still unbearable here. He’s always angry. I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“What can you do?”
Mom tapped a finger against the kitchen counter and gazed off. “We’ll see.”
* * *
When you’re a kid, things are mostly black and white, good and bad. Then you get to be a teenager and you start to see the gradual hues in between. Is someone good or bad? Both? A little more of one than the other? Dad stayed home with me when I was little because as a stockbroker Mom was making more money than he was and they didn’t want to put me in day care or have some other person raise me. Think being a stay-at-home dad is easy? Even as a little kid I was aware of the looks other moms gave him in the supermarket, and at school when he volunteered for the book fair. And it’s not so hard to imagine what it must have been like for him at parties with the other fathers talking about their jobs as lawyers and bankers and whatever.
But he took all that crap for my sake, and guided me toward pitching, which is probably the best thing that I ever did.
On the downside? He didn’t have the best judgment. Not a lot of ambition, either. Liked to play more than he liked to work. Took his brother-in-law’s golf clubs without asking.
* * *
“Think of it this way,” Dad said in the car later that afternoon. “It’s not that much different from any other campground.”
I didn’t know what to say. We were parked on the street across from Dignityville. Earlier that afternoon Mom and Dad went somewhere while I’d gone back to Uncle Ron’s neighbor’s to work. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask where they’d gone.
Now I knew.
It was getting close to sunset, and inside Dignityville people were filing into the big tent in the middle of the park. A few were the grungy types you imagined homeless people to be—old guys with greasy hair and scraggly beards, ladies wearing too many sweaters. But others looked as neatly dressed as anyone who had a home.
The weird thing was, sitting there in the car, it felt like a scene out of The Grapes of Wrath —the Joads pulling up to a Hooverville. All I could think was, They can’t really want me to live there, can they?
“Just have a look, Dan.” Dad reached for the door handle. Mom gazed over the seat at me with obvious concern. “Try to keep an open mind.”
“There’s no place else we can go?” I asked.
“Not if we don’t want to feel beholden to whomever we’re staying with,” Mom replied.
I couldn’t believe they were serious. So what if UncleRon’s house was filled with negative energy? It had to be a hundred times better than living in a tent.
We crossed the street and went through the entrance. A big handwritten sign said:
WELCOME TO DIGNITYVILLE
We Thrive on Mutual Respect and Tolerance
No violence is tolerated.
No weapons are allowed.
Sobriety is required.
No verbal or physical abuse will be tolerated.
Anyone who cannot respect these rules will be asked to leave.
If they do not leave voluntarily, the police will be called to remove them.
“Is Aubrey around?” Dad asked a heavyset guy with shaggy eyebrows and a thick bushy beard.
“He went over to the church to get dinner,” the guy answered, then pointed. “There he is.”
A dented old van had pulled up to the entrance and a couple of people started off-loading big pots.
“Hey, Aubrey!” The heavyset guy waved and gestured at my parents and me. A tall, thin fellow with a neatly trimmed beard started toward us. Here in Dignityville beards and plaid shirts were definitely the go-to look.
“So, you must be Dan.” Aubrey offered his hand. It was obvious my parents had told him they’d be bringing me over for a visit. “Come on, let’s take the tour.”
I noticed right away that there was something earnest and welcoming about Aubrey, but it didn’t matter. This was seriously out of the question. Dignityville was basically a refugee camp: bottom of the barrel, end of the road. Maybe other
“What can you do?”
Mom tapped a finger against the kitchen counter and gazed off. “We’ll see.”
* * *
When you’re a kid, things are mostly black and white, good and bad. Then you get to be a teenager and you start to see the gradual hues in between. Is someone good or bad? Both? A little more of one than the other? Dad stayed home with me when I was little because as a stockbroker Mom was making more money than he was and they didn’t want to put me in day care or have some other person raise me. Think being a stay-at-home dad is easy? Even as a little kid I was aware of the looks other moms gave him in the supermarket, and at school when he volunteered for the book fair. And it’s not so hard to imagine what it must have been like for him at parties with the other fathers talking about their jobs as lawyers and bankers and whatever.
But he took all that crap for my sake, and guided me toward pitching, which is probably the best thing that I ever did.
On the downside? He didn’t have the best judgment. Not a lot of ambition, either. Liked to play more than he liked to work. Took his brother-in-law’s golf clubs without asking.
* * *
“Think of it this way,” Dad said in the car later that afternoon. “It’s not that much different from any other campground.”
I didn’t know what to say. We were parked on the street across from Dignityville. Earlier that afternoon Mom and Dad went somewhere while I’d gone back to Uncle Ron’s neighbor’s to work. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask where they’d gone.
Now I knew.
It was getting close to sunset, and inside Dignityville people were filing into the big tent in the middle of the park. A few were the grungy types you imagined homeless people to be—old guys with greasy hair and scraggly beards, ladies wearing too many sweaters. But others looked as neatly dressed as anyone who had a home.
The weird thing was, sitting there in the car, it felt like a scene out of The Grapes of Wrath —the Joads pulling up to a Hooverville. All I could think was, They can’t really want me to live there, can they?
“Just have a look, Dan.” Dad reached for the door handle. Mom gazed over the seat at me with obvious concern. “Try to keep an open mind.”
“There’s no place else we can go?” I asked.
“Not if we don’t want to feel beholden to whomever we’re staying with,” Mom replied.
I couldn’t believe they were serious. So what if UncleRon’s house was filled with negative energy? It had to be a hundred times better than living in a tent.
We crossed the street and went through the entrance. A big handwritten sign said:
WELCOME TO DIGNITYVILLE
We Thrive on Mutual Respect and Tolerance
No violence is tolerated.
No weapons are allowed.
Sobriety is required.
No verbal or physical abuse will be tolerated.
Anyone who cannot respect these rules will be asked to leave.
If they do not leave voluntarily, the police will be called to remove them.
“Is Aubrey around?” Dad asked a heavyset guy with shaggy eyebrows and a thick bushy beard.
“He went over to the church to get dinner,” the guy answered, then pointed. “There he is.”
A dented old van had pulled up to the entrance and a couple of people started off-loading big pots.
“Hey, Aubrey!” The heavyset guy waved and gestured at my parents and me. A tall, thin fellow with a neatly trimmed beard started toward us. Here in Dignityville beards and plaid shirts were definitely the go-to look.
“So, you must be Dan.” Aubrey offered his hand. It was obvious my parents had told him they’d be bringing me over for a visit. “Come on, let’s take the tour.”
I noticed right away that there was something earnest and welcoming about Aubrey, but it didn’t matter. This was seriously out of the question. Dignityville was basically a refugee camp: bottom of the barrel, end of the road. Maybe other
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