Read Online My American Unhappiness by Dean Bakopoulos - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dean Bakopoulos
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any condition to care for them, so I said you were on a conference call."
"Lara!"
"Zeke, you got drunk at lunch!"
"Please, please, Lara," I say. "Why hurl such accusations?"
"They're little angels anyway," she says. "I don't mind. They're doing an art project."
Lara smiles at me with a warmth that seems genuine. I'm not sure what to do in response to that.
Perhaps my mother is right in calling Lara a
prospect.
I don't mind that she has two children from a previous marriage; in fact, I prefer it: a ready-made family longing to welcome me into its bosom, and ready to welcome my family into theirs! I can imagine adding some fiscal advantages to the family with my solid annual income of seventy-nine thousand dollars, and also, I think, they'd welcome my good sense of humor. I would play any sort of board games the children liked to play, and I would see beauty in all of their creations. I'd be at every soccer game and dance recital; I'd hang their pictures on the fridge. I'd involve myself in their imaginative games, playing house or school or spaceship.
"Is it four o'clock already?" I say, poking my head into the conference room where April and May are coloring on the whiteboard with an array of erasable markers.
They turn to me and smile.
"We're drawing a whole city," April says.
"I'm drawing the shopping mall," May says.
"Wow," I say. "Impressive. I'd live there."
I watch them work a little while longer.
"What's that?" I ask April.
"The wastewater treatment plant."
"Wow. How do you know about that?"
"I want to be an urban planner when I grow up," April says.
"How do you even know what that means?" I ask.
"It's part of our social studies unit," May says.
"How old are you again?" I ask, feigning a dramatic incredulity.
"Seven," they both say, giggling.
"Don't seven-year-olds like to do kids' stuff? Or is it all about urban planning now?"
"We like kids' stuff," May says.
"Yeah, Uncle Zeke," April says. "We love kids' stuff too. We just like learning."
"Let's go get some mac-and-cheese?" I say. "Then some ice cream? And let's learn absolutely nothing?"
The girls whoop with glee, dropping their markers and running to the front door. As we exit, I notice Lara looking at us and smiling, and, for what it's worth, I give her a jaunty wink.
***
I take the girls to State Street, to the Noodles restaurant, a high-end fast-food place that has all the forced charm of an urban bistro with none of the shabby ambience. They both love the macaroni-and-cheese entrée here, as do I, a warm mush of yellow cheese, butter, and noodles, a fat-and-carbohydrate orgy that always hits my system like a drug. Everything is clean and well shined at Noodles, even at this hour, the height of the dinner rush. The ceiling seems impossibly far away, fashionably exposing ductwork painted taupe and gray. I place our orders at the counter, including a beer for myself, and then I get each of the girls a gigantic glass of orange Hi-C with ice, against all my good judgment, and find us a booth in the corner. Before I had a relationship with these nieces of mine, I never understood the immense pride and satisfaction that can come from simply being able to purchase a meal for children. My feeling as a provider to two dependent souls sustains me in dark times when, in truth, I'm not sure anything else could.
"This is gonna be sooooooo good," May croons, as we take our seats in the booth.
"I'm totally starved," April says, almost shaking with anticipation.
Just then, I see sitting at the booth opposite, nose in a book—
The Uses of Enchantment
by Heidi Julavits—Minn. A number stands on her table, meaning she's just arrived and is waiting for her food as well. Minn turns to look at us, as April and May begin to talk excitedly about what dishes they would serve if they ran a restaurant—avocados, strawberry jelly, Wheat Thins—and sm iles.
"Hello, Zeke," she says.
"Hi, Minn," I say. She's wearing her Starbucks uniform but still looks
"Lara!"
"Zeke, you got drunk at lunch!"
"Please, please, Lara," I say. "Why hurl such accusations?"
"They're little angels anyway," she says. "I don't mind. They're doing an art project."
Lara smiles at me with a warmth that seems genuine. I'm not sure what to do in response to that.
Perhaps my mother is right in calling Lara a
prospect.
I don't mind that she has two children from a previous marriage; in fact, I prefer it: a ready-made family longing to welcome me into its bosom, and ready to welcome my family into theirs! I can imagine adding some fiscal advantages to the family with my solid annual income of seventy-nine thousand dollars, and also, I think, they'd welcome my good sense of humor. I would play any sort of board games the children liked to play, and I would see beauty in all of their creations. I'd be at every soccer game and dance recital; I'd hang their pictures on the fridge. I'd involve myself in their imaginative games, playing house or school or spaceship.
"Is it four o'clock already?" I say, poking my head into the conference room where April and May are coloring on the whiteboard with an array of erasable markers.
They turn to me and smile.
"We're drawing a whole city," April says.
"I'm drawing the shopping mall," May says.
"Wow," I say. "Impressive. I'd live there."
I watch them work a little while longer.
"What's that?" I ask April.
"The wastewater treatment plant."
"Wow. How do you know about that?"
"I want to be an urban planner when I grow up," April says.
"How do you even know what that means?" I ask.
"It's part of our social studies unit," May says.
"How old are you again?" I ask, feigning a dramatic incredulity.
"Seven," they both say, giggling.
"Don't seven-year-olds like to do kids' stuff? Or is it all about urban planning now?"
"We like kids' stuff," May says.
"Yeah, Uncle Zeke," April says. "We love kids' stuff too. We just like learning."
"Let's go get some mac-and-cheese?" I say. "Then some ice cream? And let's learn absolutely nothing?"
The girls whoop with glee, dropping their markers and running to the front door. As we exit, I notice Lara looking at us and smiling, and, for what it's worth, I give her a jaunty wink.
***
I take the girls to State Street, to the Noodles restaurant, a high-end fast-food place that has all the forced charm of an urban bistro with none of the shabby ambience. They both love the macaroni-and-cheese entrée here, as do I, a warm mush of yellow cheese, butter, and noodles, a fat-and-carbohydrate orgy that always hits my system like a drug. Everything is clean and well shined at Noodles, even at this hour, the height of the dinner rush. The ceiling seems impossibly far away, fashionably exposing ductwork painted taupe and gray. I place our orders at the counter, including a beer for myself, and then I get each of the girls a gigantic glass of orange Hi-C with ice, against all my good judgment, and find us a booth in the corner. Before I had a relationship with these nieces of mine, I never understood the immense pride and satisfaction that can come from simply being able to purchase a meal for children. My feeling as a provider to two dependent souls sustains me in dark times when, in truth, I'm not sure anything else could.
"This is gonna be sooooooo good," May croons, as we take our seats in the booth.
"I'm totally starved," April says, almost shaking with anticipation.
Just then, I see sitting at the booth opposite, nose in a book—
The Uses of Enchantment
by Heidi Julavits—Minn. A number stands on her table, meaning she's just arrived and is waiting for her food as well. Minn turns to look at us, as April and May begin to talk excitedly about what dishes they would serve if they ran a restaurant—avocados, strawberry jelly, Wheat Thins—and sm iles.
"Hello, Zeke," she says.
"Hi, Minn," I say. She's wearing her Starbucks uniform but still looks
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