The day I came
back from San Diego (I am back. Home.) I was
almost surprised to see my tent still standing, and Spiro wagging
his bony tail
there in the clearing. All this was out of my past. It should have
been
mouldering. The tent, not Spiro's tail. It should have collapsed
and have small
trees growing through the rotted canvas. But it has been just a
little less
than three weeks.
Three weeks
of running down the coast, back to San Diego. To the womb, to a
hiding place.
It only takes
three words to explain this flight: I had freaked. But it takes
more than that to clarify, let alone describe, the fear, the paranoia,
and
finally the hysteria that culminated in a midnight panic.
I had thought
I was getting into my truck just to take a spin, to relax, so I
could sleep. Now, that was a curious notion right there. Nobody
takes a spin on
these roads for relaxation. If you relax for one crucial second,
you're over
the side of a cliff, and a small item in the next week's Redwood
Record.
Yet I climbed
into my 4 x 4 with just the clothes on my back and my wallet in
my pocket. I didn't even put out a pan of food for Spiro. After
all, I was sure
I was going to be back in a couple of hours, after I'd driven down
to Piercy
and had a cup of coffee. I swear to God that's all I meant to do.
Fourteen hours
later, I pulled into my folks' driveway. And there was my mother
climbing into her new Jag, obviously on her way to another charity
thing. (She
never eats out except when it's for charity.) I could tell right
away that she
was annoyed that I hadn't called ahead. She put on that squint that
isn't quite
a frown, but lets you know you're in the wrong, and said, "You
look like hell.
Are you on something?"
I tried a lighthearted
approach. "No, Mom, I just felt the urge to visit." I
accompanied this stupid statement with what I hoped was a boyish
grin.
She squinted
even harder. "Why for God's sake? Why now, out of the blue,
drive
seven hundred miles because you have an urge to visit? I haven't
seen you for
more than fifteen minutes in the last two years, and now you want
to drop by
for lunch?" Her voice was beginning to rise unpleasantly. She
then slapped her
forehead, not with the hand that was clutching the $500 alligator
purse, but
with the one flashing the two carat blue white diamond Dad had given
her on
their 30th anniversary. He liked seeing her gussied up like an Arabian
horse in
the Rose Bowl parade. It was more proof of his success.
"You're
in trouble!" she groaned. "You're running from the Law."
I thought of
the CAMP helicopters. Was I running? Before I could form a more
or
less honest answer, she accepted my hesitation as agreement. "Go
in the house
and stay there. Tell Maria to fix you some lunch. I've got to run,
but we'll
talk it out tonight with your father."
"Huh?"
She popped into
the car and whipped down the driveway. "Later darling,"
she
yelled out the window, her diamond throwing off sparks.
I ask you, is
that normal? Mother sees son, mother assumes son is in deep shit,
mother says "Later, ta-ta." I don't know what's normal
anymore. I just know
that Kiki wouldn't run off to lunch with her belly dance group if
Rain had just
appeared as a fugitive.
So I let Maria
fix me some lunch. It was a comfort. My family eats
good. There's always a roast turkey, or steaks ready to broil, in
the
refrigerator, and a lot of other good stuff. I settled on a turkey
sandwich, a
fruit salad and a beer. Not a bad last meal for a criminal.
I took my tray
of food into the family room. Every time I return I find I've
forgotten how many rooms the house has, and how big they are. Switching
on the
TV, I watched a soap opera while I ate. After that, I went out and
sat by the
pool for awhile. It was warm, so I took off my shirt. I was almost
asleep, when
a guy showed up to clean the pool. When he asked me how the surf
was, I felt
flattered. I figured I must look pretty good if some kid thinks
I'm still an
active surfer. Hauling all that shit had given me a good set of
muscles in
addition to a sore back. Buoyed up by his remark, I went to the
garage to see
if I could find my old relic Bahne, the slick pride of my youth.
I was still
nosing around for it when my mother returned. She tooled her XJ-S
neatly into the garage, and getting out, remarked brightly, "The
traffic is
hell. Did you have something to eat?"
This says something
about our relationship. She supposedly is worried sick
about me, and my appearance out of the sinister north country. Are
angry
Colombian coke dealers on my trail? Is the FBI or DEA about to hustle
me off to
prison for my part in the biggest dope deal of the century? She
doesn't
know. So she tells me the traffic is bad and wants desparately to
know if I've
been well fed.
I remember,
like it was yesterday, when we as a family were having a joint
meeting with my therapist and Brenda's therapist. It was a time
for us, the
Funks, to let it all hang out, to tell it like it is...to see where
we were all
coming from...a moment of real encounter...like when the matador
looks the bull
in the eye and brings his sword out from under his cape.
Not in this
family! My father said he was sure Brenda and I would turn out all
right if we just dug in and worked on our studies, and my mother
worried that I
had worn a pair of socks with holes in them. Our therapists, both
tops in their
field, were stymied by the impenetrable defense of banality that
my parents had
perfected and raised to an art.
So now she wants
to know if my tummy is full.
"Yes, Maria
took care of it. Is my surfboard around here someplace?"
"You know
I never throw anything away. But your board isn't here. I rented
one
of those mini-storage places over on Morena, for all the stuff left
over from
when you were kids..." She stopped, and some of the bright,
Mother Courage look
faded from her face. "How's your sister?"
"You mean
Brenda?"
"What other
sister have you got? Yes, I mean Brenda."
"She's
fine. She's doing fine."
I didn't want
to talk about Brenda. Or me, or anything. I wanted to be 16
again, and take my board to Ocean Beach for a few quick rides before
I did my
homework and fell asleep, untouched by time and tides and all the
stuff that
bugs the hell out of grownups. I didn't want to be 36, trying to
bring in a
crop of an illegal herb under the grim gaze of CAMP. I didn't want
to love
Kiki, and be with her, and build a house and fix the plumbing and
chop firewood
every winter. I didn't want to worry about my sister's drinking,
or Spiro's
rabies shots, or even my dental appointments. I wanted very much
to find my
board, wax it lovingly, and drink a huge glass of milk, while listening
to the
Beach Boys on my stereo.
Talk about regression.
I wondered if my dad would be willing to dish out for
another round of therapy.
My dad came
home early. He seemed only mildly surprised I was there. I
presumed my mother had informed him by phone, or maybe telepathy.
She always
claims she can read him like a book, so maybe she can transmit him
some
footnotes.
Dad made a pitcher
of martinis for the three of us. I hate martinis.
"Going
to stay long, Larry?"
"Maybe."
I shrugged. "I haven't made up my mind." I pushed the
olive around in
my glass and avoided his eyes by pretending to find something in
my drink that
needed removing.
"Hmmm."
It was his doctor sound. "Getting tired of the great Northwest
are you?
Maybe thinking of moving back down our way?"
Feeling cornered,
I began to flounder. "I don't know. Maybe. No...I mean I'm
not sure."
His expression
changed from 'cheery host' to one of 'concerned father'. I
recognized it well. It was the same look he always got when he saw
my
grades. "Do you need a lawyer?" His voice was husky. My
God, either he was
about to cry, or he was choking on his olive. At this late date,
the olive
would be easier to deal with.
Be fair, Larry,
I told myself. With all our differences, with all the
disappointments I'd handed him over the years, he still must feel
some
affection for me, his first-born. A father is a father, no matter
what.
I wanted badly
to relieve their anxiety. Aware, also, that this was close to
impossible, I still tried. So I forced a laugh. It didn't sound
very
genuine. It sounded, in fact, like Spiro's whimper when he has a
thorn in his
paw. Now they both looked really alarmed. I tried again. This time,
I sounded
maniacal, at least to my mother, who rose quickly like she"d
been stuck in the
butt with something very sharp. She mumbled something about seeing
to the
dinner and fled, leaving dad to handle their obviously deranged
offspring. I
stood up. Then I sat down. I crossed my legs, then my arms. Realizing
I looked
like I was trying out a new yoga pose, I uncrossed everything crossed,
and
gulped hard. My father stared at me; his possible Messiah, his son.
His mouth
moved slowly. "I'm your father," he said like he regretted
it. "You can tell
me."
"Tell you
what?" I demanded. "That I'm having a nervous breakdown?
That I
deserve a break today? That all I need is two aspirins and good
night's
sleep?" Suddenly ashamed, I shut up. There was no point in
taking whatever this
was out on him.
He assumed that
doctor look again, and started making those little neutral
sounds in his throat that mean nothing, but are reassuring to
patients. Watching this performance, I suddenly saw a man who tried
hard to be
a good doctor, a good husband, a good father; a good man. I noticed
how grey he
was getting, and how tired he looked around the eyes. It was at
that moment
that I had a great revelation, sitting there clutching my warming
martini. My
father was a klutz in his own way, just as I was in mine. The difference
was
that we had all been taught to admire his kind of klutziness.
Yeah, we had
been trained to look up to a man who would spend his life, his
energy, his mind, and all his strength, running after something
just as
ephemeral as my perfect crop of 100 gorgeous female plants. Like
all of us, he
had been chasing after the bitch-goddess, Success. His lust for
her was
unquenchable. In business, in medicine, in the family, he was driven
to be a
successful man. And so was I.
Once I'd recovered
from this almost biblical revelation of like father, like
son, I got up the courage to pat him on the shoulder. "Don't
worry Dad," I said
as cheerfully as I could. "I'm just overtired. A week on the
beach, and I'll be
like new. Now why don't you tell me what you and David have been
up to in real
estate. I've been kind of out of touch." It was almost more
than I could bear
to see his look of gratitude. He took in a visible breath and broke
into a
smile. "Goddamn, Larry, it's good to see you. Let's dig into
some of your
mother's pot roast, and I'll fill you in on the plans we've been
working
on. What would you think of an allergy-free condo community set
out in the
desert. Lots of ceramic tile and artificial plants...nothing to
sneeze at...if
I may make a small joke..."
I slept great
that night. The next day I went and got my surfboard. I found it
broken neatly in two. I guess my mother can't stand to throw anything
away...even a broken surfboard, a broken memory.
