by Lance Rubin
I will be doing improv, just like two of my all-time heroes, Amy Poehler and Tina Fey.
More time with Leili, who I hardly get to hang out with (see: heretofore-mentioned extracurriculars).
It’s run by Mr. Martinez, who is twenty-four and joined the faculty last year as an English teacher. Leili is a little bit in love with him, and though I find her crush unsettling, I also know she’s a strong judge of character.
They might have snacks at rehearsals. (I remember Leili mentioning once that Mr. Martinez brought gummy worms.)
CONS
The idea of performing in front of people is nauseating, and I promised myself I would never ever do it again.
The pros outnumber the cons, but that one con is very con-vincing. (Sorry.)
I do know that once I tell my dad, I’ll probably have more clarity on all this. Russ Arthur Friedman is the funniest person I know and my biggest fan. He’s the one who got me into comedy in the first place, showing me old Abbott and Costello routines (they’re the guys who did “Who’s on First?” and if you don’t know what that is, you need to google it, like, right now) and I Love Lucy instead of Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer. My dad used to be an actor and a comedian, but he gave all that up when I was born so he could be the stay-at-home parent. By that point, my mom, Dana Melissa Teich Friedman, was the main moneymaker, with a high-powered marketing job. When she and my dad met in college, she’d been an actor like him, but she’d abandoned that to get her MBA. (“We shouldn’t both have impossible creative dreams,” she’d apparently said. She’s a very pragmatic person.)
Anyway, one of my earliest memories is sitting on the couch with my dad watching Lucille Ball advertise Vitameatavegamin (“It’s so tasty, too!”) and being highly alarmed that he couldn’t breathe. It turned out he was laughing, but I had no idea what the hell was happening. He saw how alarmed I was, and that made him laugh harder, which made me start crying. “No, Win, I’m happy,” he said. “I’m laughing.” Which flicked on a lightbulb in my three-year-old brain, and I started laughing too. It’s kind of funny, when you think about it, that my first memory of comedy didn’t involve laughing at the comedian, but at someone else’s laughter. There’s some deep philosophical wisdom there, though I have no idea what it is.
I know my dad will be into the idea of me joining the improv troupe—he’s always saying the Bat Mitzvah Incident is worse in my head than it actually was in person (untrue) and that I should give performing another try—so I guess it’s not clarity I’m looking for so much as the look of approval when I tell him. The huge smile that lights up his face will be the last push I need to get over the crippling doubt lodged in my stomach like the sword in the stone. Dad is the only one who can pull it out. I’m sure of this.
It’s only after I get off the bus, make the six-minute walk home, and find the front door locked and garage door closed that I remember it’s Wednesday, one of Dad’s class days. When I was still little, he started teaching theater and playwriting to children aged four to seven at a local kids’ gym called Tumble ’n’ Play. He’d gotten a bit stir-crazy taking care of me every day, and this was supposed to “scratch the ol’ performing itch.” It was only a couple of classes a week at first, me at home with an old lady babysitter named Irene. (I’ve seen pictures; she looks deranged. I can’t believe Mom and Dad were okay leaving me with her.) By the time I started going to preschool, though, Dad’s classes had gotten more and more popular (because he’s amazing), and over time, he’s expanded to doing about ten a week. The kids freaking love him, which is no surprise; he bounces around and does funny voices and regularly blows their minds by revealing to them the depths of their own creative powers. I took his class all four years I could, and I felt so lucky. I knew how jealous the other kids must have been that Mr. Russ wasn’t just my teacher, he was my dad.
I’m disappointed I now have to wait to talk to him, but I will never argue with having the house to myself. I grab a bag of Fudge Stripes from the pantry, crack open a Cran-Raspberry LaCroix, and sit at the kitchen table, where I take out my phone and turn on an old episode of 2 Dope Queens. By the time I saw one of their HBO specials and became obsessed with them, the podcast had already ended. But listening my way through the archive of past episodes has become my favorite thing. Jessica Williams and Phoebe Robinson have the best chemistry. Like, you can tell they’re actually close friends, which is part of what makes them so hilarious to listen to. I keep telling Leili and Azadeh we should start a podcast. I haven’t convinced them yet.
I shove cookies in my mouth and laugh at Phoebe referencing her U2 obsession for the billionth time, and before I know it, I’ve listened to two episodes, and it’s four-thirty. I should probably dig into some of my homework—my English teacher, Mr. Novack, just assigned this book called Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which doesn’t seem funny at all—but first I grab the new New Yorker off the counter and flip to the contents page so I can see who wrote this week’s “Shouts & Murmurs.” My heart does a little leap. It’s a Megan Amram! She wrote for Parks and Recreation, and then The Good Place, and she’s amazing on Twitter, and her pieces are some of the only ones that get me LOLing. This week’s, about the president shopping on Amazon, is no exception. She makes it seem so easy, but I know it’s not; I’ve been working for over a year now on a piece about how depressing it is to be a pizza box. Dad read a draft and said that though it wasn’t quite there yet, it did make him feel very bad for pizza boxes. So that’s something, I guess.
I suddenly remember the ideas I daydreamed up during US history for my Parks and Rec script, so I open my laptop. In my episode, Leslie Knope has a new friend who she really likes in real life but absolutely despises on social media (this may or may not be based on a girl I know from summer camp) (Rebekah Turteltaub). Obviously I’m not going to be able to do anything with it professionally—Parks and Rec has been off the air for a while now—I’m just trying to build my chops. If you’re going to be a comedy writer for TV, you have to learn to adapt to different voices. You should read my I Love Lucy spec script, where Lucy goes to Costco for the first time.
I’m so immersed in the scene I’m writing (an argument between Leslie and Ben about whether or not it’s okay to unlike a pic after accidentally liking it) that I don’t hear that my parents are home until they’re in the kitchen with me.
“Hey,” my mom says, holding a plastic bag, my dad trailing behind her. A peek at the microwave tells me it’s 6:05, which makes sense for Dad, but not Mom, who usually isn’t home on weeknights till at least seven. “We brought dinner from Valeria’s.”
“Whoa, nice!” Mexican from Valeria’s is even more delicious when it’s unexpected. “They let you out of work way early.”
“Oh,” Mom says, glancing at Dad, then back at me. “Yeah. I wrapped up everything I needed to do earlier than usual.”
“Sweet! You guys never get home at the same time.”
Mom again shoots Dad a look I can’t decipher, but he’s not paying attention, instead peering down at the junk mail on the counter as if he’s never seen a more fascinating stack of documents.
“You okay, Skipper?” I ask. It’s one of my nicknames for him. I don’t remember how it started.
He doesn’t respond.
“Russ,” Mom says. “Win’s asking you a question.”
“Hey!” Dad says, jolting back to attention. “Sorry. I’m great. Super. Splendid. How’re you, Banana?” One of his nicknames for me. For a few months of my toddlerhood, it was the only food I would eat.
“Also splendid. I actually am—”
“Win, would you mind grabbing us some silverware?” Mom interrupts. I don’t even think she means to, but she has a propensity for buzz-killing.
“Sure,” I say, trying not to seem as peeved as I am. “I will grab that silverware good.”
“Thanks,” Mom
says as she takes off her long brown jacket and drapes it over one of the stools near the counter. “And plates.”
“And if you wouldn’t mind building us a new table while you’re at it,” Dad says, “that’d be great.”
“No prob.” I smile, closing the silverware drawer with my hip and carrying forks and knives to the table (this is an instance where having sporks wouldn’t make much of a difference). “I’ll actually build you a whole new kitchen.”
“Oh, wonderful, thanks,” Dad says, standing at the counter filling glasses of water from the Brita.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Mom says, “but it sounds mean.” She doesn’t always get our jokes.
“It’s not, it’s actually incredibly generous. Winnie’s offered to build us not only a new table but an entirely new kitchen.”
“Hardy har,” Mom says, “because it’s so hard to help set the table.” She unpacks the to-go containers, identifying each one and steering it to its rightful spot. I grab the plates. “We got you chicken mole tacos, Win. Hope that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right!” I’d be pissed if they hadn’t. “Thanks, Mom.” As Dad sets down the last water-filled glass, I take my usual seat, transferring my tacos from container to plate with zero sauce spillage (I’m a freaking all-star).
Dad sits down next, and I’m thrown for a moment as I notice how tightly he grips the back of the chair, how much concentration he’s applying to the simple act of sitting down. Dad’s had some weird health stuff going on over the past year—a hoarse voice, tingly hands, stiff legs—but he and Mom went to a neurologist this summer who said it wasn’t anything to be that worried about, which was a huge relief. Something about Dad just now does seem concerning, though.
“Didn’t your parents ever teach you it’s not nice to stare?” Dad asks, and I look away, trying to play it off like I’d just been zoning out. I run my fingers through my hair to put it into a ponytail, but I don’t have a hair tie on me.
“Guess they never got around to that one,” I say, letting go of my hair.
“Shame on them.”
“All right,” Mom says as she sits. “Let us eat.”
I stare down at my tacos—they’re stunning—and get ready to hit my parents with the Improv Troupe news.
“Could you pass the beans, Russ?” Mom asks, gesturing to the family-style aluminum container practically overflowing with them.
I’m tempted to make some kind of fart joke—and if that’s not an indication that I’m feeling loose and in a good mood, I don’t know what is—but I decide to stay on course. “So, I actually have some interesting news.”
“Ooh la la,” Dad says, a second before the wobbly aluminum tin of black beans topples off his palms and lands upside down on the table. “Shit,” he says. Bean juice seeps out from under the sides.
“Russ,” Mom hisses under her breath, as if he’d doused the table with beans intentionally. She gets up with a huff and grabs an entire roll of paper towels from the counter.
“Guess I spilled the beans,” Dad says, somewhat sheepishly.
I laugh. Mom doesn’t.
“Sorry,” he adds.
“It’s fine.” Mom scoops up handfuls of beans with a paper towel.
“I’ll take one,” I say, reaching across the table for the roll.
“No, it’s fine, I got it,” Mom says, seeming angrier than the situation demands. She overreacts sometimes. I guess part of why she’s angry is that Dad has dropped a couple of things recently—carton of OJ, pint of Ben & Jerry’s—but so what?
“So this is how it’s gonna be?” Mom says to Dad without looking at him.
Dad looks down at the table, then back at her.
“People spill things sometimes, Mom,” I say, jumping to his defense because come on, lady. “I think we’re gonna survive.”
“How many things have to happen before you decide it’s worth telling her?” Mom asks.
Dad is smiling and shaking his head, more defensive than amused, and it suddenly feels like this is about more than beans.
“Tell who? Me?” I ask. “Tell me what?”
“Well, obviously I’ll be telling her now,” Dad says, “thanks to that graceful setup.”
“She needs to know what’s happening, Russ.” What’s happening? “This isn’t a joke.”
“I know that, Dana. I’m the one living it,” Dad says. “I just wanted to…” He looks at me, sighs, and smiles. “So, Win…Sorry to be speaking so cryptically in front of you…I, uh…Well, you remember I went to that new neurologist right before you went to camp…”
“Yeah,” I say, the only word I can muster as a cloud of dread inches forward above us, blocking out the kitchen light.
“Right. So, I actually…It seems like I have some kind of neurodegenerative disease.”
“Okay,” I say, not at all sure what to make of that.
“And it’s possible, though not definite, that I might…”
“Just tell her, Russ,” Mom says.
“That it might be ALS,” he says. “I might have ALS.”
4
“What do you mean might?” I ask.
It’s hard to know how to react because, gotta be honest, other than knowing it’s bad enough to inspire hundreds of thousands of people to pour buckets of ice water over their heads, I’m not entirely sure what ALS is.
“It means I could have it, but it’s not definite,” Dad says, totally straight-faced. “That’s what the word might means.” He breaks into a smile.
“Russ,” Mom says, cocking her head to the side disapprovingly, hair swinging down below her shoulder.
But the fact that he’s able to joke is an immense relief to me, pulling me back from whatever abyss I might have been tempted to stare down into.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dad says. “I say might because ALS can only be diagnosed by ruling out everything else it could be.”
“Have they ruled out everything else it could be?” I ask.
“I mean,” Dad says, lifting and dropping his shoulders, “more or less. But.” He stares down at his burrito.
“Dr. Yu sounded pretty sure about it, Russ,” Mom says before looking back at me. “We just had another appointment today. In the city.”
“Oh,” I say. “Today?”
“That’s the real reason I’m home early.”
“Wait, I don’t get it. How long have you guys known Dad might have ALS? Did you just find out today? Because right before I left for camp you had that appointment where the doctor said it was nothing to worry about.”
Mom and Dad are silent. Mom takes an aggressive sip of water.
“Yeah,” Dad says, sounding genuinely guilty, “that’s not actually what the neurologist said at that appointment.”
My jaw drops, the defining feature of my What?! face. I’ve always believed the only lies that are okay are the ones that end in a surprise party. And even those are kind of sketchy.
“I know, I know.” Dad runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry we misled you, but we definitely didn’t know for sure, and we didn’t want it to ruin your fun.”
I can’t believe this. I always tell him pretty much everything, and he can’t even be honest about a serious disease he might have?
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” he says. “It’s my fault, Mom’s wanted to tell you for a while.”
Mom nods, like Hell yeah I have.
My brain can’t catch up to the present moment, doesn’t know how to process it. Should I be scared? Should I be upset? Should I be angry that they’ve been keeping this from me?
For simplicity’s sake, I go with Option C.
“I mean, you should have told me either way,” I say.
Mom lifts her eyebrows at Dad, like Told you so.
“I know,” Dad says. “I really am sorry. But, in my defense, you haven’t been completely in the dark. You’ve known I’ve been going to doctors this whole past year, trying to figure out what was going on…”
“Yeah, but…” He has a point. I have known that. It was Hanukkah almost a year ago when Dad found himself struggling to light a match to get the menorah going.
“Need help, big guy?” Mom had asked.
“I got this,” Dad had laughed. But he couldn’t strike the match strongly enough to make a flame.
“Come on, let me try,” Mom finally said, easily getting the match lit, much to our collective dismay.
“I think I did something to it playing basketball,” Dad said, flexing his hand and staring at it, as if it were an old pal who had betrayed him out of nowhere.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mom said. “I know it feels like the end of the world that a woman could do something a man couldn’t, but you’ll be okay. Now let’s do the blessing before the entire candle melts.”
I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but then in the following weeks, Dad’s hand remained wonky. One morning he was writing a grocery list and kept stopping because “the pen felt weird.” I made some stupid joke about all my pens feeling weird around me, and that turned into a bit, and it left my mind.
By the time January of this year rolled around, the hand was still weird, so Mom forced Dad to go to a sports doctor to see if he should be wearing a splint or something. He did come home with a splint, but the doctor said he might want to go to a neurologist, too, just to make sure nothing else was going on.
Dad didn’t want to, but then he developed this hoarse voice, which seemed like a cold or a sore throat until it refused to go away. So off to the neurologist he and Mom went, then to a few other doctors, and nobody could really pin down what it was. Dad was getting tired of “being a cog in the medical complex,” so that was it for a while. Mom and Dad stopped talking about his symptoms, which seemed worse some weeks than others, and I guess I just got so used to it, it didn’t register anymore.