(no subject)
II. Awesome/Awesomer/Awesomest
I talked to my mother the next morning, only to discover that she had talked to him the night before as well. She said it was “very nice”, which is Mommy code for “I don’t really have a clue what’s going on, but I’m very happy that you’re back in touch”. I might be reading too far into that. She also told me that my brother Zakk (the extra K is for “rock star”) called her first to warn her that he was going to call. Okay, so he must’ve called Zakk first. “Actually,” she began timidly, “Zakk got in touch with him first.”
“Mom, I have to go.”
I hung up, and instantly called her back. I didn’t have my brother’s number since his record label gave him a new phone. I hung up again and called him. He answered on the first ring, which was unsettling and weird.
“Hey Zakk,” I said, pronouncing the extra K to piss him off.
“Yo.”
“Don’t say yo, that’s not English.”
”Wassup.”
I gave up on him a while ago. The day he realized that MTV was cooler than Nickelodeon, he bade English farewell. That day, mind you, he was in kindergarten. “So, did Howard call you first?”
“Naw, I called his mother, and then she called him and gave him my number.”
“Awesome.”
“Listen, I gotta go. We’re laying bass tracks.”
My brother didn’t realize that getting in touch with Howard could be anything but positive. I know that he was just excited to meet his father; what he didn’t consider was that my mother and I had already met him. It was, and remains, a tricky gray area. He’s a lucky kid, my brother; he can’t put a face on his abandonment issues.
Later that day, my mother and I had a long talk about how my brother could’ve handled this, what we wish would’ve happened, and how, as a family, we should’ve had a unified front on this issue. Our favorite family activity is to hold summits where we discuss the management of the past; I think it’s a Jewish thing, but it might just be a non-WASP thing, a line of demarcation on which I’ve never been entirely clear.
My brother, ever the firecracker, made another move after the January 7th phone calls-as they came to be known. He invited our father to Chicago to visit him. Then he invited me up to meet Howard with him. Then Howard made a few moves of his own.
First, he sent me an e-mail with a picture of himself. The man in the picture was unrecognizable. I always thought that there would be a moment of instant recognition; I would know the man that fathered me on sight. I’d feel it in my bones. I’d get the tingly feeling on my cheeks that had always been reserved for good art and good pot. But there were no tingles, no flash, nothing signified a momentous occasion.
I sat and stared blankly at the photograph of my alleged father for a few minutes before I read the attached text…can’t wait to meet you again...very excited…it’s been too long…blah blah blah. I couldn’t help but feel that his gushing was dishonest, almost obligatory; it was the sort of gushing that Lifetime has trained us precedes a reunion between estranged relatives or childhood next-door neighbors. Before I drowned in my own cynicism, I hit a pair of words I hadn’t heard since Kindergarten. “Love, Dad.”
I wasn’t ready for either of those two words. I crystallized and shattered; Grandma would have to set the vacuum on extra-low. I gathered myself up and wrote an e-mail explaining that he was my father, not my dad, and there’s no way he could love me, and even if he did, I couldn’t reciprocate. I stared at the letter I’d written on my screen for 10 minutes before I chickened out and deleted it.
Next, he joined MySpace.com. He added my brother and me as his friends. He posted that terrifying, possibly fake picture that he tried to pass off as his own. He named my brother and I-two perfect strangers to him-as his heroes. Inexplicable.
Following that, his family started messaging me. Namely, Cunterella, who also operated under the alias “Martha”. She was the third name on his Top 8, bested only by his own children. Her profile stated the following: “Every morning, I wake up and piss excellence.” “Martha” is 37. “Martha” has a 14 year old son. “Martha” lists George W. Bush as one of her heroes; This woman is touched. She sent me a MySpace message that read “I’m so happy to have two new brothers.” Finally, he called me again. He told me when he was going up to Chicago, and how badly he wanted me to come up. I called my brother.
“So, he’s coming up, huh?”
“Yeah."
“I don’t know if I want to come up and meet him.”
“Aw, come on, please…”
“Zakk (two Ks), I knew this man. I really don’t think I can handle meeting him after 16 years. You had no right to call him…you didn’t even know him! This was supposed to be my decision.” This was the most honest sentence I had spoken on this topic. He didn’t reply to this, because he knew damn well that there was no right answer. It was his move, and he made a bold one; he chose to persist blindly.
“Come on, it’ll be awesome. It’ll be awesomer than awesome.”
“No, Zakk, it isn’t that easy! What are you, five? Awesomer isn’t even a WORD!”
“Robby, please. For me.” This was the most honest sentence my brother had spoken in his life, and that honesty was not wasted on me.
“Fine…I’ll go, but I’m not making any promises.”
“That’s cool.”
“I want you to make one to me.”
“Sure, what?”
“Promise me, Zachary, that this will be the awesomest trip.”
“That’s not a word.”
“I’m allowed to bend the rules. I’m being very flexible right now.”
“Aight, dude, whatever. I gotta go.”
That night, I ordered my plane ticket, cried, cancelled it, cried, and ordered it again.