song. “Dad?” It was torture even trying to get him to listen. He wasn’t even looking at guitars; he was just spacing.
“Oh yeah, Belle. That’s nice. Sounds good.”
“Thanks.” Was he listening or not? This was the problem with Dad. He was pretty good at pretending to clue in—he could put a smile on and nod at all the right moments—but I had the feeling he barely heard a word I said.
Suddenly, another loud crash from the percussion room. “Oh boy, here we go,” said my dad, going to investigate. I couldn’t hear what was said after that, but he really looked like he was about to lose it when he entered the room. X had probably knocked some drums over or something, and Dad seemed like he was about to cry. My mom and I just stood there nervously. And before we knew it, there was another crash, followed by my dad letting out a truly pained sounding “Owwww!” Then X flew out of the room, zipped by me, and took refuge behind a Marshall stack.
“He threw a cymbal at my shin.” My dad race-limped out, rolling up his pant leg to inspect the damage. I could see a welt was already forming. “This is family time? What did I do?”
Yep, that just about summed it up. Together time. Love and kisses. A family outing, Cabrera-style, complete with two kids who were angry beyond words and two parents who didn’t seem to understand why. The only difference between X and me was that he had the courage to actually show how mad he was while I escaped into Beatles songs. I couldn’t wait to get home and play my bass.
Rock stars just don’t do family outings.
HAIKU CITY
I went straight to my “room,” pulled out my cell phone, and dialed Abuela’s number. What would she have to say about the cold, high-ceilinged apartment, the mic stands left in the shower, my parents staying up all night, forgetting to tuck in X, forgetting even to make dinner most nights?
By the fourth ring, I knew she wasn’t going to pick up. This was the hard thing about trying to call Abuela. She was always home, but she could never get to the phone before the old-school answering machine picked up. It was only six p.m., so I figured she was either doing the dishes, asleep in front of the TV, or blasting an old merengue CD on the boom box in her bedroom. Sure enough, the outgoing message started to play, the same one Abuela had kept on the machine my whole life. Abuela spoke loudly and at a slow pace that always used to drive me crazy when I’d call home. Tonight, though, I didn’t mind. The thought of Abuela recording this years ago, probably reading and rereading the simple message a dozen times to get it right, made me smile.
“Joo have reach home of Marielis Eliana Cabrera … and her family also …” She sounded like she was yelling at a deaf person. “Please, now, you leave message for us. And … we will call you back … when we are no busy. Please speak slowly, and do not to leave a message too long. Good-bye.”
“ Hola , Abuela, it’s me, Annabelle … are you there?” I yelled it, but I knew from experience how unlikely it was that Abuela would hear the message, now or ever. She rarely remembered to check the machine, and my parents and I would sometimes have to go through dozens of messages, one by one, when the tape filled up and the machine stopped working.
“Abuela, I hope you are doing good. X and I are okay. We both started school a couple weeks ago. There’re only a few middle schools in Providence, so my school’s way bigger than 44 3. Mom and Dad are busy with recording all the time. X is okay, I guess. Today he threw a cymbal at Dad. I would really love to talk to you right now. Do you have my cell? 71 8- 21 5- 133 3. Call me if you can, okay? Love you, Abuela. Call me …”
EggMtnRckr: Wait, WHY exactly did X throw a cymbal?
Did he draw blood?
Bassinyrface: No, no … I mean, I’m sure it hurt, but my dad didnt go to the hospital or anything.
EggMtnRckr: What is goin on up there anyway? X is not
“Oh yeah, Belle. That’s nice. Sounds good.”
“Thanks.” Was he listening or not? This was the problem with Dad. He was pretty good at pretending to clue in—he could put a smile on and nod at all the right moments—but I had the feeling he barely heard a word I said.
Suddenly, another loud crash from the percussion room. “Oh boy, here we go,” said my dad, going to investigate. I couldn’t hear what was said after that, but he really looked like he was about to lose it when he entered the room. X had probably knocked some drums over or something, and Dad seemed like he was about to cry. My mom and I just stood there nervously. And before we knew it, there was another crash, followed by my dad letting out a truly pained sounding “Owwww!” Then X flew out of the room, zipped by me, and took refuge behind a Marshall stack.
“He threw a cymbal at my shin.” My dad race-limped out, rolling up his pant leg to inspect the damage. I could see a welt was already forming. “This is family time? What did I do?”
Yep, that just about summed it up. Together time. Love and kisses. A family outing, Cabrera-style, complete with two kids who were angry beyond words and two parents who didn’t seem to understand why. The only difference between X and me was that he had the courage to actually show how mad he was while I escaped into Beatles songs. I couldn’t wait to get home and play my bass.
Rock stars just don’t do family outings.
HAIKU CITY
I went straight to my “room,” pulled out my cell phone, and dialed Abuela’s number. What would she have to say about the cold, high-ceilinged apartment, the mic stands left in the shower, my parents staying up all night, forgetting to tuck in X, forgetting even to make dinner most nights?
By the fourth ring, I knew she wasn’t going to pick up. This was the hard thing about trying to call Abuela. She was always home, but she could never get to the phone before the old-school answering machine picked up. It was only six p.m., so I figured she was either doing the dishes, asleep in front of the TV, or blasting an old merengue CD on the boom box in her bedroom. Sure enough, the outgoing message started to play, the same one Abuela had kept on the machine my whole life. Abuela spoke loudly and at a slow pace that always used to drive me crazy when I’d call home. Tonight, though, I didn’t mind. The thought of Abuela recording this years ago, probably reading and rereading the simple message a dozen times to get it right, made me smile.
“Joo have reach home of Marielis Eliana Cabrera … and her family also …” She sounded like she was yelling at a deaf person. “Please, now, you leave message for us. And … we will call you back … when we are no busy. Please speak slowly, and do not to leave a message too long. Good-bye.”
“ Hola , Abuela, it’s me, Annabelle … are you there?” I yelled it, but I knew from experience how unlikely it was that Abuela would hear the message, now or ever. She rarely remembered to check the machine, and my parents and I would sometimes have to go through dozens of messages, one by one, when the tape filled up and the machine stopped working.
“Abuela, I hope you are doing good. X and I are okay. We both started school a couple weeks ago. There’re only a few middle schools in Providence, so my school’s way bigger than 44 3. Mom and Dad are busy with recording all the time. X is okay, I guess. Today he threw a cymbal at Dad. I would really love to talk to you right now. Do you have my cell? 71 8- 21 5- 133 3. Call me if you can, okay? Love you, Abuela. Call me …”
EggMtnRckr: Wait, WHY exactly did X throw a cymbal?
Did he draw blood?
Bassinyrface: No, no … I mean, I’m sure it hurt, but my dad didnt go to the hospital or anything.
EggMtnRckr: What is goin on up there anyway? X is not
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