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HOW I BECAME DUMB AND HAPPY
Around the time I began rummaging around the kitchen for something resembling lunch, Lucy called.
"How's the workaday world?" I asked. "Crazy," she said, a little too happily, I thought. "They really need me." "Great." "Would you mind picking up the kids? I may not be home until dinner." "I thought it was a part-time job." "So did I." And Lucy was back off to the world of pressing demands. After five hours of being my own man I was starting to feel just a shade lonely. I shook it off as first-day doubts. I wedged some slices of ham into an onion bagel, refilled my coffee cup and flung myself back into the novel. Through the angst and the interruptions I had somehow typed two paragraphs of words. They sounded trite, forced, but, hell, wasn't literary genius all in the polishing? I was feeling better about it all as I cruised over to pick up the kids. What could be more important than being there to share your kids' afternoons. I had missed so much of their first years, I mused. "Why are you picking us up?" demanded Becky. She had an alarmed, furtive look about her as she threw herself into the back seat and slammed the door. "Your mother is tied up at work. Why? Does it bother you that I'm picking you up?" She gazed out the window and shrugged. "It's just a little strange." Her eyes were darting about, trying to see if anyone had noticed. "I can't be the only dad who picks up the kids." My assertion was greeted by silence. "Well, am I?" "Honestly?" Now that we had put some distance between us and the school Becky seemed to relax a little. She even managed a sheepish smile -- my little girl. "You are the only one, Dad, at least among my friends." "That's not true," said Dirk, bravely sticking up for the old man. "Donna's dad picks her up all the time." "Shut up," hissed Becky. "Her dad doesn't count." "But he does pick her up," insisted Dirk. He was scared of Becky's vicious streak, but was going out on a limb for me, probably because I had always been generous about letting him buy the kinds of toys I had always wanted as a kid. "Why doesn't he count?" I was trying to sound disinterested. "He's like a retard. I mean, all he does is stay home all day." Becky's face reddened as she caught the implications of her own words. "I mean, he's never gone into an office to work. He's just weird..." The drive home suddenly drained of whatever pleasure I had expected from sharing accounts of the kids' day. I was feeling like a retard, a weirdo, a Chin Boy. Foolish to think that the kids would somehow appreciate my sudden injection into their days. I put myself in their shoes and saw they had a real problem on their hands -- how they could they possibly explain me to their friends. |
"A lot of people work at home," I said. It sounded unconvincing, defensive. "I'm writing a book," I blurted. "Will it be a big best-seller?" Becky perked up, sensing hope. I could hear her holding her breath. "Will you make more money by doing that?" asked Dirk, always the practical guy. "Well, I don't know." Here was a chance to explain myself and I had no good answers for those eminently reasonable questions. I was flustered. "I'm not doing it for the money," I said finally. That was greeted by a stunned, disbelieving silence. "I mean, yes, I hope it will make us some money, but writing is something I've always wanted to do." "Oh," said Becky. That was followed by the inevitable, "Then why didn't you become a writer from the beginning?" "I guess I was afraid I wouldn't be able to make a living at it." My face flushed as my thoughts raced ahead to the inevitable questions. Then why are you doing it now, Dad? Do you want us all to starve? Or maybe even, Are you turning into a retard? "But now...?" Becky didn't trust herself to continue. "He just thought up a really good story probably." Dirk, always my defender. Becky was still holding her breath. She wanted to hear me say that, yes, that was it, that was why I was staying home all day like that retard, Donna's dad. "Yep," I said. "That's it." "Oh, that's different then," said Becky, brightening. "I mean, that's not the same thing as just staying home like Donna's dad. "I think that's retarded when a man just stays home for no reason. But you have like a specific goal." She was downright cheerful now with the sheer relief of having been armed with answers for when her friends started in on the questions. "So what's your book about, Dad?" PAGE 4
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