Family Affair (13 page)

“Can we have a private convo for a minute, Scarface?”

His friend scurries off as Dusty begins to babble: “I hardly
ever
do that stuff, Coach. It’s a party is all, and Nadia told me she gets all horny whenever she does coke and—”

“Shut up and listen for a minute,” I say. “I’m gonna tell you about a teammate of mine back in college. He was a pretty straight shooter, but he also got caught up with a girl who wanted him to buy some blow so she could have crazy coke sex with him. Wanna know what happened to that very talented kid?”

Dusty hangs his head. “I don’t know. He got kicked off the team?”

“No, he couldn’t afford the coke. But she gave him crabs. He
plays strong safety for Detroit now. Good guy.” I pause for a moment and look meaningfully at him. “You see what I’m saying?”

“Not really, Coach,” he replies, baffled.

“He was one of the lucky ones,” I say pointedly. I’m done joking around. “I know at least a dozen guys—talented players—who lost every shot at their dreams by screwing around when they should have been focusing. Some of them dabbled with drugs, some of them drank themselves out of contention. If my old teammate had been able to afford coke for that skank, he probably would have been another casualty. Instead, he bought some of that crab shampoo, washed that girl right out of his balls, and got back to the business of being a focused ballplayer. And now he plays pro ball.”

Dusty snickers. “In Detroit.”

“Yeah, well, they may suck. But right now, on your best day, you wouldn’t have a prayer of making their roster. Think on that, Cokie.” Dusty starts to protest, but I cut him off. “Oh, you have plenty of talent, but your focus and discipline are half-assed. At best. And if
this
is any indication of where it’s headed, there’s no way you’re gonna be able to compete in any championships. You have to trust in yourself and trust in your team. And you gotta kill yourself for both.”

“I threw up on myself in Friday’s game,” Dusty mutters, without looking up. “I couldn’t catch a cold.”

I lean into him, serious as I’ve ever been. “Three things you need to get clear on, brother: One, you’ve got it in your head that championships are won based solely on what you do on the field. Wrong. Fifty percent of being a champion is about your behavior and composure during the one hundred and sixty hours a week when you’re
not
on a football field. Second, I ever hear about you doing blow again, you’ll be off this team quicker than you can say ‘random drug testing.’ Third, you’ve put me in a terrible position, and I’m gonna be taking a big risk by not reporting you this
minute, so you owe me
big
, and I do not expect to be let down. You got that?”

Dusty nods as I turn to leave. But before I go, I offer him one more nugget. “Oh. And I’ve seen that girl you’re with—and who else she’s been with. Off the record, I think you’ll be lucky if the only thing she gives you is crabs.”

• • •

When I get back to my house, Layla has locked herself in the bedroom. I don’t know if the door is actually locked, but it’s closed, and I take that to mean “keep out.” I’m not surprised. I spend the night tossing and turning on the living-room couch. Second night in a row.

To say our couch is not sleepworthy is a gross understatement. It’s technically a love seat, and I honestly don’t know how in the name of all things holy the thing earned that designation. Sure, you can cram two people onto it, but where is the love? You can’t stretch out, you can’t maneuver—there’s barely enough room to move. Same goes for sleeping on it. I end up on my back with my legs bent over one edge and my head crooked up on the other, my chin mashed into my chest, giving me a scowl that looks like Winston Churchill’s in that famous picture, though I don’t know true pain until I try to lift my head the next morning.

• • •

Sun streams through the living-room windows, and I look around for Layla, half thinking she’ll be making eggs and bacon and a thick fruit smoothie, humming happily to herself and telling me that whatever’s in my tortured and compressed head was all a bad dream. But she’s gone. And my suitcase has been set out—or, I should say, angrily chucked—near the door of our master bathroom.

It’s in that moment that I realize I’m going to have to move out.

• • •

Noah Price, a guy in the UCCC math department, gives me a lead on a loft apartment. Four days later I’m moved in, though my new bachelor pad is not quite the swingin’ place you’d imagine. I’ve got a plaid couch with one leg missing, lifted from the basement at my parents’ (they didn’t really speak to me when I picked it up); a recliner that reclined halfway one night and since then has declined to return upright; an inverted milk-crate table, inspired by countless campus residents before me; nothing on the walls (except about three-quarters of a coat of paint); a microwave with a door that won’t stay closed (so I keep my distance); a good toaster (so I’ll be eating a lot of toast); the last boom box in existence; and a box of condiments, from ketchup and mustard to rare chutneys and fish pastes that are rejects of my mother’s fridge.

The plus side? I can leave dishes in the sink until 2012 and not hear one word about it. I can leave dirty clothes strewn about, and unless the piles start to smell or walk themselves, I don’t have to pick up or wash them. The minus side? My place is a hole—and it’ll get worse as I live there longer. Naturally, nobody’ll want to come over. Even
I’m
going to be disgusted by it. But it’s month-to-month. Like my situation. I would have gone day-to-day, but the landlord merely gave me a look when I asked, so I played it off as a joke.

None of my friends are going to want to hang out with me anyway, because my split has had a trickle-down effect on our friends’ wives. They’re all saying things to the guys like, “Oh, so is that what
you
want, too? You want to be a bachelor again now, too?” So the wives are pissed, and the guys are all pissed at me because I started it, so I have no one to hang out with.

I stop by Norm’s Restaurant for a late-night snack, and I’m two bites into my tuna melt, sitting at the twenty-four-hour restaurant’s counter, when I hear a semi-familiar voice. “Hey, Coach,” it says, and I look up to see Heather.

“Hi,” I answer, hoping she didn’t see my attempt to talk to the woman sitting next to me five minutes earlier—which I swear was just me trying to be cordial. I mean, we
were
sitting next to each other. She wasn’t even attractive.

“So your wife doesn’t make a good tuna melt?” she probes.

“We’re …” I think about how to word it. “Separated.”

This seems to take Heather by surprise. “Wow. You okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“And already back on the horse,” she says. “Struck out with that girl, huh?”

“I was just trying to be polite. Not hitting on her.”

“Uh-huh,” Heather says, with a wry smile.

“Fine.” I exhale. “Think what you want.”

“What I think,” she says, as she takes the now-empty seat next to me, “is that for a coach, you’ve got no game.”

“Please, have a seat,” I say, too late, half kidding. “Are you here by yourself?”

“No,” she says, as she motions to two women sitting at a booth. “I’m with those girls over there. The ones staring at us right now.”

“Tell him you’d like to huddle!” one calls out.

“Shut up,” she answers, and rolls her eyes. “Ignore them.”

Then the other one chimes in. “Tell him he can go right up the middle. Tell him you’re ready to go long.”

“I apologize for them,” she says. “Football humor.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“I am sorry to hear about your separation,” she says, and then smiles. “Not really. I mean, I’d be sorry if you seemed all bummed, but if you’re okay with it—”

“I’m okay with it,” I say.

Heather tells me she’ll give me pointers on how to pick up women, which I politely decline, but she’s adamant, so we start playacting like we’ve never met, and I have to try to pick her up. After a while the lines get blurred and we’re definitely flirting. Her friends have left and we’re there together, as if we’d planned
it. And it’s fun. It’s actually nice to talk to a woman who doesn’t know everything about you from the time you got your driver’s permit.

When I finally say good night and head off home, I’m in a better mood than I’ve been for weeks.

John Lennon once said, “Rituals are important. Nowadays it’s hip not to be married. I’m not interested in being hip.” While I tend to agree with him on most things, I’m down on marriage at the moment, so we’ll just focus on the first part: rituals. They
are
important. They create routine and stability—something I’ve always craved—and as such, I’ve always been the first to embrace family traditions wholeheartedly.

I love to cook the turkey every Thanksgiving with Ginny, each of us alternating basting duty throughout the day. I love making the Famous Foster Sweet Potato Soufflé: Ginny mostly steers that ship, but
I’m
the captain of marshmallow duty. When Christmas rolls around, there’s nothing I like more than making gingerbread houses with the Fosters—although I got an early jump on my house this year. Traditionally, all of our gingerbread houses sit proudly displayed atop the mantel above the fireplace upon completion. Between then and Christmas, we all try to secretly eat doors and windows off someone else’s house when nobody’s looking. I love traditions, and on occasion even create them. My proudest creation? Movie Night.

Movie Night is a tradition I started with the Fosters long before Brett and I got married, and it’s carried on ever since. It’s the eight p.m. showing, every fourth Friday of the month at the Mann Village Theater. Whatever’s playing. Since they show only one film, that last rule means nobody gets blamed for picking a bad movie, nobody fights over the genre, and nobody gets confused about where we’re going or when. It’s all predetermined. Life affords us so many choices—too many choices—so it’s good that some are preplanned.

I show up at the Mann Village around seven forty-five and spot Ginny and Bill at the ticket booth. Ginny rushes over to greet me with a warm hug.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” she says, as she pulls back from the embrace and warmly moves a strand of hair that’s attached itself to my lip gloss.

“Me? Miss Movie Night? Never!”

Bill hands me my ticket, and the three of us walk to the glass double doors. Then I hear someone clear his throat. I turn to see Brett, arms folded, head cocked back, chewing on something imaginary. Bill hands Brett
his
ticket, which he grabs without unfolding his arms.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I didn’t think he’d actually come.

“Me?” he says, a bit belligerently. “What am I doing here? What are
you
doing here?”

“It’s Movie Night,” I say, taking a few steps away from Bill and Ginny. “I started this tradition. There was no Movie Night before me.”

“I’m no Roger Ebert, but I am relatively sure that movies existed before I met you.”

“Yes,
movies
existed. But I started Movie Night,” I repeat. “I started the Friday night tradition.”

“With
my
family.”

“And when we got married they became
my
family, too.”

When he doesn’t say anything to this, nor does he seem to be budging, I say, “I got here first, so I think you should leave.”

“Seriously? That’s your stance? Did you also call shotgun on my parents?”

“No, I just cultivated an actual relationship with them, as opposed to assuming I’m the golden boy simply because they hatched me. Your relation is just a birth accident.”

“Yeah,” he snarls, taking a step forward and pointing to Ginny’s stomach, “Well, those stretch marks have
my
name on them…. Dear God, I wish I hadn’t said that out loud.”

“Really, Brett!” Ginny says.

“Sorry, Mom.” He turns back to me and lowers his voice. “Did you really think I
wouldn’t
be here?”

“I can actually think of several instances when you weren’t,” I say. “However, I have
never
missed a single Movie Night.”

“You were
invited
then,” he shoots back. “Now you’re like that drunk uncle who won’t leave after Christmas dinner.”

“Charming,” I say.

“I think you’re making my parents uncomfortable,” he suggests, but Bill and Ginny are in their own world. I wonder if they think this whole thing will blow over with us, even though Brett moved out a few days ago. Damn, that was fast.

Bill looks our way, smiles, and gives us a thumbs-up. “Let’s go get seats, kids!” he chirrups. He’s clearly trying not to take sides, though Ginny is obviously on Team Layla.

Just then Scott shows up, with Trish following close behind. Not wanting to make things worse, I walk into the theater and take a seat. Ginny sits next to me, and of course Brett insists that he sit on her other side. As we’re settling down, Bill hands Ginny a big tub of popcorn and I notice Brett scowling at me.

“What is the problem?” I ask in a loud whisper. “You’re showing up to
my
thing, yet you’re giving me the stink-eye.”

“Again, I fail to see how Movie Night with
my
family is
your
thing,” he hisses. The lights dim and the previews start.

“Whatever,” I say, as I dig my hand into the tub of popcorn on Ginny’s lap.

“Exactly,” he replies, digging his hand into the tub before I’ve gotten mine out. Each of us tries to forcefully remove the other’s hand, which sends popcorn flying. All of this is happening atop Ginny’s knees.

Other movie patrons are looking at us—deservedly, because we are behaving like a couple of children—so finally I stand up and announce that I am leaving.

“Don’t leave,” Ginny says.

“Yeah, Lay,” Scott chimes in.
“Don’t.”

“Please leave,” someone a few rows behind us says, and a bunch of other patrons start to laugh, clap, and whistle.

I was already embarrassed, but this is too much. I kiss Ginny on the cheek and walk out. I hear Trish yell at Brett as I exit, but I keep going. I can only make out a couple of words: “asshole” and “dumbfuck.” It’s nice that Trish has my back, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.