Interstate (36 page)

Daddy
,” and I say “Wait, let me finish—even if lots of things like that. You're knocked about, your parents and their parents were—I don't mean beaten up by people, including your parents, but possibly that too. And there's crime and drugs and all that awful stuff right outside your door day and night if you're lucky enough to have your own door to stay behind, you still have to be nice and polite to people and give them respect if you want to get the same back. Not to the ones doing these bad things to you but to the seventy or so percent of good decent people left in society. There's more than that figure but just for conjecture, for argument's sake, which I think is really what conjecture's for—” and Margo says “Daddy, you're really lecturing now and it's boring, I'm sorry, but it's like Officer Stokes who comes to our school twice a year to warn us against drugs,” and I say “So, maybe that's what I should do for a living, lecture, prepare my copious notes, get up in front of hundreds of students, and three months off every summer—college lectures, I'm saying—monthlong Christmas vacations and other breaks—oh what I wouldn't do for it if I had the brains—three teaching days a week if it's a good expensive school, or just expensive, hang the good—but okay. But it's the truth that for a long moment there I did think those guys would not shoot us but try to run us off the road and even ram our car to do it, but just for kicks, you see, for the sheer delight of seeing me squirm with fright for myself but mostly for you kids, and who knows?—maybe also to see—no. But they're reason one we lock our doors at night though others in not-as-safe neighborhoods keep them barricaded all day. That's all I'll say. And we've more locks than the previous owners of our house did—than my folks did when I was a kid, and we lived in the heart of the city. We in fact kept our doors unlocked till dinnertime—New York, New York—can you believe that?” and Julie says “Didn't anybody walk in?” and I say “Nobody, not once, and we had no doorman and were on the ground floor—we only started locking it all day about the time I was a teen and the crime rate in the city shot up. When people started getting mugged in the park. That seemed to be the first place. When you couldn't walk through it at night anymore,” and Julie says “You used to before? That must have been nice with the dark and the outside lights,” and I say “Some people on summer nights used to sleep in the park when the city got very hot, or that might have been more in my parents' time when they were kids, but you could still walk through it at night in mine, or maybe only in the safest well-lit parts. Though actually I remember gangs roaming through the park when my friends and I played in it when we were nine and ten and talking tough to us and giving a little shove and when we weren't looking running off with our bats and gloves. Baseball. You know, we used to do it two against two, one pitching and covering the infield and one in the out, but these kids were usually older and came down in droves. So, robbery then but not the kind where if you stood up for your glove you'd get bashed in the head with your bat and possibly even shot. But the talk's getting too dark,” and Margo says “What else happened when you were a boy like that? Now it's interesting when you talk of things I know,” and I say “Regarding what—crime, play, just growing up?” and she says “Those boys,” and I say “Oh, we ran after them and sometimes even got our stuff back if we yelled for some adults up ahead to stop them and they did, though now they wouldn't because they'd be afraid to get shot. And occasional fights in the street, mostly minor squabbles but sometimes this religion or block against that one when we were really young, and later on in high school much tougher fights, but then, again, because they didn't like your face or the way your laces were tied. And some people got their purses snatched if they left them lying around or let them hang too loosely on their arm, but nobody I heard of had a car stolen or apartment broken into and there was never such a thing as a school shooting or a carjacking,” and she says “Did you like fighting when you were growing up?” and I say “What a thing to ask of your daddy—of course not. Don't you remember my saying I looked forward to becoming an adult because I thought all that violence around me would stop?” and she says “Just the way you talked about it, you seemed to,” and I say “No, there's nothing I said or was in my voice and if you saw me smiling in the mirror it was just at your question, though I will tell you—I'm being honest here—after you win a fight there is a kind of satisfaction with yourself—you feel pretty good just that you were able to defend yourself and if you did it in front of your friends, even better. But I never started fights, I think, and I wasn't also, I want you to know—I'm not proud of this now, or maybe I am a little, but anyway—an easy kid to punch out. I knew how to fight pretty well, maybe because of my terrific temper then,” and Julie says “You still have one,” and I say “Rarely, very little, and nowhere near as fierce as I was then, because I became almost crazy if I thought I was being attacked for no reason or ganged up on, but that's the only time. But I'd do anything I could then if I couldn't lick them or overpower them in a fair way. Kick them in the groin, pull their hair, maybe not bite anyone's ear or nose but I wasn't against poking in the eyes a little—oh, I don't know about that—but getting some guy in a neck lock and squeezing in his larynx till he choked—you know,” and I turn to the side and point to mine. “Women don't have them, the Adam's apple, or just not pronounced, for of course they have a voice box. But things I'd do, this dirty kicking and squeezing, only if I felt myself losing, or as I said before, almost dying—I did say it, didn't I?” and Julie says “I don't know,” and Margo says “You did but differently,” and I say “So, ferocious, absolutely so, but now I look back at it I bet it was—well, maybe it was, maybe it wasn't,” and Margo says “Was or wasn't what?” and I say “Fuzzy bear—only kidding; but that I was…you're right: was what? I forget, though maybe that I was only acting against the rough tactics and just the injustice of those tough guys, or what's another word for it?—the…the…just the injustice of them. That some kid and then later some young punk was starting with me or one of my friends for no reason, for I was, being bigger and usually stronger than most of my friends and a lot more hotheaded, a big protector and defender of them, though I may have only done that to get in their favor and be a good guy to have around. Anyway, I don't think I fought that way, ferociously, for any other reason than that. Though maybe this high concept of injustice, as I call it, gave me the excuse to act ferociously—meaning their injustice and my strong feelings against it. In other words, some punk picks on me or one of my small friends—but I'm confusing things by bringing in defending them. Just me, and I now have the excuse to get back at him and even better—to immobilize and humiliate him, neutralize him by whatever means imaginable, just take him out as I think kids now say, to kick the living shit out of him, really. Excuse me, something we used to say, but he started it, I'll finish it, for when there's a chance you can get hurt bad or even come close to what you think is dying, as I said, you really can do almost anything—meaning you're permitted to—the law of the streets, we'll say, and maybe even the law of the law—if what the other guy's doing to you or threatening to is dangerous, illegal and by everyone's standards totally wrong. You guys following me?” and Margo says “I'm not now but I was,” and I say “Hey, if your big brain didn't get it then I know I crossed myself up somewhere,” and Julie says “Did you? Beat other people up?” and I say “That's what I've been saying, when I was younger. I probably even broke a couple of guys' noses in high school—that's how bad it sometimes got for me; it was a tough school and all boys. And once at a party when I was in college—by this time I should have just walked away from it. But a very tall guy, in a white turtleneck sweater, and I leaped up and punched him in the face and there was blood from his nose all over the place—I hated myself for it later; I hate myself for it today. He said ‘Why'd you have to do that, what I do to you?' and looked at me so sadly because he knew I had sort of ruined part of his looks. His sweater was drenched from the blood also and I was so ashamed after he said it that I left the party and everybody there and my own sweater back there too and never picked it up, and later I should have called him to apologize and pay for the sweater and even the nose or as much as I could afford. So he wanted to fight with my best friend then, or something; maybe I had even misunderstood who started it and my friend had given me a pack of lies about it, saying the tall guy was at fault. If I did anything I should have just stepped in to mediate—work it out, peacemake—and if they wouldn't and my friend didn't walk away from it—out of the party, even; I would have gone with him—then just given up on them. But I had to be such a big damn stupid hero. At worst I should have only grabbed the guy from behind and held his arms back if I could and said ‘Stop it, cool it, calm down, someone will get hurt.' For imagine, two to three old guys my age are walking around today, if they haven't died of something else since those fights, with broken noses because of me. Or if they got them fixed—it wasn't the type of high school for the first two to do, though who knows what almost anyone becomes later—and this to me is worse than walking around with it broken—then noses with shiny ugly plastic surgery done on them because of me. Actually, the guy at the party was very handsome—maybe that's what I was hitting, his tall good looks and wavy blond hair. So it could be he was an actor or had gone on into acting, and for good reasons, perhaps—professional ones—got a nose job, or for modeling. But in high school, no hating myself, no feeling bad over it, and not because I had no feelings like that then. I had to hit back when they jumped me. They started it, as I said, so it was—well, you heard this one before—them or me, and by that I mean one guy jumped me one school term, the second guy another term; they didn't gang up on me together. But that's another thing. Gangs today work as gangs—real ones. Where they don't, as they used to do then a lot, just watch one of their gang members beat up some guy or try to or get beaten up himself and once one guy's beaten the other guy up but is still pummeling him, they also don't say ‘Okay, fight's over, our guy' or ‘your guy won it fair and square, we should stop him now before someone really gets hurt.' No, right from the start today and without warning they all jump someone and beat the hell out of him or kill him and not just with their fists—not with their fists, period. They use—” and Julie says “Think we should stop now, Daddy?” and I say “Why, I'm going on, right—too much?” and she says “At a stopping place I mean,” and I say “Oh? I was beginning to think we should drive straight through, since we're only about what?—hour and a half away at most. But if you're hungry—really hungry—not for a crappy snack but a hamburger or even those chicken fingers and some salad, or have to use the john—” and Margo says “What time is it?” and I look at the car radio, 3:47, then:48, and I say “Almost four—quarter to,” and she says “If we don't have to stop or not for long and it's only an hour and a half more, maybe I can still go to the end of the ice skating party Lillian's giving,” and I say “Maybe. I didn't think we'd get off so early or there'd be so little traffic in the city, so I never thought you'd make it there in time. When's the party again?” and she says “Three-thirty to six, the Ice Arena,” and I say “I'm sure we can if we don't stop for anything except to pee and there are no major tie-ups along the way—want to? Okay by me,” and she says “Whee, a big yes,” and Julie says “Not for me,” and I say “My sweetie, you get invited to lots more parties than Margo—you know, she's so old that not all her friends still give them,” and she says “But never ice skating,” and I say “Uh-oh, Margo, we have the present?” and Margo says “So I can't go, or can we get it at home first?—it's already wrapped and I know exactly where it is,” and I say “It'll take us, extra miles to home and then the rink and so on, twenty minutes more—and rush hour; it won't be worth it—Ah, come on, so you go without one and just say you came straight from New York and the big sacrifice we made rushing to it and you'll give her the present in school next day. No, no lies, we'll just show up and say she'll get it tomorrow,” and she says “It won't be right, everyone will have given her one,” and I say “It's right, it's right, for what are presents anyway? Yours not so, but usually something the birthday kid doesn't need or like or ever use. When I was a boy—okay, here he goes again—and had a party, lots of my friends didn't bring them—they were too poor or it just wasn't as important, and I never minded. The party was the thing. Soda, ice cream, cake, games, blowing out the candles. Now kids come with a couple of gifts sometimes. One Julie went to last month? I came in at the end to pick her up and saw the birthday girl tearing
them open. ‘This is from me,' one of the girls said—Rebecca, and I'm not criticizing her; it's the parents who push these things—and handed over three. It's this mentality that's around. Buy, buy, buy and more buy till we're stuffed to the gills with goods, which is probably why people give so many gifts for all sorts of occasions that don't deserve them—to get rid of all the things they bought or were given that they didn't need,” and Julie says “It's not that bad,” and I say “It's bad, it's bad, though of course not the worst thing in the world,” and Margo says “Daddy, you think if we get there I'll have time to skate? Because I'd have to rent them, hand over my shoes, put them on, and with nothing to give I don't only want to be there to see Lillian open her presents,” and I say “Sure, it'll be a challenge. Beltway's jammed, I'll go the side routes and I bet we still get there forty-five minutes before the party's supposed to end—six-fifteen at the latest,” and she says “It ends at six,” and I say “I meant five-fifteen, hour and a half from now—less, hour and twenty. I also bet the party goes on for at least half an hour after six,” and she says “Probably not. Probably they'll be done ice skating way before that and the presents and cake and stuff will be around five-thirty to six and then they'll ask us to leave,” and I say “Listen, you're having misgivings about getting there for nothing, tell me and I won't bust my chops rushing,” and Julie says “Go to it, Margo; I would,” and she says “Yes?” and I say “I think you should too; you never know, I might be right, once in my life, about something—the extra time,” and she says “It won't be too much out of your way? I don't want you getting upset at me later for rushing you and taking too much of your time when you have lots to do,” and I say “Don't worry; see my disposition? It's good. And it'll be a roundabout on-my-way. I'll pull in, drop you off, give you some money for skates if Lillian's folks aren't taking care of it,” and she says “I'm sure they are, but maybe not now because they'll think all the kids have them already or it doesn't pay for me for just two minutes on the ice—I wouldn't blame them,” and I say “Anyway, if you can skate five minutes, then skate, and I'll drive home, unpack and come back with Julie in an hour. Say around six-ten, and then we'll all go home and have dinner, which I'll have started to prepare there, or even eat out; maybe we will,” and she says “Okay, I'll go, thanks, Daddy,” and I say “Fine,” truth is, wishing she'd given up on the idea, and calculate if I can make it in time for it to be worth it to her. I probably can; I know the side routes; there'll be some rush-hour traffic near the Beltway and first few miles on it before I can get off at an exit I know, if I have to, since most of the traffic will be coming from the city. So I pick up speed, stay at sixty-eight, look at the rearview; Margo's smiling; good, I made someone happy and did it with no fuss, bellyaching, “Look how I'm going out of my way for you,” and Julie took it pretty well for a change too, so it was good for all of us. I signal, though no one's behind me, get in the fast lane, no cop will stop me at this speed, not even at sixty-nine; seventy, seventy-one's when they start going after you, and I drive like that, kids talking together in back, checking the rearview every minute or two to make sure no car behind mine wants me to move over, pass a few cars, think of those two dopes from before—why, tell me? Well, I'll never know; just fools, big dopes as I said, with a cruel streak in both—drive at sixty-eight, seventy, keeping an eye out for parked patrol cars, but no faster than seventy, for sometimes you don't know where they are. And so few cars on the road around here, chances are even greater they'll grab you. Radio? Why even try? I've never been able to get anything but popular music and religious programs in this area. Kids still talking low. About what? I really don't mind doing it for Margo; so it's a half hour more of my time on the road, big deal. Half hour, forty minutes: same. This way she won't feel she missed out on much because Lee and I wanted to be in New York a few days. Lee did; I would have as easily stayed home, read, rested, done some work of my own and around the house, things with the kids. She always seems to be missing out on a party or sleepover because of our plans; it just happens; bad luck we'll say. For some reason, Julie almost never. Maybe I can get to the rink even sooner than I thought so she can be sure to get some skating in. And really, faster I get there, the better; driving can be so tiring. And this way she'll feel she missed out on even less, and I can go home and get lots of things done—the entire dinner fixed if I decide not to eat out—and it'll be nice just being with Julie alone, when there's a car in front of us, older guy it seems driving at what? sixty, maybe, that's what I'm doing now—and I get close behind him, I don't like to and if he suddenly brakes I could go into him, though I think we're far enough apart for me to avoid that, but what the hell, it's a message, for why's he think he has to set the speed limit for this lane? everyone knows you can go ten miles an hour over and usually fifteen in this lane and just about any other except the slow one, but he still doesn't budge, doesn't seem to have seen me, head hasn't moved in a way where I'd know he's looked in his rearview mirror, so I turn my lights on and blink them, on and off, on and off, that usually does it in a few seconds or until the car can get past the car in the lane to the right with plenty of room to go into it, though no car's there now, nine times out of ten it works, it's what I should have done instead of tailgating him, and I slow down a little to put another twenty feet between us, but he doesn't move, this guy isn't moving, why isn't the sonofabitch moving? he has to have seen some flashing in his rearview even if he wasn't looking right at it, it just flashes, catches his eye, and he'd know something was catching it, even if he thought it might be the sun, and then he'd look right at it and see it was the car behind him flashing and he'd know it was to move over, it can't be for anything else, if a driver knows anything about driving it's that, and if he's only looking at the side mirrors instead—well, nobody does unless he has to, turning right, left, entering traffic and so on, key mirror's the rearview—anyway, I forget what I was saying, something with the side mirrors, if he was looking at them to see what was behind, I think, well, if he did he'd see part of my car too, that's all, but he hasn't looked at either side mirror, far as I can tell since I've been behind him, but the rearview, through that one he'd see the flashing wasn't the sun or some light bouncing off something way behind him even if he wasn't looking right at it, so he's playing games with me or something, not games but probably thinking “Hey, the guy behind's tailgating me, he knows he shouldn't so I'll keep him going slow for a while to teach him a lesson before I switch lanes and let him pass,” or could be he still hasn't seen me, not my flashing, nothing, could be he has eye problems, doesn't see well if at all out of the right one and not so good also in the left, but I don't think so, though he is wearing glasses if those bumps on the back of his ears are the sides of the frames, but he'd have trouble getting a license with such bad eyes or, if the condition came after he got one, then passing the eye test most states make you take every time your renewal comes up and his plate says his state's same as mine, if he's not renting the car and comes from somewhere else that doesn't have such a law, it's just probably he's deep in thought somewhere, as I was before when Margo snapped me out of it, and not paying attention, so I turn the brights on and pull up about ten feet closer and flash them on and off a few times and wait for him to signal right, for when someone flashes the brights from behind so close you almost have to see them no matter where you're looking or what you're doing, but he doesn't signal, I wait thirty seconds, nothing, flash some more with the brights, then pull up a few feet closer, now around two car lengths behind him, which is close enough, and then think I haven't looked in the rearview for a few minutes and look and see a car about thirty feet behind me, so there's two of us, maybe three, more, waiting to pass this guy, and I check both side mirrors and in the right one see a car behind the one behind me but that's all, and I flash my brights several times, for this guy and to let the driver behind me know I'm doing my best to get past him, I could use my horn but I don't like to, sometimes it scares drivers in front, he could be in deep thought as I said and hasn't seen me and one horn blast might startle him where he could go off the road or veer into the next lane when a car's coming in it or something dangerous like that but less, the woman in the car behind me—it looks like a woman, the hair—flashes twice with her brights and I say “Oh come on, you can see I'm doing everything I can,” and point to the car in front and keep flashing my brights and think “That goddamn asshole, that goddamn stupid old asshole, look alive, you putz, look alive,” and Margo says “Daddy, you're too close to the next car,” and I say “I want to get past it, he's not moving, look at the stupid speed he's traveling at in the passing lane—that's right, this is actually called the passing lane, it's been going on like this for minutes and there are cars behind wanting to get past,” and she says “So go in the next road and let them,” and I say “But I want to pass him too,” and she says “So go in the next road—” and I say “