“ma teresa’s joined the mob and happy with her full-time job”
Primitive Radio Gods “Standing Outside a Broken Phonebooth with Money in My Hand”
Its was 2:30 in the morning, and I was lying on my ex-girlfriend’s living room floor in my underwear, wrapped up in blankets. I couldn’t get that song out of my head. The lights are out, the television is off – its the kind of interior darkness that makes every little bit of remaining light hit you like a lighthouse beacon. I wanted to sleep, but I’m was way too full and way too caffeinated. The flickering switch on one of her power strips is was my god.
It had been a long day. I woke up late, showered, shaved, and left in such a rush that I had neglected to lock the front door. I drove down to Milpitas, angry selections from my Pixies records blasting, my rear view mirror throbbing to the bass as I screamed down the 880 Freeway. I arrived at Melanie and Lloyd’s house just as they were about to give up on me, and from there we proceeded to the Los Gatos Wine and Art Festival, where my roommates had a booth. We walked around for about and hour, sampling the nick-nicks and examining paintings. I sat down in the grass with the woman who had been my first girlfriend, 14 years ago, and as she read some unnamed fantasy novel on her smart-phone I took the opportunity to vaguely appreciate the music echoing from the stage – a jazz trio provided by the local Kiwanis.
As the singer — a tall, skinny man, probably in his late sixties — began crooning his not-half-bad rendition of “Summertime”, Melanie announced that she was done, and hungry, and ready to go to the movies. For no apparent reason, it hit me then, like a freight train, or something equally large, metal, and driven by a diesel engine:
I am going to be somebody’s father.
We left the festival and proceeded to a steakhouse near the theater. As the son of an Australian, I find that the Outback Steakhouse is always good for a laugh. I hadn’t been to one in a decade, and this time I was pleasantly surprised to find that they’d finally added lamb to menu. I had a gin and tonic while we waited for our table – Lloyd opted for beer, Melanie for a glass of wine, my ex- and her little sister settling for iced tea. I had forgotten that my stomach was devoid of food, my breakfast having consisted of a Big Gulp and a single donut, and by the time we were seated I was quite wobbly. This happens all the time – my genetics were provided by England, Scotland, Australia, and possibly Mexico, and yet I still can’t hold my liquor. This is not to say that I hurled all over their nice hardwood floors, but I was definitely one and a half, if not two sheets to the wind. I had a lovely meal of chicken breast topped with cheese and bacon, french fries, and 4 baby back ribs, washed down with two or three cups of coffee.
We finished up our food and went over to the theater. Lloyd, my ex- (Jennifer, for the record), and I got tickets for “District 9”, with Melanie and her youngest daughter (Heather, also for the record) opting for a romantic comedy rather than a flick where humanoid waterbugs rip people’s heads off. Halfway through the second act, my pocket begins vibrating. I check my phone to see the name of the expectant mother of my expected child in tiny black letters. I excuse myself, squeeze through the crowd, and exit the theater, answering the phone just as I entered the hall leading into the lobby.
She talked. I listened. The conversation was pleasant enough. She told me she’d been down to Wal-Mart to price cribs, strollers, and car seats – in fact, she found a stroller with a detachable car seat for $140. Something in my stomach turned to cotton. My heart started pounding in my chest – I swear it was spelling out something in Morse code:
I am going to be somebody’s father.
I told her that I have to go but I’d call her back that evening. I returned to the theater to finish the movie – its a sad tale, but I’m not here to write a review for a movie you’ll probably end up seeing anyway. We all piled into Lloyd’s big red sedan and drove back to their home, where my car is waiting for me, silly little Saturn grill smiling at me as we turn into the driveway. Jennifer and I said our goodbyes and drove over to her current boyfriend’s home, where we proceed to spend hours discussing Linux, videos games, old roleplaying games, and eventually food, which leads, eventually, to eating out again. Ben, Jen, and I headed out to Chili’s, where I had a bacon cheeseburger and they opted for meals I can’t quite recall at this time. A conversation about computers led to a conversation about drugs, inevitably leading back to computers.
We dropped Ben off at his house and began the trek to take Jen home to Palo Alto, stopping at a 7-11 for what would be my 11th cup of coffee that day. As I walked back to the car I saw two teenaged boys on the far, darkened end of the parking lot, listening to Metallica as they sat on the trunk of their vehicle. I didn’t have to ask what was up – they were young and stupid enough to frequent the sort of drug dealer who makes you meet them at a convenience store. I sipped my coffee and thought about the child I am expecting, wondering if she’ll be that stupid.
I conveniently forgot to call back the expectant mother of my expected child.
We took the bridge across the Bay. My beverage made a valiant effort to keep my eyes open. My Pixies record was still playing, this time quietly. I talked to Jen and tried not to rant or complain about life. I told her about the kids waiting on their car and what I thought they were doing. I told her that I was afraid to drive back because I felt like I was falling asleep at the wheel, and she offered me her floor to sleep on. We get back to her apartment and suddenly I’m wide awake. We played World of Warcraft. She went to sleep, so I put on one of her Babylon 5 videos and tried to do the same. It doesn’t work.
I lay there listening to Peter Jurasik go on and on about quiet people moving the Universe and loud people getting all the credit. My heart beat steadily and hard like a sledgehammer pounding in railroad spikes. My stomach was so stuffed with food that its like a bowling ball in my stomach – I flashed on a Tori Amos song, then on the mother of my expected child. In my head, creeping paranoia duked it out with leaping paranoia, while cold indifference watched from miles away, or possibly read a fantasy novel on it’s smartphone.
I am going to be somebody’s father, and I am little more an overgrown child.
I don’t remember why that Primitive Radio Gods song crept into my mind. The caffeine advanced and receded within me like weak surf gently crashing on the rocks. My body wanted to sleep but my mind just kept on going, and it wasn’t the actual thoughts that bothered me, but the speed at which they were flowing through me. The paralysis of sleep would come over me but my brain wouldn’t stop. My conscious mind would suddenly find itself free of its moorings and decide to drift, but some aspect of consciousness stayed open, jammed into place by coffee. The numbness which enveloped me at that point frightened me, and I would jerk awake, fearing that if I let it take me I’d never come back. So I laid there, my arms raised up towards the ceiling out of concern that I might have been having a heart attack. The sampled voice of B.B. King repeated softly, seeming to come from the back of my skull.
“I been downhearted, baby. I been downhearted, baby – ever since the day we met.”
It went on like this for what seemed like hours. Finally I pulled myself up onto the tiny couch, elevating my feet to quell my delusions of cardiac arrest. I closed my eyes and began to drift, finally too tired to resist the current which was carrying me off to dreamland.
That’s when I saw her – blue green eyes, broad shoulders, a slim waist curving into almost impossible hips. She had the sort of build you only see on women with a genetic propensity to be heavy but who would do anything to fend off the inevitable. A sporty girl, perhaps 17 or 18, with shoulder length hair, dyed the sort of red that only comes in bottles. Despite her age, she already had those fine lines on the sides of her eyes, but none by her lips. In fact, I had the distinct impression that her mouth wouldn’t know a smile if it had jumped up and bitten her. She wore a big white t-shirt someone had written “FUCK YOU” across with one of those big fat black magic markers, and a pair of incredibly tight khaki shorts. She was beautiful, and under normal circumstances I might have found her incredibly enticing… but I knew in an instant who she was.
She hated me. I was her father, and she hated me.
I jerked awake. I put on the TV and watched Montel Williams try to sell juicers or something for another hour or so. The song kept echoing in my head, its lyrics completely meaningless within the context of what I was feeling and thinking. I was so grateful to be in the dark.
Daniel Latta
