his immigrant English. I’ve never really appreciated kids the way some people do, but I can listen to Cole talk all day. Of course, as an uncle, I’m not the one who has to scrape his crap off the table.
“That’s right, Cole,” I say, looking over at Paul’s plate. “It is a T, and a nice one at that.”
Paul and Alice climb to their feet shaken and nauseated. We are all standing now, posed around the table like a painting, the Foxman family minus one, contemplating the steaming, erudite turd on Paul’s plate. It’s utterly inconceivable that we will survive seven days together here, caroming off each other like spinning molecules in a chemical reaction. There’s no way to know how it will all shake out, but as far as metaphors go, you can’t do much better than shit on the good china.
Chapter 6
I f you’ve ever been in a failed marriage, and statistically speaking, it’s a safe bet that you have, or, if not, that you soon will be, then you’ll know that the first thing you do at the end is reflect on the beginning. Maybe it’s some form of reverse closure, or just the basic human impulse toward sentimentality, or masochism, but as you stand there shell-shocked in the charred ruins of your life, your mind will invariably go back to the time when it all started. And even if you didn’t fall in love in the eighties, in your mind it will feel like the eighties, all innocent and airbrushed, with bright colors and shoulder pads and Pat Benatar or the Cure on the soundtrack. There you were, minding your own business, walking across campus to class, or stepping into a café for a cup of coffee, or dancing at a wedding, or drinking at a bar with some friends. And then you saw her, laughing at someone’s joke, tucking her hair behind her ear, or taking the stage with a friend to sing a slightly drunken karaoke version of “Ninety-nine Red Balloons” (and she was just drunk enough to cop to knowing the German lyrics too), or she was leaning against the wall, eyebrows arched genially over her lite beer as she surveyed the scene, or she was strolling alone through the falling snow without a jacket, her sleeves pulled tightly over her hands in the absence of gloves, or she was . . .
. . . riding her bike across the quad, on her way to class. I had seen her around, with her small leather backpack, her blond ponytail flying in the slipstream behind her as she sailed past on her red Schwinn. We were both juniors, but we didn’t have any classes together and were probably just a few weeks away from being on nodding terms. But on that day, as she pedaled past me, I called out to her, “Hey! Bike Girl!”
She braked too hard and skinned her shin on the pedal as she slid off the seat. “Ouch! Crap!”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to actually stop.”
She looked at me, perplexed. “But you called out to me.” Her eyes were an incandescent green; I suspected tinted lenses, but I wanted to write a song about them right there anyway. I’d stand outside her dorm room with a guitar and serenade her, while her friends looked on, smiling approvingly in their skimpy pajamas.
“Yeah, I guess I did. Poor impulse control, I’m sorry. I didn’t really have a plan beyond that.”
Her laugh was rich and throaty. She did it like a girl who knew how to laugh, who had a long association with laughing. And she looked at me, this pretty blond girl, the kind of girl from whom I’d been conditioned to expect a smiling but no less firm rejection, and she said, “I’ll give you five seconds to come up with one.”
This was unprecedented, and the miracle emboldened me. “I just thought we’d have a lot to talk about,” I said.
“Really.”
“This bike, for instance. You’re the only girl on campus who rides a bike.”
“So?”
“I think you do it ironically.”
“You’re accusing me of ironic cycling?”
“It’s a growing sport. There’s an Olympic petition.”
“Is your
“That’s right, Cole,” I say, looking over at Paul’s plate. “It is a T, and a nice one at that.”
Paul and Alice climb to their feet shaken and nauseated. We are all standing now, posed around the table like a painting, the Foxman family minus one, contemplating the steaming, erudite turd on Paul’s plate. It’s utterly inconceivable that we will survive seven days together here, caroming off each other like spinning molecules in a chemical reaction. There’s no way to know how it will all shake out, but as far as metaphors go, you can’t do much better than shit on the good china.
Chapter 6
I f you’ve ever been in a failed marriage, and statistically speaking, it’s a safe bet that you have, or, if not, that you soon will be, then you’ll know that the first thing you do at the end is reflect on the beginning. Maybe it’s some form of reverse closure, or just the basic human impulse toward sentimentality, or masochism, but as you stand there shell-shocked in the charred ruins of your life, your mind will invariably go back to the time when it all started. And even if you didn’t fall in love in the eighties, in your mind it will feel like the eighties, all innocent and airbrushed, with bright colors and shoulder pads and Pat Benatar or the Cure on the soundtrack. There you were, minding your own business, walking across campus to class, or stepping into a café for a cup of coffee, or dancing at a wedding, or drinking at a bar with some friends. And then you saw her, laughing at someone’s joke, tucking her hair behind her ear, or taking the stage with a friend to sing a slightly drunken karaoke version of “Ninety-nine Red Balloons” (and she was just drunk enough to cop to knowing the German lyrics too), or she was leaning against the wall, eyebrows arched genially over her lite beer as she surveyed the scene, or she was strolling alone through the falling snow without a jacket, her sleeves pulled tightly over her hands in the absence of gloves, or she was . . .
. . . riding her bike across the quad, on her way to class. I had seen her around, with her small leather backpack, her blond ponytail flying in the slipstream behind her as she sailed past on her red Schwinn. We were both juniors, but we didn’t have any classes together and were probably just a few weeks away from being on nodding terms. But on that day, as she pedaled past me, I called out to her, “Hey! Bike Girl!”
She braked too hard and skinned her shin on the pedal as she slid off the seat. “Ouch! Crap!”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to actually stop.”
She looked at me, perplexed. “But you called out to me.” Her eyes were an incandescent green; I suspected tinted lenses, but I wanted to write a song about them right there anyway. I’d stand outside her dorm room with a guitar and serenade her, while her friends looked on, smiling approvingly in their skimpy pajamas.
“Yeah, I guess I did. Poor impulse control, I’m sorry. I didn’t really have a plan beyond that.”
Her laugh was rich and throaty. She did it like a girl who knew how to laugh, who had a long association with laughing. And she looked at me, this pretty blond girl, the kind of girl from whom I’d been conditioned to expect a smiling but no less firm rejection, and she said, “I’ll give you five seconds to come up with one.”
This was unprecedented, and the miracle emboldened me. “I just thought we’d have a lot to talk about,” I said.
“Really.”
“This bike, for instance. You’re the only girl on campus who rides a bike.”
“So?”
“I think you do it ironically.”
“You’re accusing me of ironic cycling?”
“It’s a growing sport. There’s an Olympic petition.”
“Is your
Similar Books
