said. “I, for one, am excited. Layla told me the idea, and I thought it was wonderful.”
“Typical,” Brett said.
“Like some sick joke on the whole family,” Trish remarked.
“Cornholed,” suggested Scott, never one to let a chance slip by to be inappropriate.
“Really?” I said. “Is this that awful? Can’t you wait until we’ve at least gotten out of the car before you cry like a bunch of babies? This is supposed to be a fun day.”
“I still don’t even know what everyone’s talking about,” Scott said.
“It’s a corn maze,” I repeated, and then explained it was exactly what it sounded like. A labyrinth. A maze made up in a field of corn. It’s a game—a puzzle, really—and we’re the pieces. We’re given maps and clues, but as simple as it seems, people always end up getting lost. It’s a way for farmers to supplement their income, by hosting families as they run around like rats trying to find their way out.
“And this is supposed to be fun?” Scott said. “This is what I gave up my Sunday for?”
“Like you had other plans.” Trish laughed.
Once they settled down, we split into two groups so we wouldn’t all get lost alone and ran into the maze. There were different stations we had to find, and when we got to each post the people running the maze would give us a ticket to prove that we’d found that base and could move to the next. They gave us flags to hold, and there were tall lifeguard stations so if we got lost we could wave our flags and they would come get us. We ran around all day to the point of exhaustion. Bill, Trish, and Brett didn’t finish because it got dark, so Team Layla, Ginny, and Scott won.
We went back the next year so Bill, Trish, and Brett could try to dethrone us. They didn’t. By year three it became a tradition.
Now here we are, six years later.
Since I started the tradition, I certainly wasn’t backing out. I actually thought Brett would skip it, since he always complained about how silly it was. You can imagine my surprise when Brett not only shows up but brings a date.
“This is Heather, everyone,” he says, as he presents the woman I saw on his football field—the woman I may or may not have felt threatened by, but I told myself, Don’t be silly, Layla. Your husband loves you. He’s not interested in other women. Especially not younger blond women. With great bodies. Bodies that I could never have even if I went to the gym seven days a week. For twelve hours a day. Yet here she stands before me. At my event.
“Hello, Heather,” says Bill.
Brett’s watching me to gauge my reaction, but I won’t look his way. His eyes are burning a hole in my forehead, but I keep this frightening fake smile on my face and look everywhere but at him. So of course he has the nerve to rub it in.
“You remember Heather, right?” he asks me.
“I do,” I say. “Nice to see you again. And what a surprise.”
“Heather loves corn,” he replies.
“Don’t we all,” Bill adds.
Heather looks between us and gives a nervous laugh. “I forgot another corn thing I love,” she says to Brett. We’re all waiting with bated breath. “Corn Pops!”
Tee-hee! She loves Corn Pops! What the fuck is going on? Am I really standing here with my husband, his family, and his date? What am I supposed to do, grab the nearest scarecrow and pretend that he’s my date? Laugh with him and whisper jokes while running my hands through his straw hair?
The maize maze is definitively my stomping ground. I rack my brain to think if there could be anything more disrespectful than what Brett is doing at this very moment. I contemplate setting the whole place on fire, right then and there, and wonder if it would explode in a rain of popcorn. But then I realize that a) this isn’t a cartoon—this is my life, and b) in this life, I’m not an arsonist.
“I think we’re going to be uneven,” Scott says, as Heather’s presence makes us a group of seven. I’m already feeling uneven.
Then Trish walks up with Kimmy, a girl she’s been seeing but has yet to bring around the family. It’s a big move for Trish—and not because she’s afraid of what we’ll think of her. It’s because Trish is super-picky, and doesn’t just bring anyone around. This must mean she really likes her.
Kimmy’s a pretty girl with wavy, light brown hair, which has been fashioned with two skinny front braids tied back to make a sort-of headband. The result is a sweet hippie hairstyle that suits her. She has crystal-blue eyes and a slightly crooked smile that looks like she’s permanently in on the joke.
“Trish brought a friend, too,” Ginny points out.
“Hey, everyone, this is Kimmy,” Trish says. “Try not to be too embarrassing.”
“Same goes for me,” Brett suggests.
“Yes, the same goes for you, Brett,” Trish says. “It was mostly directed at you. Try not to be a complete bonehead.”
“No, I meant the same goes for me in terms of everyone else,” Brett says.
“I know what you meant, douche,” Trish says, and I imagine a high five with Trish but don’t actually go for it. “This is Heather,” Brett says.
Trish offers up a hello, but then there’s silence. Bill senses the general awkwardness and tension, so he claps his hands together and rubs like he’s warming them over a fire.
“So how should we divide teams?” he asks.
“I’ll swap with Mom, and Kimmy can be on our team,” Trish says. “Obviously.”
We divide up and head out.
I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact that this seems to be the first time Brett is enjoying himself at the corn maze in years, or the fact that I am so miserable. Either way, the day sucks. My senses are heightened, and everything I see, taste, hear, touch, or smell is tainted by Heather. I see a sign for the maze that says Where getting lost means finding fun, and I wish that Brett and his date had gotten lost on the way here, because their mere presence has hidden fun completely.
I end up “getting lost” myself, sneaking out of the maze and into the petting zoo, where I feed the goats and llamas and cry for about forty-five minutes. I thought being around the animals would make me feel better, but every goat I look in the eye seems to know my pain. They look sad, and I feel sad and somehow exposed. I pass a desolate pumpkin patch on my way back and think I catch Brett and Heather out of the corner of my eye but can’t bring myself to check. Have they snuck out, too? Are they in this pumpkin patch sharing a romantic moment?
I’m ill. This day is making me physically ill. I pass a scarecrow and consider stripping it of its clothing so I can put it on and spy. This is when I know it’s time to leave. When things turn farcical, I draw the line. I look around, trying to find someone to let them know I’m leaving so the family won’t think I’m lost, at least in the literal sense.
The first person I
happen upon is Bill—who seems flustered in his own right.
“Well, I can’t find Ginny,” he says.
“Way to keep track of your team,” I tease, but when I realize he’s actually concerned, I tell him I’ll help find her.
We spend the next hour looking for his wife, and as time goes on, Bill gets more and more upset—though I’m not sure what he’s so frightened of. Finally, we find Ginny taking a tour of the grounds with Girl Scout troop 64. I notice a sadness in Bill’s eyes as he reunites with her, a sense of relief yet still soaked in angst.
“Good-bye, Daisy!” she says, as she waves to her new friends. “Nice talking with you, Maddie!”
That situation resolved, I tell Bill and Ginny to say good-bye to everyone else for me. Then I take off, but I’m momentarily distracted from my own misery by whatever is going on with Bill and Ginny.
To say the day didn’t go as planned would be a gross understatement. All I can say is that I don’t ever want to eat corn, see corn, or hear about corn again for as long as I live.
And Brett is an asshole.
• • •
The next day at work I’m still seething. Is this how it’s going to be? Is he actually dating already? Is Tee-hee Heather the Corn Popper the reason he wanted to leave? I have a million questions, and I go from being angry to sad to furious to bitter, back to sad, to miserable, and then pretty much stay at miserable.
“I don’t know what he was thinking bringing her, but he’s obviously acting out,” Trish suggests. “He was looking for a reaction, and I think under the circumstances you handled yourself well.”
We’re waiting for Leo, a shar-pei that we’ve photographed before. Leo gets his portrait done every three months to update his profile on Dogbook. For the uninitiated, Dogbook is like Facebook, but for dogs. It’s an online community where dogs can post pictures, have friends, and let their friends know what’s going on in their lives. Leo has a doggie parent with way too much free time on her hands, if you couldn’t guess, but we at TLC don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Unless he’s posing for a horse dentistry ad.
Family Affair Page 17