A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (18 page)

3.  The Crunchy Chicken

(Courtesy of Church
’
s Fried Chicken, drive-through, at San Pablo and Gilman. White meat insisted on, along with biscuits, mashed potatoes, and added to, at home, with a small green salad of iceberg lettuce and one sliced cucumber. No dressing.)

4.  The Crumbling Wall

(Hamburger, prepared medium well, with bacon and barbecue sauce. Courtesy of that place on Solano, where, it should be mentioned, they use much too much barbecue sauce, which anyone should know has the almost immediate effect of soaking the bun, the bun becoming like oatmeal, inedible, the burger ruined, all in a matter of minutes— so quick that even when the burger is picked up and patrons attempt to save the bun (
“
Separate them! Quick! Get the bun away from the sauce! Now scrape! Scrape!
”
), it
’
s always too late, necessitating the keeping, at home, of a stash of replacement buns, which are then toasted, heavily, to provide maximum resistance to the sauce
’
s degenerative effects. Served with potatoes of the French kind, and fruit, as above.

5.  The Mexican-Italian War

(Tacos: Ground beef sauteed in Prego spaghetti sauce (Traditional style), served with tortillas, but without beans, salsa, tomatoes, cheese, guacamole, and whatever that white creamy substance is that is sometimes found on the dish
’
s inferior, less pure incarnations. On the side: Pillsbury brand crescent rolls and iceberg salad. No dressing.)

6.  [We didn
’
t actually name any of these meals. Would we seem cooler, or somehow less cool, had we done so? i am thinking less cool.}

(Pizza, served with pepperoni. Tombstone, Fat Slice, Pizza Hut, or Domino
’
s, if the price cannot be resisted. With a ready-made small green salad.)

7.  The Old Man and the Sea

(Mrs. Paul
’
s frozen fried clams, one package each ($3.49—not cheap), served with Crispers!, crescent rolls, and sliced oranges and apples. Or sometimes cantaloupe.)

8.  Gavin MacLeod and Charo

(For him: Grilled cheese served with one slice of Kraft American cheese set in middle of two pieces of seeded Jewish rye, toasted in pan and cut diagonally. For other him: Quesadillas—one slice of Kraft American cheese, between one tortilla, prepared in skillet. With sliced honeydew.)

(NOTE: no spices are available, except oregano, which is shaken, sparingly, onto two items: a) pepperoni pizza; and b) sliced Jewish rye bread, which is folded around oregano, a la Tufnel. No vegetables are available, except carrots, celery, cucumbers, green beans and iceberg lettuce, which are all served raw and only raw. Unavailable is food that swims in its own excrement. Pasta is not available, especially not that regurgitated mess known as lasagna. Further, all such foods, those containing more than two or three ingredients mixed together indiscriminately, including all sandwiches except salami, are not chewed, but eschewed. All meals are served with a tall glass of 1% milk, with the gallon jug resting on the floor next to the table, for convenient refills. Alternative beverages are not available. Anything not on the menu is not available. Any complaints will be handled quickly, and with severity.)

“
Hey, I need your help,
”
I say, when I need his help cooking.

“
Okay,
”
he says, and then helps out with the cooking.

Sometimes we sing while we are cooking. We sing regular words, words about pouring the milk or getting the spaghetti sauce, though we sing them in opera-style. We can sing opera-style, too. It is incredible.

Sometimes, while cooking, we have sword fights using wooden spoons or sticks that we bring into the house for such occasions. It is an unsaid mission of mine, the source of which is sometimes clear and sometimes not, to keep things moving, to entertain the boy, to keep him on his toes. For a while we would chase each other around the house, mouths full of water, threatening to spit. Of course, neither of us would have ever thought of actually spitting a mouthful of water at the other inside the house, until one night, when I had him cornered in the kitchen, I just went ahead and did it. Things have been devolving ever since. I have stuck half a cantaloupe into his face. I have rubbed a handful of banana onto his chest, tossed a glassful of apple juice into his face. It
’
s an effort, I
’
m guessing, to let him know, if it weren
’
t already obvious, that as much as I want to carry on our parents
’
legacy, he and I will also be doing some
experimenting.
And constantly entertaining, like some amazing, endless telethon. There is a voice inside me, a very excited, chirpy voice, that urges me to keep things merry, madcap even, the mood buoyant. Because Beth is always pulling out old photo albums, crying, asking Toph how he feels, I feel I have to overcompensate by keeping us occupied. I am making our lives a music video, a game show on Nickelodeon—lots of quick cuts, crazy camera angles, fun, fun,
fun\
It
’
s a campaign of distraction and revisionist history— leaflets dropped behind enemy lines, fireworks, funny dances, magic tricks.
Whassat? Lookie there! Where
’
d it go?

In the kitchen, when the inspiration calls, I take out the family
’
s seventeen-inch turkey knife, plant my legs in an A, squat a little and hold the knife over my head, samurai-style.

“
Hiyyyyy!
”
I yell.

“
Don
’
t,
”
he says, backing away.

“
Hiyyyyy!
”
I yell, stepping toward him, because threatening children with seventeen-inch knives is funny. Always the best games have involved some kind of threatened injury, or near-accident, as when he was a toddler and I would run around with him on my shoulders, pretending to be dizzy, spinning, stumbling—

“
Not funny,
”
he says, backing into the family room.

I put the knife away; it clinks into the silverware drawer.

“
Dad used to do that all the time,
”
I say.
“
Out of the blue. He
’
d get this look on his face, this bug-eyed look, and act like he was going to split our heads open with the knife.
”

“
Sounds funny,
”
he says.

“
Yeah, it was funny,
”
I say.
“
It actually was funny.
”

Sometimes while we cook he tells me about things that happened at school.

“
What happened today?
”
I ask.

“
Today Matthew told me that he hopes that you and Beth are in a plane and that the plane crashes and that you both die just like Mom and Dad.
”

“
They didn
’
t die in a plane crash.
”

“
That
’
s what I said.
”

Sometimes I call the parents of Toph
’
s classmates.

“
Yeah, that
’
s what he said,
”
I say.

“
It
’
s hard enough, you know,
”
I say.

“
No, he
’
s okay,
”
I continue, pouring it on this incompetent moron who has raised a twisted boy.
“
I just don
’
t know why Matthew would say that. I mean, why do suppose your son wants Beth and me to die in a plane crash?

“
No, Toph
’
s fine. Don
’
t worry about us. We
’
re fine. I
’
m worried about you— I mean, you should worry about young Matthew there,
”
I say.

Oh, these poor people. What is to be done?

During dinner, during the basketball season, we watch the Bulls on cable. Otherwise, needing to keep constantly occupied, we play one of an endlessly rotating series of games—gin, backgammon, Trivial Pursuit, chess—with our plates next to the board. We have been trying to eat in the kitchen, but since we got the Ping-Pong net, it
’
s been more difficult.

“
Unhook the net,
”
I say.

“
Why?
”
he asks.

“
For dinner,
”
I say.

“
No, you unhook it,
”
he says.

So usually we eat on the coffee table. If the coffee table is beyond clearing, we eat on the family room floor. If the family room floor is covered with plates from the night before, we eat on my bed.

After dinner, we play games for our own amusement and the edification of the neighbors. In addition to the belt-cracking game mentioned earlier, there is the game that involves Toph pretending that he
’
s a kid, while I pretend I
’
m a parent.

“
Dad, can I drive the car?
”
he asks as I sit, reading the paper.

“
No, son, you can
’
t,
”
I say, still reading the paper.

“
But why?
”

“
Because I said so.
”

“
But Daaaad!
”

“
I said no!
”

“
I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!
”

Then he runs to his room and slams the door.

A few seconds later he opens the door.

“
Was that good?
”
he asks.

“
Yeah, yeah,
”
I say.
“
That was pretty good.
”

Today is Friday, and on Friday he gets out of school at noon, so I usually come home early, too, if I can. We are in his room.

“
Where are they?
”

“
They
’
re in there.
”

“
Where?
”

“
Hiding.
”

“
Where?
”

“
In that mountain thing we made.
”

“
Inside the papier-mache?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
When was the last time you saw them?
”

“
I don
’
t know. A while. A week maybe.
”

“
You sure they
’
re still in there?
”

“
Yeah. Almost positive.
”

“
How?
”

“
They still eat their food.
”

“
But you never see them?
”

“
No, not really.
”

“
What crappy pets.
”

“
Yeah, I know.
”

“
Should we return them?
”

“
Can we?
”

“
I think so.
”

“
Stupid iguanas.
”

We walk the two blocks, through the backyard of that one mossy gnome house, to the park with the small half court.

“
Now, why do you go all the way over there when you do it?
”

“
All the way over where?
”

“
You had an open-court lay up, but you went all the way over there to do it. Watch. I
’
ll be you.............See?
”

“
See what?
”

“
I went all the way over—like eight feet over there.
”