that! This is why we need you on the team! I think
stereo dot com
would be good. It’s easier to remember.”
The woman next to Dad stifles a smile. When I glance at her she looks away.
“Dad,” I say. “Who is
we
?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“It’s always
We’re going to start a company, we’re going to make a million dollars selling this and that
.” I’m doing my best to control my voice. “So who’s the
we
? Who’s in this with you?”
Dad looks at me as though he’s never seen me before and he’s not happy about what he sees. “I was hoping you would be,” he says.
There’s a silence, and I realize that Roy will be back soon to clear the appetizers and bring my sea bass, and I can’t bring myself to sit here for one more second.
“I gotta go, Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry.” There are other things I could say, things that include the words
alimony
and
tuition
and
asshole
, but by the time I’ve thought of them I’m already out on the street.
I am queasy the following day. My dad is fragile, held together with chicken wire and hopeless dreams, and I’ve just sliced through the whole structure with a Ginsu knife and left it flapping in the breeze. But he walked out on my mom and me, and now that I have become a man I can walk out on him. No reply from Maya. Just after five o’clock, when it’s time to turn on the lights, I call my mom and present the events of the previous evening to her as a comedy. I skip the part about walking out, because gestures of confrontation are frightening to my mom.
“When normal men turn fifty they get hair transplants or sporty cars,” she says. “Barry gets a dot-com company.”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “What can you do?”
“You can start by not marrying Barry Muller, is my advice.”
“The women of America seem to be taking your advice.” I cough. The anti-Dad conspiracy always starts to make me uncomfortable after a few minutes. “So how’s it going, Mom? Are you feeling OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “One day at a time.” I take this to mean she’s still off the painkillers. “Eric, I want to thank you for everything. And I’m really sorry for all the stuff I said.” Mom has apologized for this “stuff” at least four times, and I have no idea what she’s referring to. I’m glad she’s clean, but I wish conversations with her didn’t inevitably slide into step-nine work.
We wind down and sign off, and I turn out the lights again and stare at the blackening sky and the sparkling bridge. Looking at the city feels different now that my dad is here, as though something of mine has been repossessed. And then my computer pings and the name
Maya Marcom
appears at the top of the stack of messages, and in the preview pane the words:
1. I have a hunting license.
2. I prefer the desert to the mountains or the beach.
3. I’m not telling you this one.
Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to send her another email, using this information as the foundation for a delicate rapport, and then she’s going to send me one, marginally increasing the level of intimacy, and then our exchange will culminate with me proposing some kind of date, ostensibly to discuss some of the issues raised in the correspondence but in fact not for that purpose at all. (The sender of the initial email makes the pitch on the third move.) The flirtatious email exchange is the moment at which physical appearance and confidence temporarily give ground to wit, good judgment, and the ability to punctuate. It’s the next part that’s hard.
I’ve suggested meeting in a bar on a weeknight. The after-work drink is low-pressure—it gives her a chance to pull out after an hour or two—but it’s easy to convert: you can always say
Do you feel like getting some food
? as though food were a personal interest of yoursthat she might happen to share. My default first date is an uncrowded Valencia Street bar called Lazarus, one block from a
stereo dot com
would be good. It’s easier to remember.”
The woman next to Dad stifles a smile. When I glance at her she looks away.
“Dad,” I say. “Who is
we
?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“It’s always
We’re going to start a company, we’re going to make a million dollars selling this and that
.” I’m doing my best to control my voice. “So who’s the
we
? Who’s in this with you?”
Dad looks at me as though he’s never seen me before and he’s not happy about what he sees. “I was hoping you would be,” he says.
There’s a silence, and I realize that Roy will be back soon to clear the appetizers and bring my sea bass, and I can’t bring myself to sit here for one more second.
“I gotta go, Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry.” There are other things I could say, things that include the words
alimony
and
tuition
and
asshole
, but by the time I’ve thought of them I’m already out on the street.
I am queasy the following day. My dad is fragile, held together with chicken wire and hopeless dreams, and I’ve just sliced through the whole structure with a Ginsu knife and left it flapping in the breeze. But he walked out on my mom and me, and now that I have become a man I can walk out on him. No reply from Maya. Just after five o’clock, when it’s time to turn on the lights, I call my mom and present the events of the previous evening to her as a comedy. I skip the part about walking out, because gestures of confrontation are frightening to my mom.
“When normal men turn fifty they get hair transplants or sporty cars,” she says. “Barry gets a dot-com company.”
“I know, Mom,” I say. “What can you do?”
“You can start by not marrying Barry Muller, is my advice.”
“The women of America seem to be taking your advice.” I cough. The anti-Dad conspiracy always starts to make me uncomfortable after a few minutes. “So how’s it going, Mom? Are you feeling OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “One day at a time.” I take this to mean she’s still off the painkillers. “Eric, I want to thank you for everything. And I’m really sorry for all the stuff I said.” Mom has apologized for this “stuff” at least four times, and I have no idea what she’s referring to. I’m glad she’s clean, but I wish conversations with her didn’t inevitably slide into step-nine work.
We wind down and sign off, and I turn out the lights again and stare at the blackening sky and the sparkling bridge. Looking at the city feels different now that my dad is here, as though something of mine has been repossessed. And then my computer pings and the name
Maya Marcom
appears at the top of the stack of messages, and in the preview pane the words:
1. I have a hunting license.
2. I prefer the desert to the mountains or the beach.
3. I’m not telling you this one.
Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to send her another email, using this information as the foundation for a delicate rapport, and then she’s going to send me one, marginally increasing the level of intimacy, and then our exchange will culminate with me proposing some kind of date, ostensibly to discuss some of the issues raised in the correspondence but in fact not for that purpose at all. (The sender of the initial email makes the pitch on the third move.) The flirtatious email exchange is the moment at which physical appearance and confidence temporarily give ground to wit, good judgment, and the ability to punctuate. It’s the next part that’s hard.
I’ve suggested meeting in a bar on a weeknight. The after-work drink is low-pressure—it gives her a chance to pull out after an hour or two—but it’s easy to convert: you can always say
Do you feel like getting some food
? as though food were a personal interest of yoursthat she might happen to share. My default first date is an uncrowded Valencia Street bar called Lazarus, one block from a
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