to be an older brother soon,’ Mum says, watching me, working on my conscience, convinced that I have one. ‘You may not want it, but that gives you a certain responsibility. I think you’re bright enough to know what you were doing. But I don’t know which is worse—the thought of you doing it with a degree of premeditation, or being so out of control, that you couldn’t stop yourself.’
‘I wasn’t out of control,’ I say quietly. ‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘And we’re not unaware of the way that the move’s tangled up in this. Maybe it’s a very selfish decision on our part, but it’s just for one year and sometimes…’ He searches for an acceptable argument. Mum finds it for him. ‘Sometimes,’ she says, ‘either way you choose, someone loses.’
‘I know,’ I say. I feel awkward now, I want this to be over. ‘I like change,’ I say. Which is true. ‘What I want you to remember,’ Dad says, looking at the Japanesepackaged box in my hands, still unopened, ‘is that you’d better think long and hard about the kind of decisions you make in the future. Colorful is one thing, but stupid is just plain stupid, do you understand me?’
So I use the camera. It’s great. This really is the video age. Nothing is real unless it’s digitized and stuck on YouTube. I point the camera at the family and suddenly they have meaning, although search me for what it is.
They smile a bit at first, then they forget about that and try to pretend I’m not there, which doesn’t work, of course—then, when they realize that I’m not going to go away, they start to look irritated, you catch a moment in their eyes that says, ‘I want to get on with things, I’ve got things to do, but I don’t want you watching.’ Why are they so secretive? Why is it even the smallest acts expose us to ridicule? On video, everything’s the same. Watching someone drink a glass of water is as private as watching someone pee. It makes you realize that we don’t see each other most of the time. We look, but we shut out the important stuff.
I know why I got this camera, and the baby knows too. I think he knows everything. He doesn’t care about any of this shit, he’s watched all the time anyway, nothing is private for him and he hasn’t learned to care yet. But already he understands a gift. He understands transactions, that’s what it’s all about. Jessie and I haven’t been raised to respond to tips and bribes, and he won’t be either—we know all the moral complications inherent in gifts (you don’t thank someone for saving your life, you hate the bastard for making you owe him so much).
I got this camera not to buy my future good behavior—Mum and Dad wouldn’t do that, they know I wouldn’t go for a deal like that. No, I got this camera because, by burning the stockroom, I eased the pain of a decision they wanted to make but knew I’d never agree to willingly.
8
Nothing much happens. We’re in the garden, Mum, Jack and me. Dad and Jessie are somewhere else, in the car. This is before the bathroom window, when I still thought I was the
weirdest thing in my life. It’s another staggeringly hot day, this summer is sick, lurching between nuclear fission and bullet-hard rain. The weather is getting aggressive. I hate all that crap about global warming, but there have been three or four tornadoes spiraling over Europe this year and it snowed in Italy in July. The Italians probably love it; gives them a chance to get on with a bit of off-season football practice.
Mum is in the garden in her bikini. She looks different, now that Jake’s out here and not in her. Thinner, for a start, but also sharper, hipper if you like—more attuned to what’s going on, less of a heavyweight smiler.
She’s lying on the grass drinking Pimm’s and lemonade or something equally ridiculous, and reading an incredibly boring-looking book about social welfare. She takes all that stuff fairly seriously, being a lawyer, certainly a lot
‘I wasn’t out of control,’ I say quietly. ‘Right,’ says Dad. ‘And we’re not unaware of the way that the move’s tangled up in this. Maybe it’s a very selfish decision on our part, but it’s just for one year and sometimes…’ He searches for an acceptable argument. Mum finds it for him. ‘Sometimes,’ she says, ‘either way you choose, someone loses.’
‘I know,’ I say. I feel awkward now, I want this to be over. ‘I like change,’ I say. Which is true. ‘What I want you to remember,’ Dad says, looking at the Japanesepackaged box in my hands, still unopened, ‘is that you’d better think long and hard about the kind of decisions you make in the future. Colorful is one thing, but stupid is just plain stupid, do you understand me?’
So I use the camera. It’s great. This really is the video age. Nothing is real unless it’s digitized and stuck on YouTube. I point the camera at the family and suddenly they have meaning, although search me for what it is.
They smile a bit at first, then they forget about that and try to pretend I’m not there, which doesn’t work, of course—then, when they realize that I’m not going to go away, they start to look irritated, you catch a moment in their eyes that says, ‘I want to get on with things, I’ve got things to do, but I don’t want you watching.’ Why are they so secretive? Why is it even the smallest acts expose us to ridicule? On video, everything’s the same. Watching someone drink a glass of water is as private as watching someone pee. It makes you realize that we don’t see each other most of the time. We look, but we shut out the important stuff.
I know why I got this camera, and the baby knows too. I think he knows everything. He doesn’t care about any of this shit, he’s watched all the time anyway, nothing is private for him and he hasn’t learned to care yet. But already he understands a gift. He understands transactions, that’s what it’s all about. Jessie and I haven’t been raised to respond to tips and bribes, and he won’t be either—we know all the moral complications inherent in gifts (you don’t thank someone for saving your life, you hate the bastard for making you owe him so much).
I got this camera not to buy my future good behavior—Mum and Dad wouldn’t do that, they know I wouldn’t go for a deal like that. No, I got this camera because, by burning the stockroom, I eased the pain of a decision they wanted to make but knew I’d never agree to willingly.
8
Nothing much happens. We’re in the garden, Mum, Jack and me. Dad and Jessie are somewhere else, in the car. This is before the bathroom window, when I still thought I was the
weirdest thing in my life. It’s another staggeringly hot day, this summer is sick, lurching between nuclear fission and bullet-hard rain. The weather is getting aggressive. I hate all that crap about global warming, but there have been three or four tornadoes spiraling over Europe this year and it snowed in Italy in July. The Italians probably love it; gives them a chance to get on with a bit of off-season football practice.
Mum is in the garden in her bikini. She looks different, now that Jake’s out here and not in her. Thinner, for a start, but also sharper, hipper if you like—more attuned to what’s going on, less of a heavyweight smiler.
She’s lying on the grass drinking Pimm’s and lemonade or something equally ridiculous, and reading an incredibly boring-looking book about social welfare. She takes all that stuff fairly seriously, being a lawyer, certainly a lot
Similar Books
