Read Online Fathermucker by Greg Olear - Free Book Online Page A

brown Crocs for brown Docs. This combination is what I’ve worn for probably 1,585 of the 1,600 days we’ve lived in New Paltz. Carson from Queer Eye would take one look and turn into a pillar of salt.
    I’ve just pulled on today’s T-shirt—a blue-on-blue number bearing the inscription NEW JERSEY: THE ALMOST HEAVEN STATE over a line drawing of my home state, which I bought to honor my son’s latest obsession, and also because the indeterminate irony of the sentiment amuses me—when Roland meanders into the bedroom, running a Matchbox car along the wall as he walks, and stands at attention next to me, or as close as he can to attention, which involves a considerable amount of spinning, rocking, and the making of odd hand gestures. He comes up to my belly button, tall for his age.
    â€œDaddy,” he tells me. “I’m bored of watching TV.”
    His gaze meets my own, but unlike his sister’s, there is no intensity to it. His eyes look like mine must look when I’m getting my hair cut, and my glasses are on the table next to the brushes and combs, and the cute stylist pauses in her ministrations to offer some pithy comment, glancing at me in the mirror, and I direct my myopic gaze to where I think she’s looking, but I am physically incapable of making genuine eye contact.
    â€œOh, really.”
    â€œAnd what shall I do now?”
    We have the same conversation every morning—repetition is key for Roland; once something works its way into his routine, the habit becomes difficult, if not impossible, to dislodge—so I know where he’s going with this, but I try and draw him out, have him articulate his needs explicitly, rather than in this indirect way, despite his employment of grown-up words like shall , that frustrates his ability to get what he wants. Roland often speaks in riddles, coming off like a pre-K sphinx.
    â€œI don’t know. What would you like to do?”
    â€œSomething else,” he says.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œSomething that begins with ‘c.’ ”
    I pause, pretending to contemplate this. Part of the game. “Cat? You want to play with Steve?”
    A broad smile breaks across his face. He really is a handsome devil. He’s got that going for him, at least. “Nooooo.”
    â€œCar? You want to ride in the car?”
    â€œNo. It starts with ‘c’ and ends with ‘puter.’ ”
    â€œCat-puter?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œCar-puter?”
    â€œNo!”
    And I pretend to have an epiphany. “Ohhhhh. You mean the computer ?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œOkay.”
    We go back in his room, and I set up the old laptop. Roland and I used to peruse the real estate websites together—he likes looking at pictures of the interiors of houses, especially if chandeliers are involved—and one day I got so bored of this that I showed him how to click around. Teach a man to fish. The first day, I had to help him every few minutes, but by the second day, he’d gotten the hang of it. The third day, I went to check on him, and found him on Google, his Field Guide to American Houses open on the desk next to him, trying to type “Louisville” into the search engine bar (there are a number of lovely old homes in Louisville; it’s his second favorite city after Cleveland). He also enjoys surfing through the various lighting sites— Lamps Plus, Shades of Light, Capitol Lighting , and so forth—and checking out the torchières and the floor lamps, the sconces and the accent lights.
    â€œWhat do you want to look at?” I ask him.
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “You pick.”
    He says this, but I know he knows what he wants; he just won’t come out and tell me.
    â€œLamps?”
    â€œNo. No lamps.”
    â€œHouses?”
    â€œOkay.”
    I go to the real estate subsection of pluggedincleveland.com, and click on the SHAKER HEIGHTS link.