Under the Cobalt Sky

Most of the country is snowed under or enduring freezing rain, but here in Santa Barbara it’s a balmy January evening with a full moon rising over the Lobero Theatre. My wife and I are walking down State Street toward the beach with no particular destination in mind, out mainly because we don’t have our kids and the evening is too lovely to spend indoors. Tourists and pods of young people pass us by, a panhandler plies his craft without much success, and a street musician strums a beat-up guitar.

We stop before a vacant storefront and struggle to recall what had occupied the space. I think it was a jewelry store but my wife remembers it as a place that sold imported bric-a-brac. Not often being in need of bric-a-brac, imported or domestic, I can’t say if she’s wrong or right. We move on, enjoying the air and the cobalt sky. The recently shuttered Borders book store looms before us, hollowed out and empty, outlines on the carpet and walls where display shelves once stood. Across the street Barnes & Noble has also closed, so except for the venerable, cozy Book Den on Anapamu Street, downtown Santa Barbara is without a bookstore. I know my wife is also contemplating the demise of downtown bookstores; over the years we spent many, many pleasurable hours browsing the stacks in Borders and Barnes & Noble and it’s hard to imagine our downtown without a major book retailer.

“Our downtown” is perhaps overstating things because, in my opinion, downtown SB hasn’t belonged to locals like us in a long time. SB was a town but has been transformed into a travel destination, hawked in glossy magazines and on the Internet in the same way advertisers sell soap or beer. Brand recognition. The American Riviera they call it. Santa Barbara Magazine makes it all look beautiful and refined, clean, safe, a charming paradise where life is fulfilling and rich, and unpleasantness has been forever banned.

I’m old enough and have lived here long enough to remember JC Penny, the White House, Lerner’s, Lou Rose, OTT’s, the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, the Earthling Bookstore and the Copper Coffee Pot – all relics of memory now. My wife reminds me of the many banks that lined State Street in our childhoods, which brings to mind Crocker Bank, where my mother once worked as a teller. How long ago did Crocker Bank close its doors? Twenty-five years at least, perhaps longer.

A hazard of living in the same place for many years is watching it change. Whether the changes are good or bad depends on one’s sensibilities. Businesses and people come and go, landmark stores and eateries close their doors, slip into memory and become fodder for conversations that start with “Do you remember…?”

We continue strolling as the moon climbs to mingle with the stars, lost in reverie and nostalgic feelings for childhood and a bygone era, and the trance holds until our senses are assaulted outside Abercrombie & Fitch by pulsing music and the overpowering smell of men’s cologne. Abercrombie, Juicy Couture, Old Navy, Macy’s, Nordstrom, GAP, Betsy Johnson, Restoration Hardware and Banana Republic, big name retailers that have displaced locally owned mom & pop stores. Some might call this progress, and they would be right, of course – cities either change or perish—but it leaves me feeling alienated from the main street of my hometown.

At Cota Street we cross to the other side of State and head back uptown, past the fountain near the Metro Theatre where a kid with matted hair and a dragon tat on his chest asks for change. He smiles politely when we decline to aid his cause; I’m sure he has no idea that Crocker Bank ever existed or that SB boasted a Woolworth’s with a lunch counter. He may not even realize how quickly the present becomes the past.

But his moment will come.

C-Minus

I’m looking for the joys of parenthood in all the usual places but would settle for far less, an IOU of gratitude from my teenage son or one day without a screaming meltdown from my daughter. I would settle for an hour without bickering. I might do a back flip if my kids’ soiled laundry was placed in the hamper rather than back in the dresser to mingle with the clean clothes, dirty socks jive talking with clean boxer shorts.

I’m not their butler. I’m not their valet. I’m not their maid. If I repeat this mantra one hundred times a day it might manifest in the real world.

My son earned a C- in Geometry. Not the end of the world, of course, though I’m bothered (actually kind of pissed off) because the C- is due to laziness not lack of ability. In his other classes the kid is earning A’s and B’s. I don’t like math my son says, as if this explains everything and ends the discussion. OK, fine, the mysterious world of mathematic concepts doesn’t put flame to your wick, but with a little more effort on your part – and effort is all this comes down to – you could earn a B. There are all kinds of tutoring opportunities…

That’s as far as I get before I see him slip behind his impenetrable wall of teenage arrogance and angst. The drawbridge goes up and slams shut. He dares me to talk until my face turns blue-green. I don’t understand. High school is different now. This isn’t 1955. He turns his back on me, slips headphones on, cranks up Florence and the Machine and disappears into his interior world. I imagine ripping the headphones off his head, spinning him around in his chair and going Tony Soprano on his scrawny teenage butt. My superior adult knowledge can be forced into his brain, right?

The C- rankles me. Why this acceptance of mediocrity when a fraction more effort would have earned him a B? A couple of sessions with a peer tutor and he could have cruised to a decent mark. It makes perfect sense to me; none to him, and this is, I think, the essence of being a parent. I can’t live my son’s life for him, make decisions for him, do the right thing for him; he is destined to be the proud owner of his own mistakes and more times than not all I will be able to do is stand by and watch him stumble over his ego, his temper, his arrogance, and his fears.

Perhaps it’s not as bleak as all that. Perhaps as Bruce Springsteen wrote many years ago, one day we will look back on this and it will all seem funny.

Teenage Liar

Politicians lie to constituents. CEO’s lie to stockholders. Police officers lie to District Attorneys. Husbands lie to their wives. Con artists lie to their marks. Doctors lie to nurses. Salespeople lie to customers.

In no small part, lies make the world go round.

My son lies – to me, to his mother, to his grandmother. Fourteen and he’s already an accomplished spinner of lies. Small lies. Big lies. Stupendous lies. How much homework do you have tonight? None. None at all? No, I did it at school. Geometry? Finished. Biology? Done. English? Just reading. He answers quickly and with complete conviction.

Around bedtime the boy is in his room working on his Biology homework and stressed out over the Geometry problems that he did not, in fact, finish at school. The reading for English has over the last few hours morphed into a five page paper the first draft of which is due tomorrow, not a line of which is yet conceived or written. He can’t explain why he lied about his homework any more than he can explain how the vase in the living room – a wedding gift -- mysteriously developed a crack. If I press him on the vase he’ll say his sister did it. If I ask his sister she’ll say her brother did it. Maybe our beta fish is the culprit.

A tangle of lies. Did you, I ask my dear son, eat the last container of Greek yogurt and leave the empty container in the refrigerator? He regards me as if I have no right to ask such a question. He has no idea, no clue, can’t even make a guess as to who ate the yogurt; I should ask his sister.

Lies atop lies. Only a phase that will pass, I hope, otherwise the boy will one day wind up on the wrong side of a Federal indictment. Mendacity is an unattractive trait. I can’t remember when all this lying began or when an occasional white lie became a lifestyle. It’s astonishing that my son claims no responsibility for anything that happens around here. No matter what happens, he’s as innocent as a newborn ferret. Having a baby sister provides a built-in scapegoat. Plus he can always blame the beta fish if his sister happens to have an airtight alibi.

The homework crisis has passed and we are sitting in the living room, the four of us, enjoying a peaceful family moment of the kind that is rare within our walls, when a foul odor wafts across the room and settles above our heads like a toxic cloud. I look at my son, his serene face, bearing no sign that he is aware of the horrific stench that is threatening our nasal passages. You farted, I say. Not me, he says. I bet it was my sister. No, this is your work. Your fingerprint. It’s thirty-nine degrees outside but we fling open doors and windows, stand gasping in the rush of fresh air. You’re totally overreacting, my son claims. I don’t smell anything!

Ironically, this is probably true.

Short-Short Fiction

A Spoonful of Medicine

She won’t take her medicine.

Why not?

She hates the taste.

Does she enjoy having pneumonia?

Let me ask her. Hold on. No, she doesn’t. She wants to play handball.

No medicine, no school, no handball.

I’ll see what I can do.

You’re the adult. Keep that in mind.

I’m the adult. This is important.

Very important.

I could resort to force, hold her mouth open and pour the stuff down her throat.

Oh, that’s elegant.

She just locked herself in the bathroom. How’s the conference?

Scintillating. Threaten to take her Nintendo away. That might motivate her.

Didn’t work. By the way, I played Brain Age and discovered that, brain-wise, I’m 60 years old. You have no idea how disconcerted this makes me feel.

The next session’s about to start. Please get her to take her medicine. Love you.

I’m not sure I’m cut out for fatherhood.

Several years late for that revelation, sweetie.


Girl’s Best Friend

Would you rather a man be a retard in the kitchen or the bedroom?

Depends on what stage the relationship is in. Early on I want great sex, adventurous sex, impulsive sex, frequent sex, inspired sex.

When physical passion fades a well-cooked meal is almost as good as sex. Penne pesto with chicken. Green salad. Decent bottle of wine. Something homemade for dessert.

Custard or a chocolate mousse.

Regular sex is a bonus when you hit that stage.

Be thankful your sex life isn’t thwarted by erectile dysfunction.

The dreaded ED.

Cialis. Viagara. Levitra.

Call your health professional if you experience a 4-hour erection.

Sudden drop in blood pressure.

Blurred vision.

Irregular heartbeat.

A vibrator is more reliable.

Completely dependable.

And immune to pharmaceutical complications.

Re-chargeable batteries help.

They’re a necessity.

My husband has no idea.

Neither does mine.

Men are retarded.

Hopelessly.

Daddy Duty

It is morning, a school day, and the house is in chaos. The kids fight for the bathroom. Fists pound on a closed and locked door. Dirty dishes linger in the kitchen sink, beds lie unmade, and in the hallway I see some pajamas and a damp towel that were not there ten minutes ago. Messes follow children the way flies follow dung. The pounding on the bathroom door continues until the door opens a crack and a red slipper flies out, missing its intended target and coming to rest under the dresser, where it will remain, gathering dust.

My daughter is standing in her bedroom, stock-still, stark naked; she’s supposed to be dressed and brushing her hair. Her socks are on the bed, next to her underwear, but where is the outfit we laid out for her last night to avoid confusion and consternation this morning? The logical place to look is in the hamper, and of course that’s where I find them. I toss them on her bed, command her to get dressed, add an exasperated “for God’s sakes!” for good measure, and move to the next room to check on my son.

He’s back in bed, burrowed under three heavy blankets, moaning about how tired he is, how boring school is, how stupid his teachers are, and how there is nothing to eat in the refrigerator. Will I make him Cream of Wheat? Sure, when world peace breaks out and Californians embrace mass transit. How about oatmeal? Pancakes? Bagel with cream cheese? Cinnamon toast? No. Hell no. Never. Get out of bed, now!

My wife is in the kitchen, packing our daughter’s insulated lunch box with sliced kiwi, tortilla chips, a carton of apple juice, a bag of green grapes, a box of raisins, a granola bar and a ham and cheese sandwich. She is meticulous, my wife, and her lunches are masterpieces, though it’s a rare day when our daughter eats much, if anything; most days the lunch box returns in the exact condition it left in the morning.

My daughter hasn’t moved one inch. It’s as if she has been cast in bronze. I gather up her socks, underwear, jeans, shirt and sweater, push her toward the bathroom. Her hair is knotted, her teeth are funky and I know from long, hard experience that the minute she’s dressed she’ll make the announcement: I have to poop. This entails that she completely undress.

The clock in the living room is ticking without mercy. I hear a thud from the bedroom and know my son has slid out of his loft. When he appears in the living room he seems taller than he was last night, more of a mystery. How can my flesh and blood, my DNA, be so totally alien? He rushes past me humming a tune, opens the refrigerator and stands before it, as if a complete meal will fly out, occupy a plate and land softly on the dining room table. When nothing happens he settles for frosted flakes. Filling the bowl he spills cereal across the kitchen counter; he ignores the mess, sits down to eat. Why does he chew so noisily?

Miracle of miracles my darling daughter emerges from the bathroom, hair combed and teeth brushed, fully dressed, with no need to move her bowels. I’m pleased, but suspicious. We’re in the home stretch, nearly out the door, only a few minutes late, and then it happens, the last minute crisis – she has forgotten something without which she insists she cannot get through the day. What? An eraser, but not any run-of-the-mill eraser, a yellow eraser shaped like a Siamese cat that her grandmother brought back from San Francisco: very rare apparently, imbued with magic powers and valuable for trading on the playground, though she would never trade it away in a million years. Please don’t open your backpack is what I’m thinking as I see the meltdown coming. If she opens her pack we’re doomed to be tardy. If she opens her pack everything will come out in a tsunami -- books, folders, papers, pencil box, tissue paper, notebook, ruler, calculator, paperclips. Daughter begins to wail as if the end of civilization has arrived. I make the mistake of saying that it’s only an eraser -- that she has plenty of erasers to use until we locate the cat eraser, but I may as well have suggested that she cut the head off her American Girl doll. Wail grows louder. The backpack is open now.

We will be tardy.