The Ignored (15 page)

I went to Marshall’s, charged a new wardrobe. Loud shirts and
outrageously designed pants.

I went to Supercuts, got a modified mohawk.

I had done it. I had changed. I had made myself over. I was a new me.

And at work on Monday, nobody noticed.

I walked through the parking lot and into the lobby feeling almost
foolishly conspicuous, my band of centered hair standing tall and stiff on my
otherwise bald head, my pants baggy and shiny red, my shirt lime-green, my tie
fluorescent pink. But no one gave me a second glance. There was not even a pause
in the conversation between two fifth-floor secretaries waiting for the elevator
as I walked up and stood next to them. Neither of them glanced in my direction
or paid me any attention at all.

Even David did not notice the difference. He said hi to me when I walked
into the office, finished his breakfast muffin, then settled down to work.

I was Ignored no matter what I did.

I sat down at my desk, discouraged and depressed, feeling like an
asshole with my hair and my clothes. Why was this happening to me? Why was I
Ignored? What was wrong with me? I touched my mohawk, as if to reassure myself
that it was real, that I was real, that I had physical substance. My hand felt
hard lacquered hair.

What was I?

That was the real question.

And for that, of course, I had no answer.

The week passed slowly, with seconds that seemed like hours, hours that
seemed like days, days that were of interminable length. David was out for the
second half of the week, and by the time Friday rolled around I had been so
consistently disregarded and overlooked that I was about ready to attack one of
the secretaries to prove to myself and everyone else that I existed, that I was
there.

On my way home, I tried to speed, to drive crazily and recklessly, but
my heart wasn’t in it and I failed to make even a small dent in the
consciousness of my fellow freeway travelers.

Inside my apartment, the garishly clashing color scheme of the living
room only made me feel tired and even more depressed. I stared at the Monster
Roster poster hung at an inappropriate angle above my pink butterfly chair. I
had somehow managed to make the gaudy look mundane, the garish unobtrusive.

I loosened my tie and sat down on he couch. I felt drained. The weekend
loomed before me: two days of freedom in which I would constantly be confronted
with my anonymity. I tried to think of something I could do, some place I could
go where I wouldn’t be continually faced with the meaningless obscurity that was
my existence.

My parents, I thought. I could visit my parents. I wasn’t ignored by
them. I was not just a forgettable face to my mom, not just a nobody to my dad.
I might not be able to talk to them about my situation, but just being with
them, just being with people who noticed and paid attention to me, would help.

I hadn’t tried calling them after Thanksgiving, feeling vaguely pissed
off at their treatment of me and wanting to punish them for it, but Christmas
was fast approaching and I needed both my mom and my dad to give me some idea of
what they wanted this year.

I figured that was as good an excuse as any to give them a ring.

I walked over to the phone, picked it up and dialed. Busy. I hung up,
dialed again. We weren’t close, my parents and I. We did not see eye to eye on
most things; we did not even like each other a lot of the time. But we loved
each other. We were family. And if you couldn’t turn to your family in time of
need, who could you turn to?

The line was still busy. I hung up the phone. I had a plan. I would be
spontaneous. I would surprise them by driving down right now and showing up on
their doorstep for dinner.

Average people weren’t spontaneous.

I packed a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and ten minutes later I
was on the freeway, headed for San Diego.

I considered pulling off at San Juan Capistrano, then at Oceanside, then
at Del Mar and trying to call again. Now that I thought about it, my parents
probably wouldn’t like it if I just showed up on their doorstep without warning.
But I had momentum, I didn’t want to get sidetracked, and I stayed on the
highway, moving south.

It was close to nine when I pulled up in front of my parents’ home.
Our
home. It hadn’t changed much since I was a child, and that was
reassuring. I got out of the car and walked up the short cement path to the
porch. Although I had been here less than a year ago, it seemed like it had been
forever, and I felt as though I were returning after a long, long absence. I
stepped onto the porch, knocked, rang the bell.

A strange man answered the door.

I jumped, startled.

From behind the stranger came the voice of another stranger, a woman.
“Who is it, dear?”

“I don’t know!” the man called back. He was unshaven, overweight,
wearing low-slung jeans and a tank top T-shirt. He looked at me through the
screen. “Yes?”

I cleared my throat. There was a funny feeling in my stomach. “Are my
parents here?” I asked.

The man frowned. “What?”

“I came to visit my parents. They live here. I’m Bob Jones.”

The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I live
here.”

“This is my parents’ house.”

“Maybe you have the wrong street or something.”

“Taz!” the woman called.

“In a minute!” the man called back.

“I don’t have the wrong street. This is my parents’ house. I was born
here. My parents have lived here for the past thirty years!”

“I live here now. What did you say your parents’ names were?”

“Martin and Ella Jones.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They own this house!”

“I rent from Mr. Sanchez. He’s the owner. Maybe you should talk to him.”

My heart was pounding. I was sweating, though the weather was chilly. I
tried to remain calm, tried to tell myself that there was a rational explanation
for this, that it was all part of a simple misunderstanding, but I knew it was
not true. I swallowed, tried not to show my fear. “Could you give me Mr.
Sanchez’s address and phone number?”

The man nodded. “Sure.” He started to turn around, then stopped. “I
don’t know, though. Mr. Sanchez might not appreciate me giving out personal
stuff—”

“A daytime number, then. Don’t you have his work phone number?”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on a sec.”

The man retreated into the house—
our house
—to find a pen
and paper, and I realized that a work number wouldn’t do me any good. It was
Friday night. Unless I wanted to wait until Monday, I was screwed. On an
impulse, I looked toward the wood frame house next door. The name on the burnt
wood novelty shingle hanging from the lighted porch was CRAWFORD. The Crawfords!
I should have thought of them before. If Mr. and Mrs. Crawford still lived next
door, they would know what the hell had happened. They would know why my parents
were not here, why this strange man and his wife were living in our house.

Without waiting for the man to return, I hopped off the porch and
started across the lawn toward the Crawfords’. “Hey!” the man called out behind
me. I heard his wife yell something.

I stepped over the low hedge that separated our house from the
Crawfords’ and walked up their porch, ringing the doorbell. A moment later, I
was gratified to see Mrs. Crawford open the door. I was afraid she’d be
frightened by my mohawk, and I purposely tried to look as nonthreatening as
possible, but she opened the door all the way, totally unafraid. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Crawford! Thank God you still live here. Where are my parents? I
just went next door and there’s a strange man living in our house who said he’s
never heard of us.”

Now there was fear in her eyes. She moved slightly behind the door,
ready to slam it at the slightest provocation. “Who are you?” Her voice sounded
older than I remembered, weaker.

“I’m Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Bob Jones. Don’t you remember?” I could see that she didn’t. “I’m
Martin and Ella’s son!”

“Martin and Ella had no son.”

“You used to babysit me!”

She started to close the door. “I’m sorry—”

I was so frustrated that I felt like screaming at her, but I kept my
voice even. “Just tell me where my parents are. Martin and Ella Jones. Where are
they?”

She looked at me, squinting for a moment as thought she almost
recognized me, then shook her head, obviously giving up her memory search.

“Where are they?”

“The Joneses died six months ago in an automobile accident. Drunk
driver.”

My parents were dead.

I stood there as she closed the door on me, not moving, not reacting,
not doing anything. The door clicked shut, followed by the snick of a dead bolt.
In my peripheral vision, I could see the curtains move on the window to the
right side of the door, could see Mrs. Crawford’s face peek through the opening.
I was vaguely aware that the man living in my parents’ house—Taz—was
calling to me, saying something.

My parents were dead.

I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I had not had enough time to think about
their lives to be able to react to their deaths. I had not had time to prepare
for and cultivate a sense of loss. The shock had been too sudden. I wanted to
feel sad, but I didn’t. I simply felt numb.

I turned slowly around, walked out to the sidewalk.

I hadn’t been invited to my own parents’ funeral.

I wished that my parents and I had been closer, but I’d always assumed
there’d be time for that, that eventually it would happen, that age would
provide common ground, that years would bring togetherness. It was not something
I’d actively planned for or sought out, just a general feeling, but now those
vague hopes had been permanently dashed. I should’ve made an effort, I thought.
I should’ve known that something like this could happen to them, and I should’ve
put aside the babyishness, the pettiness, and not let our disagreements divide
us. I should’ve gotten closer to them while I’d had the chance.

Taz was still calling to me, but I ignored him and got in my car,
turning the key in the ignition. I glanced back toward the Crawfords’ as I
pulled out, and now both Mrs. and Mr. Crawford were looking openly through the
parted curtains.

Six months ago. That would’ve been June. Jane and I had still been
together then. I would’ve just gotten my job two months before.

Why hadn’t someone notified me? Why hadn’t I been called? Hadn’t someone
found my name and address somewhere amidst their personal effects?

I had not really thought of myself as being ignored by my parents, but
as I thought back to my childhood, I was surprised to find my memories slightly
hazy. I could not recall any specific instances in which I’d done things with my
mom or gone places with my dad. I remembered teachers, kids, pets, places, toys—and events related to each of them—but of my parents there was only a
general sense that they’d done a good job of raising me. I’d had a fairly
normal, happy childhood—at least I’d thought I had—but the warm, loving
recollections I should’ve held, the remembrances of individual events I
should’ve possessed, were nowhere to be found. There was no personalization to
my parental memories.

Maybe that’s why we hadn’t been closer. Maybe I’d been merely a generic
child to them, a personalityless blank they were obliged to feed, clothe, and
raise.

Maybe I’d been Ignored since birth.

No, that couldn’t be true. I had not been ignored by my parents. They’d
always bought me birthday and Christmas presents, for Christ’s sake. That proved
that they thought about me. They’d always invited me home for Easter, for
Thanksgiving. They cared about me.

Jane had cared about me, too, though. That didn’t mean I wasn’t Ignored.

Six months ago.

That was about the time I’d first started to notice my condition, that
I’d first become aware of my true nature. Maybe it was connected. Maybe when my
parents died, when the people who knew me and loved me best passed away, what
had always been dormant within me had been activated. Maybe it was their
knowledge of my existence that had kept me from being completely Ignored.

I’d been fading even faster since I’d lost Jane.

I pulled onto Harbor Drive, pushing the thought out of my mind, not
wanting to think about it.

Where were my parents’ belongings? I wondered. Had they been auctioned
off? Donated to a charity? There were no other relatives except me, and I hadn’t
gotten anything. Where were all our pictures and photo albums?

The photo albums.

It was the photo albums that did it. It was the photo albums that were
the trigger.

I started to cry.

I was driving toward the freeway, and suddenly I couldn’t see because of
the tears in my eyes. Everything was runny, blurry, and I pulled to the side of
the road and wiped my cheeks and eyes. I felt a sob in my throat, heard a sound
come out of my mouth, and I forced myself to stop it, to knock it off. This was
not the time to be maudlin and sentimental.

I took a deep breath. I had no one now. No girlfriend, no relatives, no
friends. Nobody. I was all alone and on my own, and I was Ignored. I had only
myself—and my job. As strange and ironic as it was, it was now only through
my job that I had any sort of identity at all.

But that was going to change. I was going to find out who I was, what I
was. I was through living in darkness and ignorance. And I was through with
letting opportunities pass me by. I had learned from my mistakes, I had learned
from my past, and my future was going to be different.

I put the car into gear and headed toward the freeway. It would be
nearly midnight before I got back to Brea.

I stopped by a Burger King and got a Coke for the long trip home.