music?” Evan asks.
“No.”
Can he take Dean to see Lucky Strike? Is it something parents do? Or is it the ultimate mistake, the first step down a path that leads to drug addiction and deviant behavior?
“I think they let kids in, but you couldn’t sit at the bar or anything. I don’t drink, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
Dean hesitates.
“So you want to go?”
“Um, okay, ” Dean shrugs even though Evan can see the excitement in his eyes. “If there’s nothing else to do.”
HE GATHERS HIMSELF together and gets dressed in what he deems appropriate musician’s garb for a Lucky Strike show: normal-guy look with a touch of cool. He doesn’t want to stand out, just come across as a little bit hipper than the rest of the audience so as to be identifiable as part of the musician’s tribe. So, in addition to his basic uniform of jeans and T-shirt, he selects a loose-fitting sharkskin shirt he picked up at a vintage clothing store in the Market. Shiny, but not too. Noticeable, but not ostentatious. It shows that he cares about his image, but only casually. He’s a guitarist, after all, not a lead singer. His music tells more about him than his image.
He checks himself in the mirror. He’s slightly taller than average. His blue-gray eyes are in contrast to his dark hair, which he wears short since, despite his best intentions, his hair does what it wants and sticks together in strange clumps that he has never come to understand. He’s thinner than his mother would like. He’s less muscular than he would like. He’s been told that he was built for fame—the wiry body of a rock star. He never put much store in the idea, but, deep down, he hopes it’s true.
They wait for the cab in the drizzle outside Evan’s building. They’re cabbing it because, for one, it’s generally easier than looking for a parking spot, and, two, Evan’s seizure activity is something of a concern. He knows he should call his neurologist, Dr. Melon, but he really doesn’t want to. Dr. Melon is cool and all, but he’s still a neurologist. And, though he’s a proponent of alternative therapies (the use of marijuana was his idea, not Evan’s), when push comes to shove, he still writes a prescription or ups a dosage or calls Evan in for a quick EEG just to “check under the hood.” And Evan doesn’t need any of that right now. He needs to be cool and calm, cut out the dairy and the wheat—which act as triggers for seizures in rough times, something to do with toxic load, Dr. Melon maintains— and keep a joint with him at all times. Easy enough.
“How about Chinese?” Evan asks. Steamed chicken and rice.
“I hate Chinese.”
“What do you want, then?”
Dean shrugs, his trademark nonverbal reply.
“Anything but Chinese, then, ” Evan says.
“Yeah, anything but Chinese.”
“How about Greek?” Grilled fish and rice.
“How about American or Italian?”
American or Italian. Great. Evan’s trying to tame his seizures by staying away from wheat and dairy, and his kid only wants to eat hamburgers and pizza.
“Okay, ” Evan says with a smile, “you got it.”
IF THEY’RE GOING to do it, they’re going to do it right. Evan takes Dean to Dick’s Drive-In up on Capitol Hill. He chooses Dick’s because Dick’s is a part of the Seattle experience, but also because Evan knows they don’t dust their fries with wheat to make them crunchy, like every other burger joint in the world does. And while he eats his three bags of limp fries and drinks his water, he envies Dean who is in the middle of inhaling two Deluxe burgers and sucking down a giant milkshake. The sacrifices we make for our children.
It’s crowded at Dick’s, as it always is, but the evening is too young for it to be really raucous. The hardcore drunken and stoned Dick’s eaters won’t arrive until much later. Evan and Dean stand at the outdoor counter eating and watching the people pass by on Broadway. Their conversation is almost
“No.”
Can he take Dean to see Lucky Strike? Is it something parents do? Or is it the ultimate mistake, the first step down a path that leads to drug addiction and deviant behavior?
“I think they let kids in, but you couldn’t sit at the bar or anything. I don’t drink, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
Dean hesitates.
“So you want to go?”
“Um, okay, ” Dean shrugs even though Evan can see the excitement in his eyes. “If there’s nothing else to do.”
HE GATHERS HIMSELF together and gets dressed in what he deems appropriate musician’s garb for a Lucky Strike show: normal-guy look with a touch of cool. He doesn’t want to stand out, just come across as a little bit hipper than the rest of the audience so as to be identifiable as part of the musician’s tribe. So, in addition to his basic uniform of jeans and T-shirt, he selects a loose-fitting sharkskin shirt he picked up at a vintage clothing store in the Market. Shiny, but not too. Noticeable, but not ostentatious. It shows that he cares about his image, but only casually. He’s a guitarist, after all, not a lead singer. His music tells more about him than his image.
He checks himself in the mirror. He’s slightly taller than average. His blue-gray eyes are in contrast to his dark hair, which he wears short since, despite his best intentions, his hair does what it wants and sticks together in strange clumps that he has never come to understand. He’s thinner than his mother would like. He’s less muscular than he would like. He’s been told that he was built for fame—the wiry body of a rock star. He never put much store in the idea, but, deep down, he hopes it’s true.
They wait for the cab in the drizzle outside Evan’s building. They’re cabbing it because, for one, it’s generally easier than looking for a parking spot, and, two, Evan’s seizure activity is something of a concern. He knows he should call his neurologist, Dr. Melon, but he really doesn’t want to. Dr. Melon is cool and all, but he’s still a neurologist. And, though he’s a proponent of alternative therapies (the use of marijuana was his idea, not Evan’s), when push comes to shove, he still writes a prescription or ups a dosage or calls Evan in for a quick EEG just to “check under the hood.” And Evan doesn’t need any of that right now. He needs to be cool and calm, cut out the dairy and the wheat—which act as triggers for seizures in rough times, something to do with toxic load, Dr. Melon maintains— and keep a joint with him at all times. Easy enough.
“How about Chinese?” Evan asks. Steamed chicken and rice.
“I hate Chinese.”
“What do you want, then?”
Dean shrugs, his trademark nonverbal reply.
“Anything but Chinese, then, ” Evan says.
“Yeah, anything but Chinese.”
“How about Greek?” Grilled fish and rice.
“How about American or Italian?”
American or Italian. Great. Evan’s trying to tame his seizures by staying away from wheat and dairy, and his kid only wants to eat hamburgers and pizza.
“Okay, ” Evan says with a smile, “you got it.”
IF THEY’RE GOING to do it, they’re going to do it right. Evan takes Dean to Dick’s Drive-In up on Capitol Hill. He chooses Dick’s because Dick’s is a part of the Seattle experience, but also because Evan knows they don’t dust their fries with wheat to make them crunchy, like every other burger joint in the world does. And while he eats his three bags of limp fries and drinks his water, he envies Dean who is in the middle of inhaling two Deluxe burgers and sucking down a giant milkshake. The sacrifices we make for our children.
It’s crowded at Dick’s, as it always is, but the evening is too young for it to be really raucous. The hardcore drunken and stoned Dick’s eaters won’t arrive until much later. Evan and Dean stand at the outdoor counter eating and watching the people pass by on Broadway. Their conversation is almost
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