together.”
“
I
think the ham is great,” said my Dad. “Don’t you, Scoot?”
“Nice fine good OK!” I said.
Every episode ended with a moral, delivered to me or my sister from my father or mother while sitting on the back stoop: “If they’re cruel to you,” the mother-character told the Scooter-character once, “then they aren’t really your friends. Friends will watch out for you through thick and thin.”
Or,
“Sometimes we have to put other people’s interests in front of our own,” the father-character told the sister-character. “That’s part of being an adult.”
“But I really wanted to go on the ski trip,” said the sister-character.
“There’ll be other ski trips,” said the father-character.
I look back on that show now—here, in this cramped room, with a head full of doubts—and man, I miss those half-hour arcs:
Mr. LaFontaine Gets a New Job. Scooter Gets Lost. Mrs. LaFontaine Meets a Friend for Coffee. Scooter Needs a Hug. Samantha Makes a Friend
, and so many others.
We weren’t the only show in town, of course. Every family I knew had a sitcom—their shows were broadcast into our eyes just as ours were broadcast into theirs. With so many shows to choose from, it was difficult to keep your family’s ratings up. You had to say the right things to make people keep watching. After a few seasons on-air, our show became less popular and we needed to make changes. My Mom suggested that we make the show more serious—more dark. In one episode, the father-character’s brother-in-law died and the last scene was Scooter and Mr. LaFontaine on the front stoop. “There’s no sense to the universe,” said Mr. LaFontaine, swigging from a bottle of beer.“The Core? Some central meaning? It’s a fucking
joke
. Or else how could people suffer so much and die so young?”
“I guess cancer is the Core’s way of saying ‘Screw you,’ ” I said.
“I guess so, sport,” my Dad said.
The mother-character that season was closer to my actual mother: moodier, more unpredictable. “Parents don’t
have
to love their children,” she said in one moral.
“I thought love was unconditional,” said my sister.
“Not necessarily,” said my Mom. “You have to earn it.”
When our ratings didn’t improve, we tried the opposite tack: we made the show light, funny, almost vaudeville. Instead of death or illness there were spit-takes and pratfalls. My Dad’s signature line was “Waaa!,” his eyebrows leaping away from his eyes.
By this time, though, I was tired of changing. My sister and mother complied, but not me—I was rambunctious, remember? Rebellious, a badseed. At a dinner scene one day, my Mom asked me how school was. My line was, “Nice fine good OK!” Instead, though, I said, “Freaking terrible.”
Haw
.
My Mom’s eyes were blades, but her smile held. “Why terrible?”
“Chamblis’s Mom has HIV,” I said.
Haw haw haw
.
“Cut!” the television in our kitchen yelled. “Let’s keep it lighthearted, Scoot!”
“,” said my Mom.
I didn’t say anything.
“And,” the TV said, “rolling!”
“How was your day, Scoot?” asked my Mom again.
“My brain hurts,” I said. “Like, my skull is too small for my thoughts.” And I slammed my head into my plate of spaghetti.
“Cut!” said the television. “What the fuck,?”
Our ratings continued dropping. Soon, our TVs lost hope—you could see it in their eyes when they looked at us. When the physical comedy didn’t work, my Dad pushed us even further: we went cartoon. Doing so meant going to the doctor every week for animation injections, and retooling our dynamic again. My Dad’s repetitive gaffe that season was banging his thumb with his hammer. He’d do it over and over. “YeOW!” he’d shout, and run around with his red thumb in the air.
Soon, even our cans stopped laughing. Then one of our TVs quit, and my Mom started flubbing her lines—she’d stare out the window, or pray silently in
“
I
think the ham is great,” said my Dad. “Don’t you, Scoot?”
“Nice fine good OK!” I said.
Every episode ended with a moral, delivered to me or my sister from my father or mother while sitting on the back stoop: “If they’re cruel to you,” the mother-character told the Scooter-character once, “then they aren’t really your friends. Friends will watch out for you through thick and thin.”
Or,
“Sometimes we have to put other people’s interests in front of our own,” the father-character told the sister-character. “That’s part of being an adult.”
“But I really wanted to go on the ski trip,” said the sister-character.
“There’ll be other ski trips,” said the father-character.
I look back on that show now—here, in this cramped room, with a head full of doubts—and man, I miss those half-hour arcs:
Mr. LaFontaine Gets a New Job. Scooter Gets Lost. Mrs. LaFontaine Meets a Friend for Coffee. Scooter Needs a Hug. Samantha Makes a Friend
, and so many others.
We weren’t the only show in town, of course. Every family I knew had a sitcom—their shows were broadcast into our eyes just as ours were broadcast into theirs. With so many shows to choose from, it was difficult to keep your family’s ratings up. You had to say the right things to make people keep watching. After a few seasons on-air, our show became less popular and we needed to make changes. My Mom suggested that we make the show more serious—more dark. In one episode, the father-character’s brother-in-law died and the last scene was Scooter and Mr. LaFontaine on the front stoop. “There’s no sense to the universe,” said Mr. LaFontaine, swigging from a bottle of beer.“The Core? Some central meaning? It’s a fucking
joke
. Or else how could people suffer so much and die so young?”
“I guess cancer is the Core’s way of saying ‘Screw you,’ ” I said.
“I guess so, sport,” my Dad said.
The mother-character that season was closer to my actual mother: moodier, more unpredictable. “Parents don’t
have
to love their children,” she said in one moral.
“I thought love was unconditional,” said my sister.
“Not necessarily,” said my Mom. “You have to earn it.”
When our ratings didn’t improve, we tried the opposite tack: we made the show light, funny, almost vaudeville. Instead of death or illness there were spit-takes and pratfalls. My Dad’s signature line was “Waaa!,” his eyebrows leaping away from his eyes.
By this time, though, I was tired of changing. My sister and mother complied, but not me—I was rambunctious, remember? Rebellious, a badseed. At a dinner scene one day, my Mom asked me how school was. My line was, “Nice fine good OK!” Instead, though, I said, “Freaking terrible.”
Haw
.
My Mom’s eyes were blades, but her smile held. “Why terrible?”
“Chamblis’s Mom has HIV,” I said.
Haw haw haw
.
“Cut!” the television in our kitchen yelled. “Let’s keep it lighthearted, Scoot!”
“,” said my Mom.
I didn’t say anything.
“And,” the TV said, “rolling!”
“How was your day, Scoot?” asked my Mom again.
“My brain hurts,” I said. “Like, my skull is too small for my thoughts.” And I slammed my head into my plate of spaghetti.
“Cut!” said the television. “What the fuck,?”
Our ratings continued dropping. Soon, our TVs lost hope—you could see it in their eyes when they looked at us. When the physical comedy didn’t work, my Dad pushed us even further: we went cartoon. Doing so meant going to the doctor every week for animation injections, and retooling our dynamic again. My Dad’s repetitive gaffe that season was banging his thumb with his hammer. He’d do it over and over. “YeOW!” he’d shout, and run around with his red thumb in the air.
Soon, even our cans stopped laughing. Then one of our TVs quit, and my Mom started flubbing her lines—she’d stare out the window, or pray silently in
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