These Things Happen. Richard Kramer

makes bad spots good.

      "I'm here, Dad."

      "So when you say, 'basically,' what do you mean?"

      "Well," I say, feeling sort of angry, suddenly, "we're still fighting useless wars, our so-called system is like totally broken, and one in fifty kids in America is homeless." I get like this, sometimes. I can't help it; certain things just disturb me. "So, for the sake of argument, one might say, when I say, 'basically,' I mean—"

      "Are you getting shit at school?"

      I laugh, in a fairly weary way. "Ha! Why would I?"

      He doesn't say anything. I don't know if he's in a bad spot again, or thinking. Then I hear him.

      "Because of us. Because we're—"

      He wants to say gay. He says gay all the time, when he's talking

      about a group of people. When it comes to himself, though, he always stops right before the word.

      "I'm okay, Dad."

      "You're sure? Because George just called. He said you need to talk, to both of us?"

      "I do. That is, if you can. Because if you can't—"

      "The thing is—"

      "So you can't, then," I say. " Which is good, Dad. I don't mean it's good. I mean it's not a problem."

      "Oh, God, Wes," he says, "I hate to ask this, but can it wait till morning?"

      What can I say here? It can't? I didn't know how amazing my dad was until I've been here with him and George. It even scares me, a little; how does a person become like that? Was he ever like me, schlepping along, as my stepdad says, foolish and disappointing and finding the world that way, too? In the kitchen I see flowers, vegetables, fruits. George goes to Green Markets. Everyone always knows him. People save things, special little somethings, that they think he'll like. And I think: how does a person become like that? How does a person become anything?

      "Wes? Are you there?"

      "It can wait, Dad."

      "You're sure?"

      I don't know how, exactly, but something tells me his phone will die before I can answer his question. And it does; I'm occasionally psychic, about phones. He calls back right away, and because I'm fucked up I let it ring through to voice mail. I'll listen later, to what I'm sure will be an interesting explanation, like the one last week where a crisis broke out on the gay block at Rikers Island and my dad spent the night defusing it; George said he pictured prisoners taking hostages and demanding to see Elaine Stritch, this old actress who comes to the restaurant a lot. The phone rings one more time, and once more I just let it.

      And it's okay, because even though I want to keep my promise to Theo I have plenty of homework to do. This means the only tv I'll watch is the scene in The Wire where Jimmy and Bunk check out a crime scene and communicate only through the word fuck; I watch this daily, and always feel better afterward. Then I'll go down to the restaurant to see if I can help out, somehow. And in the morning I'll talk to him and my dad, unless, of course, my dad's needed somewhere. It would be amazing— as amazing as my dad is— if he isn't.

      "But that's New York," I say out loud, to George's flowers, and cheeses, and butternut squash. "That's New York."

      And then someone knocks at our door.

      "Who is it, please?"

      "No one." It's George.

      "You're not no one."

      "Me, then."

      I open the door. There he is, holding a bread basket covered with a napkin.

      "Focaccia," he says. "It's hot."

      "Focaccia! Ah!" I try Theo's knowing laugh.

      "What's the matter?"

      The laugh needs work, I guess. I should practice. What if Brown likes laughing?

      "It's personal," I say. "Thanks for the focaccia."

      He doesn't go, though. "You reach your dad?"

      "Not yet." Why did I just lie?

      "You good?"

      That's not like George, to forgo a helper verb.

      "I okay," I say, also forgoing the helper verb, because I can be an asshole, sometimes, ha. More than sometimes. I know who I am; I have warts, and all.

      "Just checkin'," he says. With no g; unlike him, again. What could that mean? One of my hobbies is close listening; Theo and I both believe in it. How many words are spoken in New York every day, just in Manhattan alone, say? And how many are really heard? Seventeen, maybe. On a good day.

      "Okay," I say.

      "I'm here."

      "Okay, again."

      "Just so you know."

      He waves. Everyone's waving at me today, like I was someone actually going somewhere. I wave back, then I turn on Jimmy and Bunk. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. The bread is warm, delicious, with little bits of prosciutto baked into it. Which is my favorite. Which George knows.

      *