Beat the Band (6 page)

“Don’t talk like that,” Mom says. “You’re beautiful, honey. You’re just coming into your own. You’ll see. Six months from now you’ll be beating the guys off with a stick.”

“Yowch,” I say, popping a handful of cheese puffs into my mouth. “Is that how you do it, Ang? No wonder guys keep breaking up with you.”

Angela shoots me a double-barreled finger salute.

I laugh and start to make my escape with the Cheetos when Mom calls out, “Wait, Coop. Where are you going?”

“The basement.”

“Your father wants to talk with you.”

Oh, great. Just what I need right now. “About what?” I ask.

Mom blushes, then turns away. “Just . . . go into the family room.” She starts fumbling with the box of pot pies. “It’s important.”

Okay, what the hell is going on?

Angela chortles. “Jesus, Coop. Are you failing out of tenth grade already?”

I flash her a screw-you glare, then turn back to Mom. “Can’t I talk to him later? I have a lot of work to do.”

“No.” Mom drops one of the frozen pies and it slides into the sink. “Go. He’s waiting.”

DAD’S SITTING ON THE COUCH
watching Grand Prix darts and drinking a beer when I get to the family room. There are two empties already on the side table. For the last three years Mom’s been pretty strict, rationing the beer because of Dad’s diabetes, but he’s been ignoring the rules lately.

“Mom said you wanted to see me?” I say, hovering in the doorway with my bag of Cheetos.

He looks over at me. “Oh, hey there, bud. You got to watch this.” He gestures to the TV with his bottle, his dry and cracked fingers permanently grease-stained. “These guys are really good. I didn’t even know they
had
dart championships, did you?”

“No.” I want to get this over with as fast as possible. “So, um, Mom said you had something you wanted to tell me?”

“Come on. Have a seat.” Dad takes a tug on his beer and pats the couch beside him.

I glance over my shoulder, feeling more than a little uneasy. When Dad wants to talk to me, he just talks. It’s never been this kind of arranged-meeting sort of thing. Is he going to tell me Mom and him are getting a divorce? Or that we’re going to have to sell the house and move? Or that I’m going to have to get a job to help support the family? I don’t know if I could handle any of those situations.

“Get over here,” Dad says. “This is the grand finale. You don’t want to miss this.”

I drag myself away from the door and slog over to the couch. I place the Cheetos bag on the end table. Dad scoots over a little and I sit. He smells like a combination of beer and Old Spice.

“O’Shea is ahead right now,” he says. “But this Adams fella is coming on strong.”

On the TV, two beer-bellied dudes are chucking darts at a board.

“Wow, yeah, nice aim.”

“So, how’s tricks?” Dad asks, his eyes glued to the screen. Is it me, or is he acting really weird?

“What do you mean?”

He turns his head toward me. “What do I mean?” He cuffs the back of my head. “Girls, chucklenut. I’m starting to worry about you. Your two buds have dipped their toes in the hootchy pool. What about
my
boy? These are precious years you’re letting slip by. High school is an all you can eat muffet. It’s no time to be shy.”

Is
this
what we’re talking about? My opportunity to score with girls? I can’t believe that this is Mom-sanctioned. “Yeah. It’s chill, Dad. Seriously.”

“I’m just sayin’.” He takes another slug of his beer. “Anyway. So . . .” He clears his throat. “Your mother and I were wondering . . .” Why are his ears getting so red? “Your Mom and I felt that . . .” Dad rubs the back of his neck. Looks over at the door. “Maybe you should go close that.”

I follow his gaze. “The door?”

“Yeah. So we’re not disturbed.”

“What the hell’s going on, Dad?”

“Nothing’s ‘going on.’ I just want to spend some man-time with my boy.” He claps my shoulder awkwardly. “Everything’s normal. This is normal. We’re just a normal father and son here. Chatting about . . . normal guy things.”

My skin suddenly feels too tight on my face. I lean away from him. “Okay, you’re starting to freak me out.”

“Look, just close the damn door and then we can talk in private. This is personal stuff.”

I get up from the couch cautiously and make my way to the door, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. I pull the door shut, then walk back to the couch and sit at the far end.

“So . . .” Dad coughs. He won’t meet my eyes. “Last night, when I was in the garage . . . your mom came . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

A grossed-out chill rockets up my spine. “Okay, could you
please
finish that sentence.”

“No, that’s not . . .” He tilts his head, cracking his neck. “Listen. Your mom came out to the garage while I was working on one of my projects. You remember that massage chair I found by that Dumpster a few weeks ago? I’ve almost got if fully functional. Except that it still sort of gooses you every once in a while. But I’m almost there.”

“That’s great, Dad. You were saying?”

“Right. Anyway. Your Mom said she found something when she was cleaning your room. Some papers. On contraception.”

“Yeah? So? It’s for Health class.”

“That a fact?” He seems relieved by this. Hopeful, almost. But then his shoulders slump. “Well, that doesn’t really change things. Your mother thinks that you might be . . .” Dad forces a laugh. “You know your mother. She’s kind of naive about these sorts of things.” His upper lip is beading with sweat.

My stomach flops over. I suddenly know exactly where this is heading.

“Look, Dad,” I say, cutting him off at the pass. “I’m good. Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

“I’m sure you do. I just . . . you know . . . we’ve never really had . . . ‘The Talk,’ you and me. You know.
Officially.
” He wipes the perspiration from his lip. Then takes another gulp of beer. “I mean, I figure you know a bit already. But do you have any questions? Are you familiar with all the, uh, details? The mechanics of things?”

“Dad. I’m fifteen. I’ve got a computer. What I know would probably make Mom cry. Can I go now?”

Dad takes a supremely deep breath. Then closes his eyes. “So, uh, then you . . . know how to put a condom on? I mean, have you . . . practiced?”

The air feels like it’s all breathed up in here. “I can put together a BIONICLE blindfolded. I think I can handle a condom.”

Dad leans back as he drags an aqua-blue box of Trojans from under the coffee table with his sock-clad big toe.

I turn away. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Your mother made me promise I’d show you how to put one on.”

“No,” I say, shooting to my feet. “Absolutely not.”

“Sit down! Now!” He grabs my arm and yanks me back to the couch. “We’re going to do this.” He leans over and picks the box up off the floor. “Your mother’s worried you’ll wind up with some disease. Or get a girl pregnant or something. And then it’ll be my fault for not showing you.” He tears open the box and pulls out a long chain of condoms.

I shut my eyes. Hold up my hands. “Seriously, Dad. I’ll wiki it. This is
not
cool.”

“Come on. Open your eyes,” he says. “You think this is fun for me? It isn’t. But if I don’t do this, your mother’s gonna lock the love trunk until I do. So let’s just get this over with.”

“Please, Dad.” If a genie suddenly appeared and offered me one wish right now, I would ask to be made small enough so that I could crawl between the couch cushions.

“I said open your goddamn eyes.” He cuffs my head again.

I open them partway, half-expecting to see him tugging his pants down and working up a proud one so he can perform his demonstration.

Instead, he drains his beer and places the empty bottle between his legs. Thank God for small favors. “This is important information. You do it wrong, you might as well not even be wearing one.” He carefully tears one of the condom packets from the chain. “The first thing you want to do is check the expiration date. This isn’t a ‘Best Before’ date. If it’s expired, it’s expired.” All of a sudden he’s gone from being completely embarrassed to totally practical, like we’ve dived into the ocean, and he’s over the fact that it’s freezing cold, and is now ready to bodysurf. “Then, you want to make sure the packet hasn’t been compromised. It should feel like a little air pillow.” He hands me the condom. “You feel that.”

“Yeah, great.” I hand it back. My eyes are trying to look at anything but his beer-bottle erection, which for some reason has become the only thing in the room. “Can you at least take the bottle out from between your legs?”

“No, I cannot. Because your champion isn’t going to be sitting on a table, or next to you, or anywhere else but where it is. As a matter of fact . . .” Dad grabs one of his other empties, reaches over, and jams it between my legs.

My back shoots up straight. “Whoa. Hey now.”

He rips another condom from the chain and tosses it to me.

“We’re going to do this together,” Dad says. “Because if you don’t learn how to do it now, the right way, you sure as hell aren’t going to be able to do it properly when it’s dark and you’re all hopped up in the back seat of a car. Now open your condom. But do it carefully. With your hands. Not your teeth. Believe me, I learned that one the hard way.”

We go through the whole painful process. Step by agonizing step. Making sure it’s not inside out. Pinching the tip to keep the air out in order to make a reservoir. Rolling it down to the base of our long necks.

“Good,” Dad says, gesturing at his success. “Now that we’re suitably sheathed, we can go about our business. Do you need me to go over that part with you?”

“I do not,” I say.

“Okay.” He nods. “So, let’s say we’ve performed admirably. Everything has — you know — worked out the way it should. Now we have to remove the condom. And it’s different than how we put it on.”

All of a sudden, the door swings open and Angela pokes her head in. “Mom says dinner’s going to be ready in fifteen . . . Ohmygod!” Angela blanches, her eyes bugging. “What the hell?”

Dad and I look over from the couch, our beer-bottle condom-sheathed wangs standing tall between our legs. The mixture of confusion, disgust, and complete horror on Angela’s face is supreme. All of a sudden, this whole thing is worth it. I wish I had a camera.

“Do you mind, hon?” Dad says. “This is man talk. We’re a little busy here.”

“I hate this family!” Angela shouts as she turns on her heel and bolts from the room.

Dad and I look at each other for a second.

“Oops,” he says.

And we both burst out laughing.

I’M HUNCHED OVER
my drums, staring at the posters on the wall. The Who. The White Stripes. The Beatles. Radiohead. Arctic Monkeys. All of them mocking me. My T-shirt is soaked through with sweat, my shoulders are in knots, and I have a blazing headache.

Five and a half hours. I’ve worked my ass off down in this basement for five and a half hours trying to cobble together a demo — pounding on my drum kit, figuring out how to work the software instruments in GarageBand, trying to lay down some passable tracks on my computer — and still I have dick to show for it.

Part of me wants to say screw it, but another part won’t let it go.

I sit up. Set myself. Reach over to my laptop and press the trackpad with the tip of my drumstick to start a new recording. Count myself in, then beat out the intro to “Dani California.”

“Coop, buddy!” Dad calls out over the drums as he clomps down the stairs.

I click off the recording. Damn it. That was sounding good, too.

“I love the dedication, bud,” he says, as he makes his way toward my drums, “but there are three other people living in this house.”

“This is for school, Dad. It’s due tomorrow.”

He recoils at the sight of me. “Jesus Christ, Coop. Are you okay? You’re sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I just . . . need to do this.”

He glances around at the mess on the floor: the crumpled Cheetos bag, the five empty Coke cans, the scattered pages of sheet music, the broken drumsticks. “This is some kind of homework, you say?”