I picked up on two things last night when I dropped my kid brother off at the house. First, Rob is jealous of my relationship with Shane, which only exists because there was such a void for a male role model in his life that I felt obligated to step in and fill it. How different things might have been for me if someone had done the same when I was his age. Second, Rob is dying to know what I said about him in the book. He may even be desperate enough to read it. If I'd had enough money to make an audio version, he'd give it a listen, no doubt.
He was out in the driveway with his partner-in-moronity Pat Donovan. In a sense, nothing has changed since I was Shane's age. Well, there's one significant difference. Nowadays they smoke the occasional blunt while knocking back their Olympias. Donovan's kid runs the High and Tight Dispensary over in West Seattle. Donovan helps out by sampling the merchandise. When Shane got out of the car, Rob came up to my window and said, "Shane tells me you wrote a book." I was caught a little off guard. I mean, I never asked Shane to keep it a secret, but it would have been nice if he'd warned me. I didn't figure the odds were too great Rob would ever stumble onto it on his own, considering he hasn't done much reading since his Dick & Jane days.
While I was still mulling over my best response, Rob asked, "Am I in it?" Again I paused to think before responding. "Well," I finally said, "it would be kind of hard to write a memoir without mentioning my family." Through his glassy eyes, I could see the wheels of his tiny mouse brain spinning. After about 15 seconds, he blew out a cloud of skunk and said, "Only good stuff, right?" Perhaps I should have warned him when I was in kindergarten that some day I'd write a book. If he cared so much about being immortalized in the printed page (okay, on the ebook page), maybe he would have gone about things differently. "Yeah," I said. "It's nothing big. Don't worry about it." Judging by the way he glared at me as I backed out, that didn't satisfy him.
That was an awkward end to an awkward night, all the way around. Shane texted me this afternoon, looking for a ride to this battle of the bands thing they do every month at Danze Hall in Rainier Beach. He wanted to go because this girl in his Spanish class said she was going. Not to him. He overheard her talking to a friend of hers. Shane figured if he just happened to bump into her there, maybe he'd have an opening to finally talk to her. Only she never showed up. So it was me, him, and his friend Xavier. Aside from the sound guy and the manager, who spent most of the night chatting up girls less than half his age, I was the oldest one there. I hung back and let Shane and Xavier do their thing, which was mostly leaning against the wall drinking Red Bulls. Xavier had three. That kid's not going to sleep until Tuesday.
Most of the bands fell into two camps, sledgehammer rockers or keyboard shit-rappers. The band that won was a throwback to the late 80s, complete with eye-liner and blush. They made up for a lack of talent and originality with tons of energy. The band I would have voted for didn't even make the finals. Their drummer was the only kid all night who impressed me. He played circles around all the other drummers. Shane said he was kind of a prick, though, and that might have cost him in the vote.
Shane was pretty bummed out that his senorita didn't show. I was consoling him as we left, telling him that kind of stuff happens all the time, when I spotted a girl I knew in the parking lot. I should say "woman" to clarify that I don't know or take any personal interest in girls Shane's age. Her name is Sheila, and we went out a few times a couple of years ago. I met her through a dating site. She left out the part where she had kids, though I probably still would have responded to her profile anyway. I'm not really in a position to arbitrarily rule potential mates out just because they may be carrying a little baggage. I mean, wait until they meet my parents. Generation games can be played in both directions.
I never got far enough with Sheila to actually meet her kids. And while she did eventually cop to having more than one, she made it sound like they were toddlers. Turns out, her son is a year older than Shane. The look on her face when he opened the car door was priceless. We had locked eyes only a few seconds before. I recognized her right away, and from her frantic expression, I knew she recognized me as well. Maybe I shouldn't have left so many messages on her voice mail. Or maybe she should have just been honest and said she didn't want to pursue anything. I wouldn't have even said anything tonight, but I wanted to make it obvious I hadn't also been keeping secrets from her when we dated. So I said, "Is that your son?" She just nodded. I said, "Wow, he goes to school with my brother. What a small world." Apparently she doesn't hold a concealed carry permit, because she didn't shoot me dead on the spot. She just gave a dismissive nod and got back into her car.
I'm not super proud of this next part, but as I watched her pull away it all came flooding back how after never returning my calls she finally blocked my number, so I told Shane and Xavier that she had a mole on her left breast as big as her nipple. In the darkness of the backseat of her SUV, it was hard to tell them apart. That was our second date. She was much more taciturn on our third. There never was a fourth.
So, I had already been knocked slightly off kilter before Rob confronted me. Not to say my response would have been any more complete or truthful if I hadn't. When I checked with some of the principal "characters" in the story, I was more concerned with getting their permission to use their email responses. I never gave much thought to talking it over with Rob or Janice. I might be in for another quiet Thanksgiving this year.
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