“Jesus.”
“I apologized.”
“You really didn’t.”
“Oh? Well I’m sorry.”
“Look, could you just steer clear of my fantasy? It’s depressing to watch you hit on your future step mother and then abuse her in the next breath.”
“She could go either way, Dad.” He pointed to himself and then back at me. “You still have a shot.”
“Maybe I do. You know your grandpa was a prick too, but he had an excuse. He was a veteran.”
“She doesn’t care if I’m nice or not. But I’ll try to be sweeter, for your sake.”
“You don’t like her.”
“Not particularly. She’s just a kid. But she likes me, and she likes you. And you’re nutty about her. So I’m probably wrong.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
“You’ve been through worse,” he said. Val left me then, almost making it down the hall. But he was back in my doorway after a few moments, gesticulating with the empty pizza box. Not done with me yet, apparently.
“Don’t do this Dad.”
I was back at the computer. The Net was all kittens all the time. It was astounding.
“Don’t do this any more,” he repeated, indicating the pizza box. His tone was unexpectedly gentle. “You are doing so well. And I’m very proud of you.”
This caught me well off guard. I didn’t know what to say. I am not a regular receiver of attaboys. I fumbled the etiquette. “I haven’t really lost that much.”
“Well, your man boobs are gone. That’s a fact.”
I touched my chest. Weight loss done right is a gradual event, and one can’t always gauge success on one’s own. Sometimes only an outsider can re-do the inventory. “Really,” I said, but I could feel the difference for myself.
“Yeah,” said Val. “So no more pizza and pinot orgies. No matter how weird things get. You’re better than that, okay?” Now he walked away for real, having put his stamp of authority on the evening. I felt proud and appreciative, and he felt victorious, no doubt.
What a controlling bastard he was. He’d make a great Dad some day.
5.
Yielding to pressure from an oppositional Congress and his own nagging curiosity, the President commissioned a blue ribbon committee charged with leading an open, national discussion of the opportunities and consequences of the Death Wish phenomenon. Populated by fifteen well-known thinkers, the committee members ranged from scientists to religious leaders to television actors, all of whom seemed to possess a certain photogenic moral certainty. The term “open discussion” meant that our celebrity representatives would hash things out on TV while we watched from the comfort of our homes. The discussion was heavily scripted, with the Dalai Llama yielding to Martin Sheen on the topic of the “resilient spirit of humanity,” while Steven Pinker asked leading questions of Oprah Winfrey. It was a ludicrous pageant of platitudes and vague reassurances, but the forum was enormously popular, and in no time the United States government had a hit reality show on their hands: The Wish Tank.
In a shadowed, starkly furnished setting reminiscent of an old PBS chat show or a post-modern play, Neil deGrasse Tyson and co-host Francis Bean Cobain reviewed the latest documented death wishes and tried to make sense of it all while the panel cooked up predictions and recommendations for future wishes. Four episodes aired over the span of six weeks before any of the panelists dared to bring up the subject of death, itself.
Cal Ripken: “So there is real pleasure in knowing. And knowing becomes its own experience.”
Amy Carter: “Yes, obliterating fear. We are all futurists now.”
Applause.
Sunday morning, bright and early. Wish Tank knocked the stuffing out of Meet the Press or any of those talking head shows. Val flicked it on and wandered away to another corner of the house, leaving it to blare in an empty room. We were getting ready to attend the Wish Local rally at St. Aloysius. Fresh from the tub and naked, I stepped on the scale in my bathroom. It seemed I was a pound lighter than last week, despite the binge of the night before. As if proud of me, Heidi Klum’s distant chirrup confirmed, “Well that’s completely awesome.”
I scrambled, mostly naked and mostly wet, to my room and shut the door, reducing the Wish Tank repartee to unintelligible vibrations transmitted to the soles of my feet via the ancient hardwood floor. I dressed in pale khakis and a short sleeved bowling shirt—my Sunday best, to be honest. Most of the clothing in my closet was, at this point, either too big or too small. I had landed squarely in the buffoon range of my wardrobe, and everything that fit me was best accessorized with a can of beer. I almost put on a pair of deck shoes before I realized I might be taking things too far. I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror and noticed that I resembled a down on his luck homicide detective. As I retrieved my loafers from the hallway, I heard Ms. Klum say, “And apocalyptics? Where do they stand?” Steve Ballmer had a quick, sweaty answer to this, but I didn’t quite catch it.
“Dad,” said Val. “Let’s go. This is bullshit.” He said this from the kitchen as he fussed over the coffee urn. Was I dreaming or did the boy sound almost enthusiastic? I detected familiar music and put my hand up in the justaminute signal, and dashed—as dashingly as a man of my size can dash—into the living room.
“Val, come here.”
A commercial for my weight loss program was on, with the usual thumpy techno pop and a bevy of plump ladies dancing around as if nothing was more blissful than self denial.
“What?”
“Just wait for it.”
Val slumped against the doorway and watched with me. Glistening plates of unlikely food, horse back riding, more dancing, huge pieces of chiffon catching the wind.
“There!”
Vibrant aqua script splashed across a white screen: The Freedom Plan. A beat before a husky female voiceover announced, “Now at last. The Freedom Plan.” And a beautiful, large, blonde woman dressed in a flowing white muslin suit emerged from the background, strutting seductively towards the camera. It wasn’t until she was quite close that one noticed the lit cigarette in her hand. Then a final image, as triumphant music swelled to a flourish: she took a long drag off the smoke and her eyes fuzzed in orgasmic satisfaction. “Real freedom,” the voiceover groaned.
Now Val was paying attention. “Did she just—?”
“Smoking is back, my boy.” Early that morning I’d groggily logged onto my online diet diary provided by the program, and there it was: in addition to my food fractions, water count, and exercise tally, I now had a field in which to enter cigarettes. “I’m allowed eight per day, as a matter of fact.”
Val ran his fingers through his lank hair and chuckled. “Cancer goes away and Big Tobacco comes back. Shit. Wish I’d thought of that.”
I decided to take the high road. “Well I’m not going to smoke. It’s filthy.” I straightened my shirt and changed the subject. “I suppose this is too casual to wear to the church?”
Val shook his head no. “No one gets dressed for church any more except hat ladies. You’re okay.”
We took a trolley and then hiked to St. Aloysius which is located in one of the least lovely, unreconstructed areas of West Side. The church steps were crowded with families exchanging goodbyes and making plans to meet up for late day dinners. But then I spotted Pebbles, seated on the steps, her arms wrapped around her rosy knees. She was wearing a dress, some light yellow cotton tube, but it was a dress. And she’d pinned a square of lace on top of her shiny red hair. A sweet gesture to propriety,