The City of Dreams -- Part 21

[Been too long since a post, I know. Fat Tony is, however, in a state I can feel reasonably happy with, I have query letters out to a few agents, we're still hopeful about Pete and The Dog, and I'm finally writing again. I'm learning to stick the whole query process and the waiting-and-hoping-for-an-email-so-badly-I-dream-about-it-multiple-times-in-a-night thing--putting all that in a box so I can take the time to write.

[So here is more. The story needed something a little lighter during the daytime. I hope Perry's Dad was good for that. Enjoy.]


Sook and Mike had a meeting for yearbook staff the next day, so Brie and I ate lunch alone in the choir room. Well, as alone as you can get in the choir room.
"That peanut butter?" asked Brie.
"I like peanut butter," I said.
"What do you like about it?"
"It's easy to make."
She looked at me, like she was expecting something more. I took another bite and looked back.
"Is that it?"
"That's it," I said.
"Not that it's your favorite, or it tastes good, or anything else?"
"Nothing else."
"How do you survive?" asked Brie.
I shrugged. "Apparently, I survive on peanut butter."
"Okay," said Brie, sitting up onto her knees, "tell me this: what's your favorite food?"
"Pizza," I said.
"Why?"
"You can buy it frozen, or order it."
"And?" prompted Brie.
"And what?"
"And it tastes good."
"Of course," I said. "Otherwise it wouldn't be my favorite."
"But you just said you like it for the same reason you like peanut butter sandwiches."
"You can't order peanut butter sandwiches," I said, "though I have seen frozen PB and J."
Brie rolled her eyes. "Do you only like food because it's easy to make? What if your mom made pizza from scratch?"
"MY mom?"
"Or your dad."
"Dad might do it from scratch, but he's on an Indian food kick. We've had curry three times this week already."
"So what if your DAD made pizza from scratch?"
I thought about it. "I guess that would be fine. But he might not get the crust right. Maybe I'm just a frozen pizza, peanut butter and jelly kind of guy."
"You don't seem that way at night," said Brie.
I shrugged. "Who eats crummy food in his dreams?"
"We ate hot dogs," said Brie.
"But they were actually GOOD hot dogs."
"Yeah," she said. "They were." After a while she looked at me. "You doing anything this afternoon?"
I shook my head. "Probably not, though I guess I should finish the book for English. I'll have to finish it eventually, might as well get it over with now."
"Sounds smart," said Brie.
I had the feeling I was missing something, but I couldn't figure out what. We didn't talk much for the rest of lunch.

The last half of school slipped out of my hands like a melting ice cube--not something you feel like picking up again, but your conscience makes you think you really shouldn't leave it on the floor. Not a perfect metaphor, but it wasn't a perfect day.
         I thought about taking a nap when I got home, but it was Friday, and napping on Friday seemed like a waste. Instead, I wasted my time finding out more of the tragic life of a young-yet-literarily-significant heroine.
Dad walked in and sat on the part of the couch I wasn't sprawled across.
"You take up more space than you used to," he said.
"It's because of my excellent diet."
"Like that microwave popcorn?"
"Yeah," I said. "It's got fiber in it."
"Really?"
"Probably."
"Glad you're eating healthy food."
I kept reading. Dad sat there, thinking adult thoughts. Then I was paying more attention to my dad than to my book. Then I wasn't reading my book at all. I couldn't, with him sitting there doing nothing.
"Did you want something?" I asked.
"Sorry," he said. "Am I bugging you?"
"No," I said, sitting up. "That came out ruder than I meant it to. It's just that you came in and sat down, but you're not doing anything, so I wondered."
"I was just thinking, really."
"What about?" I asked.
"About when I was your age."
"Thirty years ago?"
"Huh," said Dad. "I guess it was about that, wasn't it. Yes, thirty years ago. You know, your mother had really large hair."
"How large?" I asked, playing along.
"Bangs like you wouldn't believe. I never could figure out how they did it, the girls. Must have taken forever, not that it seemed unusual to me then. Everyone had big hair. Men, women, dogs."
"Not dogs."
"Look at a movie some time. Big hair was almost a government mandate."
I gave half a laugh, which was maybe a quarter more than the joke deserved, but I was caught in what Dad was saying, so I scooted along on the couch and sat up.
"Was hair all you were thinking about?"
"No, it wasn't." Dad looked over at me. "You know, Perry, how old people are always talking about how simple things used to be? About how the world made more sense? About how bread used to be cheaper?"
"Was it?"
"Oh, absolutely. About the bread, I mean." He raised his eyebrows. "And about the simpler. And the more sense. Do you know how many electronic gadgets I owned when I was your age?"
"No idea."
"None. The only stereo in the place was your grandfather's, all the kitchen appliances were your grandmother's, and the TV was family property. The idea of a television in my room was unheard of."
"But, Dad, you don't let us have TVs in our rooms, either."
"Exactly. I'm looking out for you."
"Thanks," I said, almost sincerely.
"You're welcome," said Dad, much more sincerely. "No cell phones, no personal computers, no iPods--"
"Which you also haven't bought for me," I interrupted.
"Be grateful for your stereo and get a job," said Dad. "Or wait until your birthday."
It was my turn to lift my eyebrows. "Seriously?"
"You WILL act surprised, young man, or I will borrow it from you for my bike ride to work, every day for a month."
"The secret's safe with me," I said.
Dad smiled and looked off into space and, apparently, back in time. "I remember the first time I talked to your mother."
Suspicion reared its ugly head. "Come on, Dad."
"Come where?"
"Is this all a trick to get me to talk about Brie?"
He looked at me, innocence thick on his face. "Why would I do that? If I wanted to know about Brie, I'd look at you and say, 'Tell me about Brie.'"
"No you wouldn't," I said.
He looked thoughtful. "No, I wouldn't. But I really was thinking about how I met your mother."
I'd heard it before, in one version or another, but something in Dad's voice was relaxing just then. He'd been reading me stories at bedtime since before I could remember, and his voice would always have memories of warm blankets and the kind of security that comes with leaving the day behind. Melodramatic to think it in words, but the feeling was the kind of melodrama I didn't mind. I settled in to hear the story again.
"I did mention the big hair, didn't I?" he began. "I liked how hers looked. We'd been in the same English class for most of the year, but I'd never had anything remotely nearing the intestinal fortitude to approach her." He looked at me levelly. "You may never have known this, Perry, but I was not among the most popular or socially able element in our high school."
"I never would have guessed," I said.
"Exactly."
"You mean that I inherited that from YOU?"
"I apologize. Nothing I could do about it, short of not having kids."
"Why did I get it, and not my sisters?"
"I'm afraid your sisters are still a mystery to me."
"We should start a club," I said.
"When you were born a man in this family," said Dad, "you automatically joined a rather exclusive club. But, back to the story that you've heard a dozen times before, I'd never had the guts to talk to your mother, though I had seen her looking at me a time or two. You know, when you're looking at her, and she looks at you, so you look away fast so she won't think you were really looking at her, and then she looks away when you look back at her."
"Why do we do that?" I asked, remembering several awkward moments from junior high, and (cough) more recently.
"It has to do with saving face, actually," said Dad. "By adopting a 'casual' posture, we limit our exposure to potential--" He stopped. "Hormones, mostly," he said after a pause. "And fear. We don't want to look like idiots, but we mostly manage to anyway."
"Yeah," I said.
"Anyway," he went on, "I finally decided to talk to her. Ask her out, maybe, if the stars aligned and the world started spinning backwards, that sort of thing. So I found out where she ate lunch."
"I thought you already knew where she ate lunch."
Dad shrugged. "I might have."
"I thought you'd known for weeks."
Dad squinted. "I get fuzzy on the details. But the point is, on that day, I did know. So I waited until her friends left and went over to talk to her."
"So stalkerish," I said.
"Didn't even know what the word meant back then," said Dad. "As I was saying, I waited until she was alone--" He paused to look at me out of the side of his eyes in the closest thing to 'sinister' that Dad has ever managed, "--and I approached her. There she was, looking down at a book, eating her ham and cheese--"
"Mom says peanut butter and jelly."
"--eating her ham and cheese, since I'm the one telling the story, and reading her book."
"You already mentioned the book."
"And I'll mention it a third time if you don't stop interrupting. I didn't approach straight on, afraid that might be too confrontational, but kind of slid up to her from an angle. 'What's up?' I said."
"Did people say 'what's up' back then?" I asked.
"I'll be translating into modern language for you," said Dad. "At any rate, I greeted her while she was reading her book--I told you I'd bring it up again--and introduced myself. I mentioned that we were in the same English class. I said I'd been meaning to talk to her."
AND SHE SAID NOTHING, I thought.
"And she said nothing," said Dad. "Didn't even look up from her book. I struggled on for another sentence or two, trying very, very hard not to be crushed. Someone laughed nearby, and I was sure they were watching me. Finally I gave up. It was clear she didn't want to talk to me. So I turned to walk away."
I was smiling, and Dad was smiling, because we both knew what came next.
"Then," said Dad, "she looks up at me and, out of the billowy waves of her immense hair, pulls off earphones. She smiles, turns off her walkman, and says, 'Sorry, did you say something?'"
"I like that story," I said.
"I do, too," said Dad.
I lay my head back on the arm of the couch and looked at the ceiling. "Brie's in my English class, too."
Dad made a noncommittal grunting noise, not wanting to scare me off, I think.
"I screwed up again today."
Dad said nothing.
"I think she wanted to do something this afternoon, and I missed it. She asked me if I had plans, and I said not really. I'd just be reading this dumb book for English."
"Which book is it?" asked Dad. I showed him the cover. "That is a dumb book. You want me to sign some note saying I don't want you reading rubbish like that? I know I could make up something objectionable about it."
"Nah, I'm most of the way done. Doesn't matter now. Besides, I already know the end."
"She dies, doesn't she?" asked Dad.
"Tragically," I said.
"Thank goodness for English literature."
I lifted my head back up off the couch. "She did want to do something, didn't she."
Dad nodded. "Probably."
"Crap."
Dad took a deep breath. "You could still do something with her. Invite her over, or go to her place." He looked over at my scrunched up face. "What's that look for? Her coming here or you going there?"
"Either one," I said. "I don't know. It just seems--I mean, we only started hanging out this week."
"You don't have to marry every girl who meets your parents," said Dad.
"Still weird."
"Why?"
"I...don't bring friends home."
"I'd noticed."
"It's not you, Dad. You're fine."
"Oh, good," he said. "I have been showering every day, hoping it would help."
"Dad."
"Sorry. But I would like to meet your friends. If you like them, they must be impressive people." He looked in my eyes. "You have good judgment."
"Come on, Dad."
"I mean it, Perry."
I lay my head back on the couch arm. "Thanks," I said.
Dad put his hand on my foot and squeezed.
"Dad," I said.
"Yeah?"
"That tickles."
"Sorry."