[part two]
Part Three: The Tennis Bag . . .
“Okay, I’m not looking!” Jalasso announced to Tommy. She had her face turned toward the wall, her eyes closed, and both hands in front of her face for good measure. She really wanted to look like she wasn’t looking.
“Do you promise this time?” he asked. The last two times, she had been peeking.
“I’m not supposed to know where my racquet that needs to be restrung really is,” she explained for the fourth time. “So I can’t see where you put it.”
“I know,” Tommy said for the third time. “But you keep looking!”
“Bad habits,” Jalasso said. “But I have them under control now. Go.”
She heard Tommy rustling the heavy black and yellow tennis bag she’d given him. Obviously, she intended him to carry the lamp away with him, but she thought she could provide herself some protection from accidentally giving herself away by not seeing the crime. She tried not to imagine exactly how the lamp might be slipped into one of the side pouches meant to hold up to four rackets on each side. She tried not to wonder if the zipping sound she heard might be Tommy’s putting the cosmetics bag of glass in the front pouch intended for clusters of loose practice balls. And she tried even harder not to turn her head and look at how he was packing the bag once it occurred to her that he might put a couple of racquets in with it, and those might get scratched by that stupid Tiffany lamp. But she couldn’t look! Otherwise, she might end up blabbing if she knew where the lamp had gone. She wouldn’t mean to, but sometimes the words came out of her mouth before she could make them stop.
She heard someone clear her throat at the far end of the room. Jalasso’s mother stood in the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom. She frowned, eyes narrowed, hands on her hips. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” she asked.
Jalasso whirled and stared up at her mother in surprise. She glanced over and saw that Tommy had gotten the lamp safely packed away, but she felt her heart slamming against her chest all the same. She wasn’t safe yet. Her meeting with Johann Bjornbornssen still might be lost!
“What?” Jalasso asked, almost shouting in her nervousness.
“Excuse me?” her mother asked. “Is that any way to talk to you mother?” She glanced at Tommy, who stood nearby, looking at her with his usual mix of fear and awe. Mrs. Pei, it was widely agreed, was not only the prettiest mother out of all the mothers they knew. She was the prettiest anyone out of all the anyones they knew. But she was direct and stern and proper in a way that insured she could take issue with anyone at any time, if there seemed some advantage in it. “Hello, Tommy,” she said. “I’m sorry to barge in here like this, but it’s a full-time job keeping up with Jalasso’s comings and going.”
Tommy smiled at the recognition from Mrs. Pei, although it was nothing new. He’d been visiting the Pei house for a couple of years, ever since he and Jalasso met at a local tennis clinic and they found they belonged to the same country club. He nodded and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Pei. Jalasso and I were going to play for a little while.”
Mrs. Pei cocked an eyebrow in her daughter’s direction. “Oh, is that where you were headed, dear?” she asked.
Jalasso smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
For a moment, Jalasso was certain her mother’s eyes were drawn to the spot in the room where the Tiffany lamp had stood, but then she continued. “Do we not ask permission in this house anymore? Your father is setting a bad example with all his travels, but this is a home, not a hotel. I don’t think tennis was on your schedule for this afternoon.”
Her mother was angry about the household schedule. She tried not to look as relieved as she felt, but knew that meant she looked plenty relieved already. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, regaining her composure. “It wasn’t a for-sure thing. Tommy didn’t know if he’d be able to come, so I forgot to add it.”
“Well, that’s not very good planning, Jalasso. We have to have a schedule, or nothing would ever get done around here. So apologize to Tommy for your mistake, but I’m afraid you have a tea at four. You don’t have time to visit the courts right now,” her mother said. She waited for the outburst that was sure to follow and prepared to threaten the cancellation of tennis camp again. It was one of her better tools for getting Jalasso’s compliance, but of course she would lose that power if she ever exercised it. Not to mention that two weeks free of her bounding, explosive little girl beckoned to her like a distant dream.
Jalasso surprised her mother by nodding once decisively, the way she sometimes did after making a convincing backhand, and turning to her friend. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I forgot to add our game to the schedule. I can’t go play with you today. Please forgive me.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Tommy said. He didn’t move.
“We’ll have you over another time, Tommy. Maybe you can come for a morning game next weekend and stay for lunch. We’ll check the appointment book and set something up with you parents,” Mrs. Pei said.
“Great. Thank you,” Tommy said. He still stood awkwardly next to the oversized tennis bag at his feet.
“But right now I need Jalasso to figure out what she’s going to wear to the tea party.”
Jalasso suddenly realized how guilty she and Tommy both looked, and she rushed to Tommy’s side and shook hands with him awkwardly. “So I’ll see you soon, Tommy,” she said. “And we’ll play tennis!”
A look of understanding flashed across Tommy’s face and he leaned down to grab the large tennis bag and sling it over shoulder. “Yes, tennis is good,” he said. “I mean, that’ll be good. Playing tennis.”
“Hold on, Tommy,” Mrs. Pei said, and both children froze. “I’ll have someone take that bag down for you. It looks awfully heavy.”
“No!” Jalasso said, and her mother gave her a wide-eyed look as a reprimand. “I mean, that would be nice, but …”
“It’s very nice of you, Mrs. Pei,” Tommy said, trying to pick up the bag as casually as if it didn’t have a ruined antique lamp in it. “But you know how tennis players are. Always building up our muscles.” He hoped he didn’t sound like he was flirting with Jalasso’s mother. Tommy didn’t really know much about flirting, but he was pretty sure that’s what he had been doing.
Mrs. Pei looked unsure, but she stepped out of the doorway. “Yes, I do know how you tennis players are,” she said. She watched as the boy lugged the bulky bag out the door and down the hallway toward the central house. He was a good kid, she thought, and strangely loyal to Jalasso, despite the way she bossed him around. She could only assume that’s who had convinced him to attach the glittery unicorn sticker to the outside of his tennis bag.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
jalasso pei, part-time potential junior tennis champ (II)
[part one]
Part Two: The Racquet That Needs To Be Restrung
Jalasso couldn’t believe how obvious Tommy was when he came to sneak away with the lamp. She wanted him to do it right, and she had half a mind not to restore his name to the birthday party list because of his poor performance. It was only the effectiveness of the job that convinced her not to be too hasty. She could cut him from the list for some other trifle, but she’d never bribe another favor out of him if she went back on their deal. She’d just wait another week or so, then find something that he said so offensive that she’d have no choice but to drop him from the invitation list.
She had dumped the contents of her wastebasket into a cosmetics bag to keep the maids from finding the broken glass. Jalasso meant to get a trash bag, but she couldn’t find any and she didn’t want to raise suspicion by asking. Then she thought she might find a shopping bag, but those were all gone. Groceries were almost always brought to the house by delivery, so she couldn’t even find a simple brown bag. At least the cosmetics bag was just a giveaway item her mother got with some boutique purchase. Plus, it zipped, which kept it from spilling.
The lamp itself was a lot harder to figure out. She needed to hide both the lamp’s base and the tangle of metalwork that had once helped define the shape of the stained-glass lampshade. Jalasso experimented with the latticework of soft metal that had made up the shade, and she found she could bend it very easily. But there were still a lot of glass fragments stuck to it, so she worried that she might cut herself and then the cut would get infected and then she wouldn’t be able to hold her racquet right and something like that could very well cost you a match. Better not to risk it. And, really, that was mostly Tommy’s job, getting rid of the lamp. When he got there, he could bend the metalwork in order to make it fit.
She’d told Tommy to bring something to put the lamp base and shade in, because she was stumped. The base would stick out of most bags, and even if Tommy could mash it down, the shade was going to have a weird shape that would be hard to hide. What if she just threw them both out the window and Tommy maybe stood outside and caught them? But her room was four stories up. She’d seen Tommy try to return her own forehand, and she knew he wasn’t really that coordinated. Besides, somebody might see. But Tommy said he had an idea.
When the butler, Marble, announced Tommy at Jalasso’s bedroom door, he mentioned that young Mr. Penchant had arrived for their tennis date. Jalasso tried not to react, but she knew that if she realized she should try not to react, she probably already had reacted with the kind of annoyed look of surprise she always displayed when she heard something she hadn’t expected or didn’t like. But Marble didn’t care as long as he believed Jalasso’s current mischief wasn’t dangerous. Plus, Jalasso had to admit that nine times out of ten, that’s the reason any of her peers came to her room.
“But you didn’t even bring a racquet!” Jalasso complained once they were alone in her room. “That’s not believable. Tommy, please don’t get me in trouble. I’m serious.” Ever since Tommy agreed to come help her with the lamp, she’d been pacing her room, spinning her racquet in her hands, and nervously keeping balls aloft with gentle taps. She kept imagining her mother finding out about the lamp. She could almost hear the sound of her mother’s voice telling the tennis camp that, fine, they could keep her deposit. But no way was Jalasso Pei making an appearance that year at their facilities. She could see all the other girls lined up during the morning clinics, smiling and flirting with Johann Bjornbornssen. And stupid Amy with her stupid blonde pigtails grinning at him with her big stupid mouth and fat, fat lips. It had started to make Jalasso sick with anticipation.
“No one noticed,” Tommy said. “Besides, that’s how we’re taking everything out. In one of your tennis bags.”
Jalasso stopped for a moment as she took hold of the information. She could have done the same thing herself! The lamp was exactly the right size for one of her big shoulder bags. And if she bent it right, the shade would flatten out to be about the size of a racquet head. Of course, if one of the staff insisted as usual that they had to take the heavy items, then the lamp might have been discovered. They’d let Tommy take his own bag, however. Not to mention the fact that she wanted to avoid that cut to the hand that would threaten her game. That was a risk she preferred Tommy take. Still, one thing bothered Jalasso.
“So you’re just taking one of my bags?” she asked. “Do I get it back?”
Tommy frowned at her in disbelief. “Jalasso, you have about twenty tennis bags at least.”
She threw out her hands. Some people just didn’t get anything. “They’re all different,” she explained. “Different sizes and styles and pockets and stuff. And I have five different ones from five different years I’ve been to the Open. So those are mainly just for my collection.”
Tommy rolled his eyes as dramatically as a silent movie star. He shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll bring your bag back. Whatever one you can live without for a couple of days. Next time I come play you, I’ll bring it back.”
Jalasso shook her head. “And, what, leave your racquet?”
“I can borrow one of yours.”
She flinched as if someone had tried to strike her. “What? Be serious.”
Tommy made a noise of frustration. “Fine! I’ll leave mine. Or I’ll bring one with a head cover with a strap and stick it inside the bag. We’ll figure it out. Can we just get your busted lamp and go?”
Jalasso made a shushing motion at Tommy, although almost no sound could escape her huge, high-ceilinged room. After living through the noises of Jalasso’s first year of tennis obsession at age three, her mother had made sure of that, having insulation put in all around it to keep the repetitive “pock” sounds from invading the rest of the house at all hours. “Ixnay on the amplay,” she said. “You mean ‘the racquet that needs to be restrung.’”
He nodded. “Yes, the racquet,” he said in a monotone.
“That needs to be restrung.”
“That needs to be restrung,” he repeated.
Jalasso nodded happily, her dark, bobbed hair bouncing with the effort. “The racquet that needs to be restrung,” she prompted.
Tommy knew better than to continue. She’d have her way, or he’d never get back on that invitation list. After the amazing party favors of the past two years, he didn’t dare miss one of Jalasso’s parties. And the rumors had already started that there would be drawings for courtside seats at Flushing Meadow. “Can we just get your racquet that needs to be restrung and go?” he asked.
Jalasso bounced once and spun on her heel. “Let me go pick out a bag and we’ll go,” she said.
[part three]
Part Two: The Racquet That Needs To Be Restrung
Jalasso couldn’t believe how obvious Tommy was when he came to sneak away with the lamp. She wanted him to do it right, and she had half a mind not to restore his name to the birthday party list because of his poor performance. It was only the effectiveness of the job that convinced her not to be too hasty. She could cut him from the list for some other trifle, but she’d never bribe another favor out of him if she went back on their deal. She’d just wait another week or so, then find something that he said so offensive that she’d have no choice but to drop him from the invitation list.
She had dumped the contents of her wastebasket into a cosmetics bag to keep the maids from finding the broken glass. Jalasso meant to get a trash bag, but she couldn’t find any and she didn’t want to raise suspicion by asking. Then she thought she might find a shopping bag, but those were all gone. Groceries were almost always brought to the house by delivery, so she couldn’t even find a simple brown bag. At least the cosmetics bag was just a giveaway item her mother got with some boutique purchase. Plus, it zipped, which kept it from spilling.
The lamp itself was a lot harder to figure out. She needed to hide both the lamp’s base and the tangle of metalwork that had once helped define the shape of the stained-glass lampshade. Jalasso experimented with the latticework of soft metal that had made up the shade, and she found she could bend it very easily. But there were still a lot of glass fragments stuck to it, so she worried that she might cut herself and then the cut would get infected and then she wouldn’t be able to hold her racquet right and something like that could very well cost you a match. Better not to risk it. And, really, that was mostly Tommy’s job, getting rid of the lamp. When he got there, he could bend the metalwork in order to make it fit.
She’d told Tommy to bring something to put the lamp base and shade in, because she was stumped. The base would stick out of most bags, and even if Tommy could mash it down, the shade was going to have a weird shape that would be hard to hide. What if she just threw them both out the window and Tommy maybe stood outside and caught them? But her room was four stories up. She’d seen Tommy try to return her own forehand, and she knew he wasn’t really that coordinated. Besides, somebody might see. But Tommy said he had an idea.
When the butler, Marble, announced Tommy at Jalasso’s bedroom door, he mentioned that young Mr. Penchant had arrived for their tennis date. Jalasso tried not to react, but she knew that if she realized she should try not to react, she probably already had reacted with the kind of annoyed look of surprise she always displayed when she heard something she hadn’t expected or didn’t like. But Marble didn’t care as long as he believed Jalasso’s current mischief wasn’t dangerous. Plus, Jalasso had to admit that nine times out of ten, that’s the reason any of her peers came to her room.
“But you didn’t even bring a racquet!” Jalasso complained once they were alone in her room. “That’s not believable. Tommy, please don’t get me in trouble. I’m serious.” Ever since Tommy agreed to come help her with the lamp, she’d been pacing her room, spinning her racquet in her hands, and nervously keeping balls aloft with gentle taps. She kept imagining her mother finding out about the lamp. She could almost hear the sound of her mother’s voice telling the tennis camp that, fine, they could keep her deposit. But no way was Jalasso Pei making an appearance that year at their facilities. She could see all the other girls lined up during the morning clinics, smiling and flirting with Johann Bjornbornssen. And stupid Amy with her stupid blonde pigtails grinning at him with her big stupid mouth and fat, fat lips. It had started to make Jalasso sick with anticipation.
“No one noticed,” Tommy said. “Besides, that’s how we’re taking everything out. In one of your tennis bags.”
Jalasso stopped for a moment as she took hold of the information. She could have done the same thing herself! The lamp was exactly the right size for one of her big shoulder bags. And if she bent it right, the shade would flatten out to be about the size of a racquet head. Of course, if one of the staff insisted as usual that they had to take the heavy items, then the lamp might have been discovered. They’d let Tommy take his own bag, however. Not to mention the fact that she wanted to avoid that cut to the hand that would threaten her game. That was a risk she preferred Tommy take. Still, one thing bothered Jalasso.
“So you’re just taking one of my bags?” she asked. “Do I get it back?”
Tommy frowned at her in disbelief. “Jalasso, you have about twenty tennis bags at least.”
She threw out her hands. Some people just didn’t get anything. “They’re all different,” she explained. “Different sizes and styles and pockets and stuff. And I have five different ones from five different years I’ve been to the Open. So those are mainly just for my collection.”
Tommy rolled his eyes as dramatically as a silent movie star. He shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll bring your bag back. Whatever one you can live without for a couple of days. Next time I come play you, I’ll bring it back.”
Jalasso shook her head. “And, what, leave your racquet?”
“I can borrow one of yours.”
She flinched as if someone had tried to strike her. “What? Be serious.”
Tommy made a noise of frustration. “Fine! I’ll leave mine. Or I’ll bring one with a head cover with a strap and stick it inside the bag. We’ll figure it out. Can we just get your busted lamp and go?”
Jalasso made a shushing motion at Tommy, although almost no sound could escape her huge, high-ceilinged room. After living through the noises of Jalasso’s first year of tennis obsession at age three, her mother had made sure of that, having insulation put in all around it to keep the repetitive “pock” sounds from invading the rest of the house at all hours. “Ixnay on the amplay,” she said. “You mean ‘the racquet that needs to be restrung.’”
He nodded. “Yes, the racquet,” he said in a monotone.
“That needs to be restrung.”
“That needs to be restrung,” he repeated.
Jalasso nodded happily, her dark, bobbed hair bouncing with the effort. “The racquet that needs to be restrung,” she prompted.
Tommy knew better than to continue. She’d have her way, or he’d never get back on that invitation list. After the amazing party favors of the past two years, he didn’t dare miss one of Jalasso’s parties. And the rumors had already started that there would be drawings for courtside seats at Flushing Meadow. “Can we just get your racquet that needs to be restrung and go?” he asked.
Jalasso bounced once and spun on her heel. “Let me go pick out a bag and we’ll go,” she said.
[part three]
Thursday, July 21, 2005
jalasso pei, part-time potential junior tennis champ
Part One: The Lamp!
She was so mad that she wanted to break something, so she did. The Tiffany lamp never had a chance. Jalasso delivered to it a solid two-handed backhand with her favorite tennis racquet and watched in awe and anger as the multicolored glass shards of the antique shade scattered across the room.
“Moron!” she screamed at the high-definition flatscreen television hanging on the wall. On it flashed the pensive face of a linesman under scrutiny for a challenged call on a serve. Jalasso’s favorite player, Johann Bjornbornssen, stood before the official, holding out his hands plaintively. The linesman tried not to react.
“Jalasso Adromeda Pei!” called the weary voice of her mother from down the hall. “What are you doing in there?”
Jalasso whirled around toward the closed door of her cavernous bedroom. She tossed the racquet guiltily onto the canopy bed in the far corner. “Nothing!” she called back, her face in a grimace as she awaited her fate. She’d been warned about the tennis-induced outbursts before, and she was afraid her mother might eventually follow through on her threat to cancel her summer tennis camp enrollment.
“Are you injuring the furniture?” her mother asked, but Jalasso could tell that she sounded no closer. She breathed a small sigh of relief. There was still a chance.
“It was just glass!” she shouted, hoping the way she said it might lead her mother to believe she’d merely dropped a tumbler of water, that she hadn’t attacked her mother’s precious furnishings. It seemed like less of a lie that way. Some future cross-examination might yet require it.
There was a pause. Then her mother called, “Just a glass?” She still sounded no closer.
“Yeeeaaahhhh?” Jalasso said uncertainly. The lie was getting deeper now. She needed to keep her head.
Her mother sighed. “Well, get someone to clean it up,” she said at last. “And be more careful. If you don’t watch out, I’m calling that tennis camp and having them cross you off their list.”
“Okay, I will,” Jalasso said. She repeated it to herself to try to set the information deep in her mind. “I will. I’ll be good. I will. I’ll be good. I will …”
She couldn’t afford to miss the camp. Not that she hadn’t been there before. For several years now she’d been going to it, and she was in the top of the rankings in the Girls 8 to 10 Group. She was looking to break into a higher group this year, to play the older girls who were getting taller and faster already. But that wasn’t even the most important part. The most important part was the man on the television, who was even as she glanced up preparing to return serve on a crucial second-set break point. Because that summer the camp’s special guest pro was going to be none other than Johann Bjornbornssen!
Jalasso leapt lightly at the thought. She loved Bjornbornssen with all the devotion she could muster. And when it came to things tennis, that devotion was considerable, at times obsessively single-minded. It was evident from the posters and clippings that covered most of one vast wall of Jalasso’s room. It was evident in her choice of wardrobe, the majority of which featured blouses, skirts, and dresses intended as tennis sportswear. It was evident from the dozen racquets hanging at the far end of the room, the display case full of tennis ribbons and trophies, the stray tennis balls that littered the floor. And it was evident from the floor itself: a green, playable surface painted with thick white lines measuring a space of 78 by 27 feet.
Jalasso settled herself in a bright yellow beanbag designed to resemble a tennis ball. She tried to forget the awful call that had gone against her beloved Johann and to focus on the game. After all, the match wasn’t over yet. And it wasn’t like it was a Grand Slam event. Not that every game wasn’t extremely important to her, but she had to keep these things in perspective if she was going to do a convincing job of being good. She allowed that maybe she’d been a little hasty getting so mad that she’d broken that stupid lamp.
The lamp! She already forgot about the lamp! She bounded out of her chair and went to inspect the damage. The base of the lamp still looked okay, although she could see that it showed some scratches. She could put it back and turn the damaged part toward the wall. But that would never work, because the shade was beyond repair. Jalasso had been practicing her serve all spring, and she knew she’d hit the lamp as hard as some of her better, faster serves of recent weeks. Even in the middle of her desperation to figure out how to cover up the destruction, she couldn’t help but feel a little proud. She’d pulverized some of that stained glass!
Jalasso heard a cheer from the television, and she whirled around in time to catch the replay of the point she’d missed. Good. It was for Bjornbornssen. Well, she was recording the game anyway. She’d go back and look at the highlights later. She looked around the room and fetched a notebook from the oversized pine desk where she did her schoolwork. Tearing the front and back covers off the notebook, she used the thick cardstock to sweep the spray of broken glass into a neat little pile, then began depositing the glass into a wastebasket.
In a few minutes, she’d gotten rid of the majority of the glass, but she wasn’t sure how to make sure it was all gone. Plus she needed to make sure the lamp and the glass were safely thrown away without raising suspicion. She couldn’t just dump it in the trash and be done with it. The maids wouldn’t want to get in trouble for breaking or stealing it, so they’d probably mention it if they saw any part of it. Jalasso needed someone to haul the lamp away and make sure it was never seen again.
She placed the wastebasket and the lamp inside her closet. Then, skipping over to grab her mobile phone, she settled again in her beanbag chair and watched the onscreen action with rapt attention for a few minutes. Bjornbornssen had held serve, but he didn’t seem aggressive enough in trying to break his opponent’s serve. He was holding back, she decided. Maybe he’d make this an endurance match, betting that his legendary fitness would give him an edge when the man on the other side of the net began to tire. It wasn’t a tactic he’d used much this year, but there was a time …
Oh, but she still needed to get this lamp thing settled. Jalasso looked away from the television screen to prevent being distracted by it again and scrolled through the hundred-something numbers stored in her phone. She found her accomplice’s name in the list and hit the “call” button.
“Hello?” asked the hesitant voice of Tommy Penchant after a few distant rings. Jalasso sat with her hand over her eyes, but she was peeking between her fingers as Bjornbornssen leapt high for an overhead smash, evening the score and going to deuce. She squealed involuntarily at the exciting turn of events.
“Hello?” Tommy asked again, this time with a touch of fear in his voice at the unexpected sound of Jalasso’s loud, high-pitched exclamation. “Jalasso? Is that you? Are you watching a game?”
She stopped peeking at the game and regained her composure. She’d been well trained in her phone manners. “Tommy, hello,” she said warmly. “It’s Jalasso Pei calling. How are you today?”
“What’s going on, Jalasso?” Tommy asked.
“Ah, well, since you ask, I’ve called to ask for your help with something. I have a favor to ask.”
“What?”
“I’d be deeply in debt to you, Tommy.”
“Yeah?” Tommy asked, sounding a little more interested and a little less irritated.
“I would,” Jalasso said. “Birthday-party in debt.”
Jalasso’s birthday parties were known to be the best and the biggest and the most fun birthday parties in three states. Tommy had been both on and off the guest list multiple times over the past several months, depending on how recently he had either pleased or displeased the guest of honor. “Keep talking,” he said, as she knew he would. Jalasso smiled and allowed herself a glance at the television. Bjornbornssen had the advantage!
[part two]
She was so mad that she wanted to break something, so she did. The Tiffany lamp never had a chance. Jalasso delivered to it a solid two-handed backhand with her favorite tennis racquet and watched in awe and anger as the multicolored glass shards of the antique shade scattered across the room.
“Moron!” she screamed at the high-definition flatscreen television hanging on the wall. On it flashed the pensive face of a linesman under scrutiny for a challenged call on a serve. Jalasso’s favorite player, Johann Bjornbornssen, stood before the official, holding out his hands plaintively. The linesman tried not to react.
“Jalasso Adromeda Pei!” called the weary voice of her mother from down the hall. “What are you doing in there?”
Jalasso whirled around toward the closed door of her cavernous bedroom. She tossed the racquet guiltily onto the canopy bed in the far corner. “Nothing!” she called back, her face in a grimace as she awaited her fate. She’d been warned about the tennis-induced outbursts before, and she was afraid her mother might eventually follow through on her threat to cancel her summer tennis camp enrollment.
“Are you injuring the furniture?” her mother asked, but Jalasso could tell that she sounded no closer. She breathed a small sigh of relief. There was still a chance.
“It was just glass!” she shouted, hoping the way she said it might lead her mother to believe she’d merely dropped a tumbler of water, that she hadn’t attacked her mother’s precious furnishings. It seemed like less of a lie that way. Some future cross-examination might yet require it.
There was a pause. Then her mother called, “Just a glass?” She still sounded no closer.
“Yeeeaaahhhh?” Jalasso said uncertainly. The lie was getting deeper now. She needed to keep her head.
Her mother sighed. “Well, get someone to clean it up,” she said at last. “And be more careful. If you don’t watch out, I’m calling that tennis camp and having them cross you off their list.”
“Okay, I will,” Jalasso said. She repeated it to herself to try to set the information deep in her mind. “I will. I’ll be good. I will. I’ll be good. I will …”
She couldn’t afford to miss the camp. Not that she hadn’t been there before. For several years now she’d been going to it, and she was in the top of the rankings in the Girls 8 to 10 Group. She was looking to break into a higher group this year, to play the older girls who were getting taller and faster already. But that wasn’t even the most important part. The most important part was the man on the television, who was even as she glanced up preparing to return serve on a crucial second-set break point. Because that summer the camp’s special guest pro was going to be none other than Johann Bjornbornssen!
Jalasso leapt lightly at the thought. She loved Bjornbornssen with all the devotion she could muster. And when it came to things tennis, that devotion was considerable, at times obsessively single-minded. It was evident from the posters and clippings that covered most of one vast wall of Jalasso’s room. It was evident in her choice of wardrobe, the majority of which featured blouses, skirts, and dresses intended as tennis sportswear. It was evident from the dozen racquets hanging at the far end of the room, the display case full of tennis ribbons and trophies, the stray tennis balls that littered the floor. And it was evident from the floor itself: a green, playable surface painted with thick white lines measuring a space of 78 by 27 feet.
Jalasso settled herself in a bright yellow beanbag designed to resemble a tennis ball. She tried to forget the awful call that had gone against her beloved Johann and to focus on the game. After all, the match wasn’t over yet. And it wasn’t like it was a Grand Slam event. Not that every game wasn’t extremely important to her, but she had to keep these things in perspective if she was going to do a convincing job of being good. She allowed that maybe she’d been a little hasty getting so mad that she’d broken that stupid lamp.
The lamp! She already forgot about the lamp! She bounded out of her chair and went to inspect the damage. The base of the lamp still looked okay, although she could see that it showed some scratches. She could put it back and turn the damaged part toward the wall. But that would never work, because the shade was beyond repair. Jalasso had been practicing her serve all spring, and she knew she’d hit the lamp as hard as some of her better, faster serves of recent weeks. Even in the middle of her desperation to figure out how to cover up the destruction, she couldn’t help but feel a little proud. She’d pulverized some of that stained glass!
Jalasso heard a cheer from the television, and she whirled around in time to catch the replay of the point she’d missed. Good. It was for Bjornbornssen. Well, she was recording the game anyway. She’d go back and look at the highlights later. She looked around the room and fetched a notebook from the oversized pine desk where she did her schoolwork. Tearing the front and back covers off the notebook, she used the thick cardstock to sweep the spray of broken glass into a neat little pile, then began depositing the glass into a wastebasket.
In a few minutes, she’d gotten rid of the majority of the glass, but she wasn’t sure how to make sure it was all gone. Plus she needed to make sure the lamp and the glass were safely thrown away without raising suspicion. She couldn’t just dump it in the trash and be done with it. The maids wouldn’t want to get in trouble for breaking or stealing it, so they’d probably mention it if they saw any part of it. Jalasso needed someone to haul the lamp away and make sure it was never seen again.
She placed the wastebasket and the lamp inside her closet. Then, skipping over to grab her mobile phone, she settled again in her beanbag chair and watched the onscreen action with rapt attention for a few minutes. Bjornbornssen had held serve, but he didn’t seem aggressive enough in trying to break his opponent’s serve. He was holding back, she decided. Maybe he’d make this an endurance match, betting that his legendary fitness would give him an edge when the man on the other side of the net began to tire. It wasn’t a tactic he’d used much this year, but there was a time …
Oh, but she still needed to get this lamp thing settled. Jalasso looked away from the television screen to prevent being distracted by it again and scrolled through the hundred-something numbers stored in her phone. She found her accomplice’s name in the list and hit the “call” button.
“Hello?” asked the hesitant voice of Tommy Penchant after a few distant rings. Jalasso sat with her hand over her eyes, but she was peeking between her fingers as Bjornbornssen leapt high for an overhead smash, evening the score and going to deuce. She squealed involuntarily at the exciting turn of events.
“Hello?” Tommy asked again, this time with a touch of fear in his voice at the unexpected sound of Jalasso’s loud, high-pitched exclamation. “Jalasso? Is that you? Are you watching a game?”
She stopped peeking at the game and regained her composure. She’d been well trained in her phone manners. “Tommy, hello,” she said warmly. “It’s Jalasso Pei calling. How are you today?”
“What’s going on, Jalasso?” Tommy asked.
“Ah, well, since you ask, I’ve called to ask for your help with something. I have a favor to ask.”
“What?”
“I’d be deeply in debt to you, Tommy.”
“Yeah?” Tommy asked, sounding a little more interested and a little less irritated.
“I would,” Jalasso said. “Birthday-party in debt.”
Jalasso’s birthday parties were known to be the best and the biggest and the most fun birthday parties in three states. Tommy had been both on and off the guest list multiple times over the past several months, depending on how recently he had either pleased or displeased the guest of honor. “Keep talking,” he said, as she knew he would. Jalasso smiled and allowed herself a glance at the television. Bjornbornssen had the advantage!
[part two]
Friday, July 15, 2005
bunnies
I found this photo in a junk store in Austin, TX, and something about it said, "Yeah, I'm worth a dollar."
There's a story here. More than one. I have to wonder why someone assembled this many puffball bunnies. And what happened next? Off to the arts-and-crafts fair? Maybe they were Easter treats? Or did their creator stand before them, these loyal and inanimate subjects, and proceed to read his or her own skewed manifesto?
Draw your own conclusions. They were obviously proud of these creations. But then, why not zoom in on them a bit more? One sees a little too much uninspired home decor. The rabbits don't feature as prominently as you'd expect, really.
Once Upon a Time
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 1
What he never remembered, even years into their hasty marriage, even after their difficulties conceiving a child and the eventual birth of their pale, serious daughter, even once his initial glimpse of her had taken on for him a mythic quality quite at odds with its humble simplicity, was that at first she had reminded him of an actress he didn’t much like.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 2
Of all of Maurice’s awkward poses—and I had been witness over the years to hundreds of them, from the time he skidded across the kitchen floor on his belly at age four to the hard-contested fist fight between us in the barn the summer we were both in love with Tabitha Rosen, to his drunken collapses on the lawn during one party or another to the “incident” with out-of-town strikebreakers that resulted in a new contract for the millworkers but a broken collarbone for him—the worst and last was his graceless, impossible arrangement at the bottom of the cellar stairs, down which I had just pushed him.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 3
From where I stood on the red brick sidewalk, it appeared that someone in one of the numerous Victorian duplexes in the immediate vicinity had put out for curbside collection almost a dozen brown paper grocery bags full of lush, multicolored flowers at the height of their bloom, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would throw away such expensive, well-nurtured plants, but as I drew closer along the street I saw that the bags contained papers, bottles, and cans intended for recycling and that the flowers remained well-rooted in the raised planting bed that encircled a young maple sapling.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 4
When she picked up the handset of the pale blue telephone by her bedside and heard Henry’s voice sounding awkward and strained as he suggested their meeting somewhere later that evening, she remembered the several dozen other times he had started similar rushed conversations with her, like after the first time he had broken things off with the “it’s not you, it’s me” line … or during the three weeks she had been seeing Philip on the side and Henry suddenly regained his breathless interest in her … or right after they’d gotten the good news that they were wrong about her being pregnant—both times.
What he never remembered, even years into their hasty marriage, even after their difficulties conceiving a child and the eventual birth of their pale, serious daughter, even once his initial glimpse of her had taken on for him a mythic quality quite at odds with its humble simplicity, was that at first she had reminded him of an actress he didn’t much like.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 2
Of all of Maurice’s awkward poses—and I had been witness over the years to hundreds of them, from the time he skidded across the kitchen floor on his belly at age four to the hard-contested fist fight between us in the barn the summer we were both in love with Tabitha Rosen, to his drunken collapses on the lawn during one party or another to the “incident” with out-of-town strikebreakers that resulted in a new contract for the millworkers but a broken collarbone for him—the worst and last was his graceless, impossible arrangement at the bottom of the cellar stairs, down which I had just pushed him.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 3
From where I stood on the red brick sidewalk, it appeared that someone in one of the numerous Victorian duplexes in the immediate vicinity had put out for curbside collection almost a dozen brown paper grocery bags full of lush, multicolored flowers at the height of their bloom, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would throw away such expensive, well-nurtured plants, but as I drew closer along the street I saw that the bags contained papers, bottles, and cans intended for recycling and that the flowers remained well-rooted in the raised planting bed that encircled a young maple sapling.
THE NOVEL BEGINS, TAKE 4
When she picked up the handset of the pale blue telephone by her bedside and heard Henry’s voice sounding awkward and strained as he suggested their meeting somewhere later that evening, she remembered the several dozen other times he had started similar rushed conversations with her, like after the first time he had broken things off with the “it’s not you, it’s me” line … or during the three weeks she had been seeing Philip on the side and Henry suddenly regained his breathless interest in her … or right after they’d gotten the good news that they were wrong about her being pregnant—both times.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
SPAM
Tracy? Oh, I’ll tell you about Tracy. She can’t go a day without getting six or seven e-cards from her boyfriend. I don’t know what he did, but someone should tell him that it might say more if he’d spring for a stamp once in a while. Doesn’t stop her from opening them, though. And then, great, those cheap e-card sites just attract more and more and more spam. More work for me, basically.
You’re actually better than most users. At least I’ve never had to mumble you a warning about porn being against company policy even on weekends. Only to get ignored, for all the good it did. Yeah, keep your eyes open. See who makes a trip down to HR in the next day or two. You’ll know what I mean.
I’m just glad the holidays are over, you know? How many years have some of those desktop Christmas light programs been going around? Doesn’t everybody have them by now? Or the dancing reindeer. The elf bowling. Snow on the desktop. Build your own snowman. Digital snowglobe. And then it doesn’t matter how many damn virus warnings I send out, people are clicking on every idiotic attachment they get.
I could send out an attachment entitled Dangerous Destructive Computer Virus.EXE, but as long as I put in a header that said “Check out Disco Dancing Santa!” it’d spread over half the globe in fifteen minutes. People just love Santa. They don’t care what happens to their computers.
Honestly, I don’t have to be even as nice as I am about all this. This isn’t what I was hired to do, policing people’s e-mails all the time. Network security? I’m like a hall monitor watching people pass notes in class all day. How does this company even stay afloat? When you look at the kind of junk that Leon is passing along to all his college buddies, it makes you wonder about just how much he deserves that salary of his.
No, he didn’t tell me. That’s against company policy, anyway. But if I happen to see mention of it just because I have to approve the gigabyte of vacation photos from when he went to Mardi Gras this year, that’s not my fault.
Anyway, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’ve met his wife, and that wasn’t the woman in those pictures. But that’s just between us, of course. Unless he wants to take it up with someone else. I can play it that way too.
I’ll tell you what’s really getting on my nerves, though: how paranoid everyone is about their e-mail. Like we’re here just to spy on them. Do you think I have time for that? Just think about how many messages you send on an average day. Now times that by everyone in the company. No way could I read that much e-mail, even if I wanted to! I’m just trying to stay ahead of the dangers, and the only way to do that is to check out the suspicious stuff. It’s not my fault if people can’t be smart enough to send messages without little movie files about office Olympics or pictures of dogs in Halloween costumes. That’s the stuff I have to review. If people would just write to each other about appropriate work stuff, then we’d have no problem. And if they’d clean up their language a little, I wouldn’t have to see the details of their trip to the doctor or the marginally illegal thing they did to their ex-boyfriend.
I mean, just as an example.
The paranoia, though, that’s just irritating. And everyone’s so nice to my face, of course. But I hear the whispering, and, come on, they have to know that if they’re writing e-mails to each other about it and using words like “spying” and “espionage” and “Spam,” I’m going to see that. Doesn’t that stand to reason?
Well, you’re right. I suppose maybe people don’t always know that, but that’s not an excuse. They should know it. So when they write stuff like that, it makes it all the harder for me to be nice about things. Someone writes an e-mail about how the whole IT department is a bunch of Nazis, and the next thing they do is write me some nicey-nice message about how they were expecting this document, and could I please see if something’s happened to it? Yes, please, ask the Nazis for assistance. The same evil people who are violating your rights are really going to spend half a day scrolling through mail queues to figure out if your drop-out, drug-addicted son sent his resume along for you to review. Or something like that.
I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but as far as I’m concerned, sending something in a company e-mail is about the same as putting it up on the bulletin board in the coffee room. The whole privacy thing is such an illusion. You’d think management would be above that … or at least that they’d know that the guy they barely have time to say hi to in the parking lot is the same guy who gets to see when they’re arguing with their wives about how late they’re having to work all of a sudden. And then at the same time has to approve some message from their college-age girlfriend … the one who likes to reveal whether or not she’s wearing underwear and always wants to know when they can get away to a hotel in the city for a weekend again.
Really, when I think about how much money gets spent on those little extracurriculars, it makes it a lot harder for me to deal with the crap salary they pay me. Because it’s not like they’re using their own credit cards to pay for that stuff. Their wives might see that. But I’ve asked Eva in Accounts Payable, and she’s seen a lot of suspicious weekend stays at the Four Seasons for a certain person whose title starts with “C” and “E.” I’ll let you connect the dots on that one.
Look, I’ve got to get going. There’s this whole new virus or something I have to check on, and if I know the people in this company, they’re probably going to cripple the whole network if I don’t keep on top of it.
All that stuff was in confidence, by the way. I mean, people still have a right to privacy, even if they don’t do anything to help themselves. So seriously, don’t tell anyone.
You’re actually better than most users. At least I’ve never had to mumble you a warning about porn being against company policy even on weekends. Only to get ignored, for all the good it did. Yeah, keep your eyes open. See who makes a trip down to HR in the next day or two. You’ll know what I mean.
I’m just glad the holidays are over, you know? How many years have some of those desktop Christmas light programs been going around? Doesn’t everybody have them by now? Or the dancing reindeer. The elf bowling. Snow on the desktop. Build your own snowman. Digital snowglobe. And then it doesn’t matter how many damn virus warnings I send out, people are clicking on every idiotic attachment they get.
I could send out an attachment entitled Dangerous Destructive Computer Virus.EXE, but as long as I put in a header that said “Check out Disco Dancing Santa!” it’d spread over half the globe in fifteen minutes. People just love Santa. They don’t care what happens to their computers.
Honestly, I don’t have to be even as nice as I am about all this. This isn’t what I was hired to do, policing people’s e-mails all the time. Network security? I’m like a hall monitor watching people pass notes in class all day. How does this company even stay afloat? When you look at the kind of junk that Leon is passing along to all his college buddies, it makes you wonder about just how much he deserves that salary of his.
No, he didn’t tell me. That’s against company policy, anyway. But if I happen to see mention of it just because I have to approve the gigabyte of vacation photos from when he went to Mardi Gras this year, that’s not my fault.
Anyway, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’ve met his wife, and that wasn’t the woman in those pictures. But that’s just between us, of course. Unless he wants to take it up with someone else. I can play it that way too.
I’ll tell you what’s really getting on my nerves, though: how paranoid everyone is about their e-mail. Like we’re here just to spy on them. Do you think I have time for that? Just think about how many messages you send on an average day. Now times that by everyone in the company. No way could I read that much e-mail, even if I wanted to! I’m just trying to stay ahead of the dangers, and the only way to do that is to check out the suspicious stuff. It’s not my fault if people can’t be smart enough to send messages without little movie files about office Olympics or pictures of dogs in Halloween costumes. That’s the stuff I have to review. If people would just write to each other about appropriate work stuff, then we’d have no problem. And if they’d clean up their language a little, I wouldn’t have to see the details of their trip to the doctor or the marginally illegal thing they did to their ex-boyfriend.
I mean, just as an example.
The paranoia, though, that’s just irritating. And everyone’s so nice to my face, of course. But I hear the whispering, and, come on, they have to know that if they’re writing e-mails to each other about it and using words like “spying” and “espionage” and “Spam,” I’m going to see that. Doesn’t that stand to reason?
Well, you’re right. I suppose maybe people don’t always know that, but that’s not an excuse. They should know it. So when they write stuff like that, it makes it all the harder for me to be nice about things. Someone writes an e-mail about how the whole IT department is a bunch of Nazis, and the next thing they do is write me some nicey-nice message about how they were expecting this document, and could I please see if something’s happened to it? Yes, please, ask the Nazis for assistance. The same evil people who are violating your rights are really going to spend half a day scrolling through mail queues to figure out if your drop-out, drug-addicted son sent his resume along for you to review. Or something like that.
I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but as far as I’m concerned, sending something in a company e-mail is about the same as putting it up on the bulletin board in the coffee room. The whole privacy thing is such an illusion. You’d think management would be above that … or at least that they’d know that the guy they barely have time to say hi to in the parking lot is the same guy who gets to see when they’re arguing with their wives about how late they’re having to work all of a sudden. And then at the same time has to approve some message from their college-age girlfriend … the one who likes to reveal whether or not she’s wearing underwear and always wants to know when they can get away to a hotel in the city for a weekend again.
Really, when I think about how much money gets spent on those little extracurriculars, it makes it a lot harder for me to deal with the crap salary they pay me. Because it’s not like they’re using their own credit cards to pay for that stuff. Their wives might see that. But I’ve asked Eva in Accounts Payable, and she’s seen a lot of suspicious weekend stays at the Four Seasons for a certain person whose title starts with “C” and “E.” I’ll let you connect the dots on that one.
Look, I’ve got to get going. There’s this whole new virus or something I have to check on, and if I know the people in this company, they’re probably going to cripple the whole network if I don’t keep on top of it.
All that stuff was in confidence, by the way. I mean, people still have a right to privacy, even if they don’t do anything to help themselves. So seriously, don’t tell anyone.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Previously On . . .
She brushes her son’s long, dark hair out of his eyes. He looks up, tears still on his cheeks. “We’ll get through this,” she says. “Together.”
* * *
A green station wagon rolls into a lonely gas station at dusk. Steam rolls out from under its hood.
* * *
“That kid, this station wagon, and about sixteen outfits that are two years out of date,” she tells the old man at the gas station. “That’s all I have left in the world.”
“That’s enough,” the man says, nodding and spitting. “Long as you don’t count on the car.”
* * *
She and her son step into a tiny motel room with twin beds and three different kinds of wallpaper. She drops her suitcases. “We’re home,” she says hollowly.
* * *
She and her son sit at bright yellow counter in a highway diner. They scour the newspaper. “What skills have you got?” the fifteen-year-old asks.
“What’re they asking? I can lie with the best of them.”
* * *
The sheriff tips his hat back and looks at her across his cluttered desk. “How soon can you start?” he drawls.
"Don’t you have to take some kind of test or something?” she asks.
“All in good time,” he says. “It’s not like we have any other candidates.”
* * *
She stands behind a low counter, buttoned up in the light brown uniform of the local police. She speaks rapidly into the microphone of a dispatch unit. “Hey, I just started!” she shouts. “I don’t know if it’s a 3120, a 4711, or a 5150! Just get over there! You can ask the damn cows if they’re being stolen or not!”
* * *
“Your boy’s starting school here in September?” the handsome man with smiling eyes asks.
“Despite my best efforts,” she says.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says, holding out his hand in greeting. “Coach Byerly. Maybe he wants to come out for track?”
* * *
She watches from the stands while her son lopes around the track. Coach Byerly stands next to her. “He’s got some talent,” he says.
She smiles wistfully. “Yeah, so did his dad.”
“So where’s he these days?”
She shrugs. “What can I tell you? He was always a good runner.”
* * *
The boy, now with close-cropped hair and wearing a letter jacket, is slammed against a row of school lockers. A larger blond boy flanked by two friends, points at him threateningly. “Becky doesn’t want nothing to do with you.”
“I agree,” says the dark-haired boy.
The blond boy looks confused. “You do?”
He rolls his eyes. “If you don’t get double negatives, then maybe you’ll get this,” he says, then rushes headlong into the blond boy.
* * *
His mother stands in the doctor’s office, a mixture of anger and concern on her face as she looks at her son with his assortment of bruises and bandages. “How do you think it feels to be dispatching a patrol car to break up a fight your son is in?” she asks.
He looks up at her. “I don’t know. As bad as getting the crap kicked out of you by three football players?”
* * *
The boy sits on the tailgate of an old pickup truck, talking in low tones to a pretty blonde girl with a round face. “Darryl’s always like that,” she says, touching his bruised cheek tenderly. “Don’t let him get to you.”
The boy shrugs. “He already got to me,” he says. “But I’m not going to let him stop me.
They kiss.
* * *
Twin silhouettes of teen boys run across a darkening horizon. A thin curl of smoke rises from a building in the distance.
* * *
The boy is speaking into the telephone in the hotel room, now made much homier. “Becky’s barn?” he asks, alarmed. “Is she okay?”
* * *
Coach Byerly drives speedily through the night. The boy sits next to him, his face an emotionless mask. “This probably isn’t the time, but since your mother and I have been seeing each other, I want us to try to be friends.”
The boy nods. “You’re right,” he says. “This isn’t the time.”
* * *
She sits at her post at work, speaking into her dispatcher’s unit. “I don’t want us to fight anymore,” she says. “I want us to both be happy for a change … at least for a little while.”
Outside the police station, her son is stretched out across the front seat of a parked police cruiser. He’s been crying. The last couple of words his mother just spoke crackle over the radio. He holds the microphone to his face and clicks its black trigger. “Fine. Let’s try it and see what that’s like.”
* * *
A green station wagon rolls into a lonely gas station at dusk. Steam rolls out from under its hood.
* * *
“That kid, this station wagon, and about sixteen outfits that are two years out of date,” she tells the old man at the gas station. “That’s all I have left in the world.”
“That’s enough,” the man says, nodding and spitting. “Long as you don’t count on the car.”
* * *
She and her son step into a tiny motel room with twin beds and three different kinds of wallpaper. She drops her suitcases. “We’re home,” she says hollowly.
* * *
She and her son sit at bright yellow counter in a highway diner. They scour the newspaper. “What skills have you got?” the fifteen-year-old asks.
“What’re they asking? I can lie with the best of them.”
* * *
The sheriff tips his hat back and looks at her across his cluttered desk. “How soon can you start?” he drawls.
"Don’t you have to take some kind of test or something?” she asks.
“All in good time,” he says. “It’s not like we have any other candidates.”
* * *
She stands behind a low counter, buttoned up in the light brown uniform of the local police. She speaks rapidly into the microphone of a dispatch unit. “Hey, I just started!” she shouts. “I don’t know if it’s a 3120, a 4711, or a 5150! Just get over there! You can ask the damn cows if they’re being stolen or not!”
* * *
“Your boy’s starting school here in September?” the handsome man with smiling eyes asks.
“Despite my best efforts,” she says.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says, holding out his hand in greeting. “Coach Byerly. Maybe he wants to come out for track?”
* * *
She watches from the stands while her son lopes around the track. Coach Byerly stands next to her. “He’s got some talent,” he says.
She smiles wistfully. “Yeah, so did his dad.”
“So where’s he these days?”
She shrugs. “What can I tell you? He was always a good runner.”
* * *
The boy, now with close-cropped hair and wearing a letter jacket, is slammed against a row of school lockers. A larger blond boy flanked by two friends, points at him threateningly. “Becky doesn’t want nothing to do with you.”
“I agree,” says the dark-haired boy.
The blond boy looks confused. “You do?”
He rolls his eyes. “If you don’t get double negatives, then maybe you’ll get this,” he says, then rushes headlong into the blond boy.
* * *
His mother stands in the doctor’s office, a mixture of anger and concern on her face as she looks at her son with his assortment of bruises and bandages. “How do you think it feels to be dispatching a patrol car to break up a fight your son is in?” she asks.
He looks up at her. “I don’t know. As bad as getting the crap kicked out of you by three football players?”
* * *
The boy sits on the tailgate of an old pickup truck, talking in low tones to a pretty blonde girl with a round face. “Darryl’s always like that,” she says, touching his bruised cheek tenderly. “Don’t let him get to you.”
The boy shrugs. “He already got to me,” he says. “But I’m not going to let him stop me.
They kiss.
* * *
Twin silhouettes of teen boys run across a darkening horizon. A thin curl of smoke rises from a building in the distance.
* * *
The boy is speaking into the telephone in the hotel room, now made much homier. “Becky’s barn?” he asks, alarmed. “Is she okay?”
* * *
Coach Byerly drives speedily through the night. The boy sits next to him, his face an emotionless mask. “This probably isn’t the time, but since your mother and I have been seeing each other, I want us to try to be friends.”
The boy nods. “You’re right,” he says. “This isn’t the time.”
* * *
She sits at her post at work, speaking into her dispatcher’s unit. “I don’t want us to fight anymore,” she says. “I want us to both be happy for a change … at least for a little while.”
Outside the police station, her son is stretched out across the front seat of a parked police cruiser. He’s been crying. The last couple of words his mother just spoke crackle over the radio. He holds the microphone to his face and clicks its black trigger. “Fine. Let’s try it and see what that’s like.”
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Forecast
If you were to ask, I could tell you all about your future.
I could assure you about the next dozen years or so, take away all your worries. I could remove the nagging doubts about your choices. I could let you know with perfect certainty whether or not you're on the right path. You'd get a lot more rest, I'm telling you.
For instance, I could tell you that, yes, the choices you've been making will pay off. In your relationship you've invested a lot of time, taken a lot of risks. You've given up a lot. You've made yourself vulnerable, and at times you weren't sure if that would be enough, if that would hold him. But I'm here to tell you it will. He'll remember these things at crucial moments, moments when maybe he's wavering, and he'll choose you. See? Aren't you glad to know? No reason to be so concerned!
But, okay, the next couple of years aren't going to be cakewalks. Not at all. But if you're fully prepared to deal with whatever happens, things will eventually fall into place very much the way you want. That's the truth to cling to. That's the prize. Eyes on it!
How about this? That job in Santa Monica will come through for him in another few weeks. He'll want to take it, and naturally you'll tell him you want him to take it, and so he will. It's the future you've both been imagining. Good job, stable industry, nice surroundings. Hey, I know these things. Trust me. Know what else? Money will no longer be a problem. No more arguments about that, anyway.
Of course there's obviously going to be an adjustment period. He'll move out there first to get set up, find a place to live. It's going to feel like he's leaving, but you'll tell yourself that at least he's looking for a place for the both of you to live. No more of this leaving-your-wardrobe-draped-between-two-apartments thing. If you move, you're moving with him, and that means living with him. Finally. After four years? What was he waiting for, anyway?
This is where there'll be a bit of a hang-up, but you can push past that. You've done it before. You know if you keep working on the relationship, it will eventually come on line again. Is it even worth going into details? It's the same stuff--his maturity issues, his half-formed notions of individuality, his naive ambitions that you've always encouraged him in but that he's never really done anything about. And just like all the times before, he'll come around after a few months. You will get back together. Maybe there'll be a technical breakup, but you'll both forget about most of that in time. Down the road, it won't seem so important what might have happened right before the marriage.
Oh, you caught me! Yes, I said "the marriage." Because after he's come back and helped you pack up and gotten you moved into the new place in California, he's going to pop the question. Not right away, but after another year ... a little more than a year, but not quite two. He'll ask, and you'll say yes, and you'll be so surprised and excited that you'll forget about the way you had been fighting for quite a while by then. Mostly he was just nervous and scared, but then he got around to it. See? Your mother doesn't know everything.
I'll tell you what else she got wrong: that you'd be a bad mother. Nothing could be further from the truth! You'll be an amazing mother. You're patient and kind and loving. You've learned how to overlook inconsistent behavior, to love unconditionally, to be a lot more accepting than she ever was. That'll be obvious from the time your first son arrives less than a year after your wedding.
That's right: your wedding. But you want me to leave you some surprises, right? You don't want to hear whether or not he gives in to having a church wedding. Or about the incident at the bachelor party. Or the tedious details of the "cold feet" conversation. Hurdles, not roadblocks, I tell you.
Oh, but here's something: Your bridesmaids will all hate the seafoam color of their dresses. Nice work!
Where was I? Oh, your son. First pregnancies can be tough, but in the end you'll have a healthy, happy baby boy. A lot like his father, actually. As he gets older, you'll see just how much, but he'll always have your eyes. You can see it when he squints, especially. And when he laughs, you'll swear your little brother is in the room again. Your husband will adore him, and he'll adore you just for being his mother.
You'll never know a more stable time than those few years right after his birth. And there will be one bright June day when the three of you go out to the ballpark for the first time as a family. Your husband will be bursting with pride as he tells your son with hushed excitement just what all those men are doing down there on the diamond. Around the fifth inning, with your husband's favorite team since his own boyhood leading eight runs to two, both of the men in your life will look over at you at the exact same time and smile.
Decades later, you'll look back on that moment as the happiest in your entire life. Promise.
I could assure you about the next dozen years or so, take away all your worries. I could remove the nagging doubts about your choices. I could let you know with perfect certainty whether or not you're on the right path. You'd get a lot more rest, I'm telling you.
For instance, I could tell you that, yes, the choices you've been making will pay off. In your relationship you've invested a lot of time, taken a lot of risks. You've given up a lot. You've made yourself vulnerable, and at times you weren't sure if that would be enough, if that would hold him. But I'm here to tell you it will. He'll remember these things at crucial moments, moments when maybe he's wavering, and he'll choose you. See? Aren't you glad to know? No reason to be so concerned!
But, okay, the next couple of years aren't going to be cakewalks. Not at all. But if you're fully prepared to deal with whatever happens, things will eventually fall into place very much the way you want. That's the truth to cling to. That's the prize. Eyes on it!
How about this? That job in Santa Monica will come through for him in another few weeks. He'll want to take it, and naturally you'll tell him you want him to take it, and so he will. It's the future you've both been imagining. Good job, stable industry, nice surroundings. Hey, I know these things. Trust me. Know what else? Money will no longer be a problem. No more arguments about that, anyway.
Of course there's obviously going to be an adjustment period. He'll move out there first to get set up, find a place to live. It's going to feel like he's leaving, but you'll tell yourself that at least he's looking for a place for the both of you to live. No more of this leaving-your-wardrobe-draped-between-two-apartments thing. If you move, you're moving with him, and that means living with him. Finally. After four years? What was he waiting for, anyway?
This is where there'll be a bit of a hang-up, but you can push past that. You've done it before. You know if you keep working on the relationship, it will eventually come on line again. Is it even worth going into details? It's the same stuff--his maturity issues, his half-formed notions of individuality, his naive ambitions that you've always encouraged him in but that he's never really done anything about. And just like all the times before, he'll come around after a few months. You will get back together. Maybe there'll be a technical breakup, but you'll both forget about most of that in time. Down the road, it won't seem so important what might have happened right before the marriage.
Oh, you caught me! Yes, I said "the marriage." Because after he's come back and helped you pack up and gotten you moved into the new place in California, he's going to pop the question. Not right away, but after another year ... a little more than a year, but not quite two. He'll ask, and you'll say yes, and you'll be so surprised and excited that you'll forget about the way you had been fighting for quite a while by then. Mostly he was just nervous and scared, but then he got around to it. See? Your mother doesn't know everything.
I'll tell you what else she got wrong: that you'd be a bad mother. Nothing could be further from the truth! You'll be an amazing mother. You're patient and kind and loving. You've learned how to overlook inconsistent behavior, to love unconditionally, to be a lot more accepting than she ever was. That'll be obvious from the time your first son arrives less than a year after your wedding.
That's right: your wedding. But you want me to leave you some surprises, right? You don't want to hear whether or not he gives in to having a church wedding. Or about the incident at the bachelor party. Or the tedious details of the "cold feet" conversation. Hurdles, not roadblocks, I tell you.
Oh, but here's something: Your bridesmaids will all hate the seafoam color of their dresses. Nice work!
Where was I? Oh, your son. First pregnancies can be tough, but in the end you'll have a healthy, happy baby boy. A lot like his father, actually. As he gets older, you'll see just how much, but he'll always have your eyes. You can see it when he squints, especially. And when he laughs, you'll swear your little brother is in the room again. Your husband will adore him, and he'll adore you just for being his mother.
You'll never know a more stable time than those few years right after his birth. And there will be one bright June day when the three of you go out to the ballpark for the first time as a family. Your husband will be bursting with pride as he tells your son with hushed excitement just what all those men are doing down there on the diamond. Around the fifth inning, with your husband's favorite team since his own boyhood leading eight runs to two, both of the men in your life will look over at you at the exact same time and smile.
Decades later, you'll look back on that moment as the happiest in your entire life. Promise.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Popular Monsters and Their Primary Antisocial Characteristics
Frankenstein’s Monster: Unpredictable violence; undeveloped conversational skills
The Mummy: Slow, relentless mauling; poor hygiene; adherence to obscure, rigid religious beliefs
Zombies: Slow, relentless mauling; poor hygiene; clannishness
Dracula / vampires: Narcissistic charm punctuated by bloodletting; superiority complex; Eurocentricity
Werewolves: Tendencies toward primal behavior; lunar obsession; parasite infestations
Crazed robots/computers: Superior attitude; monotonous modes of expression; inability to compromise
Demonic manifestations: Absolutist thinking (reliance on “good vs. evil” paradigm); overt need to provoke through unpleasant appearance, behavior, smell, etc.
Ghosts: Inability to let go of the past; tendency toward shocking behavior, followed by flight
Poltergeists: Same as above, but with property damage; acting out; pathological fixation on the young
Gigantic monstrosities/swarming hordes/environmental threats of all kinds: Arrogant, finger-wagging reminders of our own fears of modernity; reductionism; knee-jerk mistrust of science and progress
Invaders from space: Xenophobia; delusions of grandeur; reliance on complicated means of asexual reproduction; occasional gunplay
The lone, indestructible killer: Sociopathy; low self-esteem; misuse of edged weapons, power tools, and farm implements
The Mummy: Slow, relentless mauling; poor hygiene; adherence to obscure, rigid religious beliefs
Zombies: Slow, relentless mauling; poor hygiene; clannishness
Dracula / vampires: Narcissistic charm punctuated by bloodletting; superiority complex; Eurocentricity
Werewolves: Tendencies toward primal behavior; lunar obsession; parasite infestations
Crazed robots/computers: Superior attitude; monotonous modes of expression; inability to compromise
Demonic manifestations: Absolutist thinking (reliance on “good vs. evil” paradigm); overt need to provoke through unpleasant appearance, behavior, smell, etc.
Ghosts: Inability to let go of the past; tendency toward shocking behavior, followed by flight
Poltergeists: Same as above, but with property damage; acting out; pathological fixation on the young
Gigantic monstrosities/swarming hordes/environmental threats of all kinds: Arrogant, finger-wagging reminders of our own fears of modernity; reductionism; knee-jerk mistrust of science and progress
Invaders from space: Xenophobia; delusions of grandeur; reliance on complicated means of asexual reproduction; occasional gunplay
The lone, indestructible killer: Sociopathy; low self-esteem; misuse of edged weapons, power tools, and farm implements
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