The Spectaculars (Part 1)

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



NOTE FROM IVY:
The following short story will be published in three parts. Part 2 will arrive in February, Part 3 in April. Enjoy...



I won’t mince words. I hate my son Trent.

Like most, I was taught not to hate, but hate’s definitely the right word. The notion of having a kid appealed to me in the abstract, the same way lots of people think it'd be great to be president I suppose. The reality of having a kid just plain sucks. It's not just the parental responsibility that depresses me, sucks the life out of me, makes me feel old, it's Trent himself. His physical self. His lilty voice and perfectly combed hair. The endless questions whenever I tell him to do something. The kid annoys the shit out of me.

His trendy name was my wife Kim's idea, and I hate the name too. He's not an ugly kid, but he's got an awkwardness that comes from a faraway look and a fagginess from not being able to throw. He won’t take direction. Not from me, not from anyone. He just stares at me when I give him pointers. "Step toward me, left foot first," I’ll say. He’ll push the ball at me flatfooted. "Left foot first," I’ll say, with the measured calm of a guy disguising an impulse to kick his son’s ass. The kid just stares at me with his perfectly combed hair.

Maybe it’s me.

My brother Tom has a son I call Lefty; a good, polite kid, six years old, with a sturdy name – John – and an interest in all things American. He likes basketball, video games and lunch. Trent likes birds, folding his clothes, ignoring me, and organizing loose change with those rolls you stuff quarters and dimes into. He’s nothing like me, and it makes me sick. I prefer spending time with Lefty, having a catch with him, shooting free throws, whatever. Kim’s told me I like Lefty because Lefty likes me, and don’t get me wrong, I understand the logic there, but I mostly like Lefty because, to me, he represents what a boy should be. The kid does what he’s told, keeps shit simple and doesn’t make trouble for his father.

There are brats in the neighborhood with careless parents and brats with attentive parents, good kids with lousy parents and great kids with no parents. What the hell’s the difference? I refuse to believe my brother Tom’s done something right where I’ve done something wrong. I believe instead that having a good kid – like pretty much everything else in life – is mostly chance, the luck of the draw. I believe that Trent’s defective. I think he’s some kind of cosmic punishment for one of my long-forgotten fuckups.

Anyway, a few Tuesdays ago at dinner, Kim told me Trent was in a fight at school, a fight he’d lost. He wasn’t around, so I asked about him. She told me he was spending the night with the kid who’d kicked his ass.

"Say what?"

"His name’s Johnny. Or Jamey."

"The kid who kicked his ass?"

"He didn’t kick his ass, he just hit him."

"Johnny," I said.

"Jamey. Or maybe it’s Joey."

"And you’re fine with this?"

"They made up. It’s not a big deal."

We were eating soup, so I intentionally dropped my spoon into my bowl to make a splash and make a scene. I gave it a few seconds to guarantee attention.

"This kid Joey hits Trent and then Trent sleeps over the kid’s house and you’re fine with that?"

"You can clean that up," said Kim. She wiped her mouth with a paper towel, balled it up and hit me in the face with it.

"I want him home right now," I said. But Kim just laughed. She told me I wanted crumbcake and tea and to watch the Nets. She told me I was gay.

"You think it’s funny this kid hits him?"

She ignored me. She went to our bedroom for a moment and returned with an open box in a plastic shopping bag.

"Somebody help me," I said.

"You like them?" They were eight wineglasses, pretty much exactly like the ones we already have.

"Why?"

"Our dinner party."

"Jesus," I said.

"The ones we have are just general ones. These are more rounded, with larger bowls. For reds."

"Great."

"We need them." She shifted to poor soul mode.

"Where’d you get ‘em?"

"TJ’s."

"How much?"

She took a smaller box from the plastic bag. "We’re not a couple of dopes who don’t know anything about wine glasses. We need these glasses for our party and we’re keeping them and that’s that." She showed me the smaller box. "And check these out." They were a set of those little charm things that help everyone figure out which glass is theirs when they’re ripped.

"You know what, Kim. I pretty much know which glass is mine when I’m served. I’m pretty good at that."

"We’re keeping them," she said.

"How much?" I said.

"Everything’s affordable."

"You know, I’m sorry I agreed to this."

"You’re the one who said we needed to be more social!" Which was true – and I gave her a look to let her know I knew it was true – but I honestly don’t remember what prompted me to say it when I said it. Years ago, Kim was passionate about self-improvement, both hers and mine, and a big part of her personal program was broadening her horizons through networking and socializing. She arranged a dinner party and invited three couples we barely knew. Two were women she knew from her reading group who brought their husbands, and the other couple… seriously, I still don’t know who the hell they were. I spent the night really trying my best, searching for common ground, anything. The conversations were forced, stilted, packed with awkward lapses. The guys weren’t into sports, which I hate. The women seemed catty and judgmental. At the end of the evening, Kim said to me, "I think that went pretty well." Then she locked herself in the bathroom and cried.

I was dreading this new dinner party – again, our first in years – mainly because of the variety of the guest list. My brother Tom was coming, and was bringing Lefty to keep Trent company. Kim invited a girl from her office to introduce to Tom. (I neglected to mention that Tom is divorced from Lefty’s witch mother, thank God.) I invited Steve, my boss at Saturn, who was bringing his girlfriend. We also invited our neighbor Russell, who lives alone and was allowed to bring a guest.

My problem is I tend to act differently with different people. I like my people segmented, categorized, uncrossed. The thought of spending an evening juggling my personalities to keep everyone happy and at bay – and keep everyone’s image of me exactly the way I wanted it – was really, really draining. Kim knows me well; I can be myself with her. Tom knows me through and through and I’m comfortable with him, but he usually decides to embarrass me one way or another when we’re socializing, so I’m tentative when he’s within earshot and careful about the topics I choose to discuss. If I’m trying to pass myself off as an expert on something, I don’t need my balloon popped. He’ll correct the details of a story I’m telling, point out my dining faux pas, call me an ass (but in a brotherly way, he’ll say – which makes it better, thanks). I was freaked out by his possibly shafting me in front of Steve, who sees me as he sees himself: a no-bullshit, detail-oriented type. Russell sees me the same way. I’ve lied to Russell about some of my experiences and accomplishments. The thought of Russell innocently bringing up my more elaborate lies was also freaking me out. All these people in one place, contributing to the same conversations…

I wasn’t looking forward to the dinner party.

"I’ll do the dishes," I said.

"I’ll do them," said Kim.

I turned on the television and glanced at a news report. A two-year-old boy, apparently unsupervised by his babysitter, fell out a twelve-story window to his death, said the female anchor with synthetic concern. She leaned forward with that irritating, patented, rehearsed look of newscaster sympathy. A handheld camera zoomed out from the window, then panned down to show the distance the kid fell. A bunch of dopes at street level were hopping and waving behind the jabbering assignment reporter.

"Hmmm," I said. "Think the babysitter's black?"

"Just shut up," said Kim.

God forgive me, please God forgive me, but if Trent fell twelve stories to his death, I think I'd be fine with it as long as I wasn't responsible.