by Dave Eggers
The place is ours now, but it’s a mess.
We discuss the problem.
“You suck,” I say.
“No, you suck,” he says.
“No, you suck.”
“Nooooo, you suck.”
“Well, you suckity suck suck.”
“What?”
“I said, you—“
“That’s so stupid.”
We are on the couch, surveying. We are arguing over who has to clean what. More important, we are debating who should have done the work in the first place, before there was this much work to do. There was a time, I am reminding Toph, when a condition of his allowance was the completion of a bare minimum of household chores.
“Allowance?” he says. “You never give me my allowance.”
I rethink my strategy.
The coffee table is our home’s purgatory, the halfway point for everything eaten or worn or broken. It is covered with papers and books, two plastic plates, a half-dozen dirty utensils, an opened Rice Krispie bar, and a Styrofoam container containing french fries that last night one of us decided were “too thick and squishy” and were left uneaten. There is a package of pretzels that has been opened by the one person in the house who can’t open bags properly and so cuts holes in the middle with steak knives. There are at least four basketballs in the room, eight lacrosse balls, a skateboard, two backpacks, and a suitcase, still partially packed, which has not moved in four months. Next to the couch, on the floor, are three glasses that once held milk and now hold its hardened remains. The family room and its perpetual state of disrepair is the problem that we are attempting to resolve.
I have just delivered a State of the Family Room Address, sweeping in scope, visionary in strategy, inspirational to one and all, and the issue has now moved to committee. And though the committee has been looking at it from many angles, addressing matters of both the provenance of the various elements of its unkemptness and matters of precisely who would be best suited to carry out the committee’s recommendations, we are stalemated, solution-wise.
“But it’s mostly your stuff,” he says.
He’s right.
“Immaterial!” I say.
Early in the negotiations, I, the senior committee member, had proposed a plan whereby the junior committee member, Toph, being young and in need of valuable life lessons and no doubt eager to prove his mettle to his peers, would clean the living room not only this time, but also on a regular basis, perhaps twice a week, in exchange for not only $2 a week in tax-free allowance, but also the guarantee that if all expressed duties are performed satisfactorily and on time, he will not be beaten senseless in his sleep by the senior committee member. The junior committee member, insolent and obviously lacking both good sense and any notion of bipartisanship, does not like this plan. He dismisses it out of hand.
“No way” is what he said.
However, with great charity and in the spirit of compromise, the senior member immediately proposed an altered plan, a generous plan whereby Toph, being so wonderfully youthful and in need of diversion and exercise, would clean the house on a regular basis, now only once a week instead of twice, in exchange for not $2 but now $3 ($3!) a week in tax-free allowance, and along with the guarantee that if all such cleaning duties are performed satisfactorily and on time, the junior committee member will not be buried to his neck in the backyard and left helpless, able only to scream as hungry dogs tear the flesh from his head. Again, showing how bullheaded and shortsighted he can be, Toph passes on the proposal, this time without comment—only a roll of the eyes—and his refusal to consider any reasonable plan at all is what prompts the charged exchange detailed previously and which continues presently:
“You know how much you suck?” I ask Toph.
“No, how much?” he answers, feigning boredom.
“A lot,” I say.
“Oh, that much?”
We are at an impasse, two parties with the same goal but, seemingly, no way to reconcile our ideas about getting there.
“You know what we need?” Toph asks.
“What?” I say.
“A robot maid.”
None of it is his fault. Though he’s relatively neat—brought up in Montessori, all those careful children and their butcher-block cubbyholes—I’m converting him slowly, irrevocably, to my way, the slovenly way, and the results are getting a little gruesome. We have an ant problem. We have an ant problem because we have not yet grasped the difference between paper mess and food mess. We leave food out, we leave food on the plates in the sink, and when I finally turn myself to the task of washing the dishes, I must first wash away all the ants, those tiny black ones, off the plates and silverware and down the drain. Then we spray the ant column, which extends from the sink, across the counter, down the wall and through the floorboards, with Raid, which of course we hide when guests come—oh, this is Berkeley.
Certain things get us motivated. One day, his friend Luke, all of eleven, walked in and said: “Jesus. How can you live like this?” And for a week or so afterward we cleaned thoroughly, set schedules of maintenance, bought supplies. But we soon lost our inspiration and settled back in, allowing things to fall and stay fallen. If we throw and miss the garbage can, the item, usually remnants of a fruit item, stays where it lands, until a few weeks later when someone, Beth or Kirsten, making a big show of how appalled they are, picks it up and throws it out. They worry for us. I worry for us. I worry that any minute someone—the police, a child welfare agency, a health inspector, someone—will burst in and arrest me, or maybe just shove me around, make fun of me, call me bad names, and then take Toph away, will bring him somewhere where the house is kept clean, where laundry is done properly and frequently, where the parental figure or figures can cook and do so regularly, where there is no running around the house poking each other with sticks from the backyard.
The running around hitting each other with things is pretty much the only thing we’re both interested in, and thus the rest of our operation suffers. We scrape through every day blindly, always getting stumped on something we should know—how to plunge a toilet, how to boil corn, his Social Security number, the date of our father’s birthday—such that every day that he gets to school, that I get to work and back in time for dinner, each day that we cook and eat before nine and he goes to bed before eleven and doesn’t have blue malnourished-looking rings around his eyes like he did for all those months last year—we never figured out why—feels like we’ve pulled off some fantastic trick—an escape from a burning station wagon, the hiding of the Statue of Liberty.
By mid-fall, we settle into something like a schedule. In the morning, a little after I go to bed, Toph wakes up at, say, 3 or 4 or 4:30 in the morning, so as to allow ten minutes to shower, ten minutes to dress, half an hour to make and eat breakfast and finish his homework, and at least three and a half, four hours for cartoons. At 8:45, he wakes me up. At 8:50 he wakes me up again. At 8:55 he wakes me up one more time and, while yelling at him because he’s late, I drive him to school. I park our little red car next to the school, on the side I have been told, in four separate flyers and one personal note, is not to be used for the loading or unloading of children. Then I grab a piece of paper from his backpack and compose a note.
Dear Ms. Richardson,
I am sorry Chris is late this morning. I could make something up about an appointment or a sickness, but the fact is that we woke up late. Go figure.
Best,
Brother of Chris
We are always late, always half-done. All school forms need to be sent to me twice, and I have to hand them in late. Bills are paid in ninety days minimum. Toph is always squeezed onto sports teams late, and exceptions must be made—I am never sure whether our incompetence derives from our situation, or just my lack of organization—though of course I publicly blame the former. Our relationship, at least in terms of its terms and its rules, is wonderfully flexible. He has to do certain things for me because I am his parent,
and I have to do certain things for him. Of course, when I am called upon to do something I don’t want to do, I do not have to do it, because I am not, actually, his parent. When something doesn’t get done, we both shrug, because technically, neither of us is responsible, being just these two guys, brothers maybe, but we hardly even look alike, making duty even more questionable. But when someone has to be blamed, he allows me to finger him, and when he resists, I only need to look at him that certain way, that way that says “We are partners, here, little jerk, and yesterday, when I was exhausted, and sick with pinkeye, you wanted to get some of those Magic cards, absolutely had to have them for the next day, because everyone was bringing new cards in to show during lunch, and because I was afraid that you’d be unpopular and would be cast out for being a near-orphan and having funny ears and living in a rental and would grow up with an interest in guns and uniforms, or worse, I’ll find you under the covers reading Chicken Soup for the Prepubescent Soul and lamenting your poor lot, I got dressed and went to that comics store that’s open ‘til eight, and we got two packs of cards and one of them had a hologram in it, and you were the envy of all, and your life continued on its recent course of ease, of convenience, of relative stardom, of charmed bliss”—and he relents.
Parked in front of the school, I try to get him to give me a hug. I reach my arm around him, pull him near and say what I find myself saying too often:
“Your hat smells like urine.”
“No it doesn’t,” he says.
It does.
“Smell it.”
“I’m not going to smell it.”
“You should wash it.”
“It doesn’t smell.”
“It does.”
“Why would it smell of urine?”
“Maybe you peed on it.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t say that. I told you not to say that.”
“Sorry.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t sweat so much.”
“Why?”
“It must be your sweat that’s making it smell like urine.”
“Bye.”
“What?”
“Bye. I’m already late.”
“Fine. Bye.”
He gets out. He has to knock on the school’s door to get in, and when the door opens, the secretary tries to give me the customary dirty look but now as always I am not watching, cannot see her, no. Toph disappears inside.
On my way to whatever temping assignment I have that day or week, usually somewhere in the sweltering (Far) East Bay, I muse idly about home schooling. I have been lamenting all the time he is there, at school, being taught God knows what, away from me. I calculate that his teachers see him, on a daily basis, as much as or more than I do, and I am convinced there is something fundamentally wrong with this situation; a jealousy creeps over me, of his school, his teachers, the parents who come in and help...
For weeks I’ve been working for a geological surveying company, re-creating topographical maps, line by line, with archaic Macintosh drawing programs. It’s monotonous, but also soothing and meditative, the utter lack of thinking necessary, no worry possible in the utter safety of life there, in their immaculate Oakland office, with its water coolers and soda machines and soft, quiet carpet. While temping there are breaks, and lunch, and one can bring a Walkman if one so desires, can take a fifteen-minute break, walk around, read— It’s bliss. The temp doesn’t have to pretend that he cares about their company, and they don’t have to pretend that they owe him anything. And finally, just when the job, like almost any job would, becomes too boring to continue, when the temp has learned anything he could have learned, and has milked it for the $18/hr and whatever kitsch value it may have had, when to continue anymore would be a sort of death and would show a terrible lack of respect for his valuable time—usually after three or four days—then, neatly enough, the assignment is over. Perfect.
In her sunglasses and new Jeep, Beth picks Toph up from school, and he spends the afternoon at her little place, sharing her futon, the two of them studying side by side, until I get home. At that point, Beth and I do our best to fight about something vital and lasting—“You said six o’ clock” / “I said six thirty” / “You said six”/ “Why would I have said six?”—and once we have done so, she leaves us to our dinner.
Which we wouldn’t bother with if we didn’t have to. Neither Toph nor I, though raised by our mother thirteen years apart, ever developed any interest in food, and much less in cooking—both of our palates were stunted at five, six years old, at fruit rolls and plain hamburgers. And though we daydream aloud about the existence of a simple pill, one pill a day, that would solve our daily dietary requirements, I recognize the importance of cooking regularly, though I have no idea why cooking regularly is important. So we cook about four times a week, for us a heroic schedule of operation. This is the menu from which we choose, with almost all dishes modeled closely after those which our mother, while still cooking more varied and robust meals for our siblings and father, prepared specially for us, each of us at one time her youngest:
1. The Saucy Beefeater
(Sirloin strips, sliced and sauteed in Kikkoman-brand soy sauce, cooked until black, served with tortillas and eaten by hand, the tortilla being torn into small pieces, each small piece being used to envelope one, two, maybe three but no more than three beef fragments at a time. Served with potatoes, prepared in the French manner, with oranges and apples, sliced the only logical way—first in half, width-wise, then lengthwise, ten slices per—and served in a bowl, on the side.)
2. The Saucy Chicken
(Sliced chicken breasts, sauteed in Kikkoman soy sauce, cooked until tangy, almost crispy, and served with tortillas and eaten by hand in the manner described above. Accompanied with potatoes, served in the French manner—which it should be mentioned are exclusively Ore-Ida brand Crispers! frozen french fries, they being the only one of their species that actually become crispy during their oven-time. Also with sliced oranges and apples, served on the side.)
3. The Crunchy Chicken
(Courtesy of Church’s Fried Chicken, drive-through, at San Pablo and Gilman. White meat insisted on, along with biscuits, mashed potatoes, and added to, at home, with a small green salad of iceberg lettuce and one sliced cucumber. No dressing.)
4. The Crumbling Wall
(Hamburger, prepared medium well, with bacon and barbecue sauce. Courtesy of that place on Solano, where, it should be mentioned, they use much too much barbecue sauce, which anyone should know has the almost immediate effect of soaking the bun, the bun becoming like oatmeal, inedible, the burger ruined, all in a matter of minutes— so quick that even when the burger is picked up and patrons attempt to save the bun (“Separate them! Quick! Get the bun away from the sauce! Now scrape! Scrape!”), it’s always too late, necessitating the keeping, at home, of a stash of replacement buns, which are then toasted, heavily, to provide maximum resistance to the sauce’s degenerative effects. Served with potatoes of the French kind, and fruit, as above.
5. The Mexican-Italian War
(Tacos: Ground beef sauteed in Prego spaghetti sauce (Traditional style), served with tortillas, but without beans, salsa, tomatoes, cheese, guacamole, and whatever that white creamy substance is that is sometimes found on the dish’s inferior, less pure incarnations. On the side: Pillsbury brand crescent rolls and iceberg salad. No dressing.)
6. [We didn’t actually name any of these meals. Would we seem cooler, or somehow less cool, had we done so? i am thinking less cool.}
(Pizza, served with pepperoni. Tombstone, Fat Slice, Pizza Hut, or Domino’s, if the price cannot be resisted. With a ready-made small green salad.)
7. The Old Man and the Sea
(Mrs. Paul’s frozen fried clams, one package each ($3.49—not cheap), served with Crispers!, crescent rolls, and sliced oranges and apples. Or sometimes cantaloupe.)
8. Gavin MacLeod and Charo
(For him: Grilled cheese served with one slice
of Kraft American cheese set in middle of two pieces of seeded Jewish rye, toasted in pan and cut diagonally. For other him: Quesadillas—one slice of Kraft American cheese, between one tortilla, prepared in skillet. With sliced honeydew.)
(NOTE: no spices are available, except oregano, which is shaken, sparingly, onto two items: a) pepperoni pizza; and b) sliced Jewish rye bread, which is folded around oregano, a la Tufnel. No vegetables are available, except carrots, celery, cucumbers, green beans and iceberg lettuce, which are all served raw and only raw. Unavailable is food that swims in its own excrement. Pasta is not available, especially not that regurgitated mess known as lasagna. Further, all such foods, those containing more than two or three ingredients mixed together indiscriminately, including all sandwiches except salami, are not chewed, but eschewed. All meals are served with a tall glass of 1% milk, with the gallon jug resting on the floor next to the table, for convenient refills. Alternative beverages are not available. Anything not on the menu is not available. Any complaints will be handled quickly, and with severity.)
“Hey, I need your help,” I say, when I need his help cooking.
“Okay,” he says, and then helps out with the cooking.
Sometimes we sing while we are cooking. We sing regular words, words about pouring the milk or getting the spaghetti sauce, though we sing them in opera-style. We can sing opera-style, too. It is incredible.
Sometimes, while cooking, we have sword fights using wooden spoons or sticks that we bring into the house for such occasions. It is an unsaid mission of mine, the source of which is sometimes clear and sometimes not, to keep things moving, to entertain the boy, to keep him on his toes. For a while we would chase each other around the house, mouths full of water, threatening to spit. Of course, neither of us would have ever thought of actually spitting a mouthful of water at the other inside the house, until one night, when I had him cornered in the kitchen, I just went ahead and did it. Things have been devolving ever since. I have stuck half a cantaloupe into his face. I have rubbed a handful of banana onto his chest, tossed a glassful of apple juice into his face. It’s an effort, I’m guessing, to let him know, if it weren’t already obvious, that as much as I want to carry on our parents’ legacy, he and I will also be doing some experimenting. And constantly entertaining, like some amazing, endless telethon. There is a voice inside me, a very excited, chirpy voice, that urges me to keep things merry, madcap even, the mood buoyant. Because Beth is always pulling out old photo albums, crying, asking Toph how he feels, I feel I have to overcompensate by keeping us occupied. I am making our lives a music video, a game show on Nickelodeon—lots of quick cuts, crazy camera angles, fun, fun, fun It’s a campaign of distraction and revisionist history— leaflets dropped behind enemy lines, fireworks, funny dances, magic tricks. Whassat? Lookie there! Where’d it go?