(no subject)
There's something one has to understand about Kevin Ryman for this story to make any amount of sense - that being that Kevin and responsibility have never really been able to look each other in the eye. Responsibility is something that comes in spurts, that he has to remember is a good idea and then has to force himself to go through with. He's not a bad man. That's just who Kevin is.
It's not surprising, then, that scoring a job with the government didn't seem important enough to breach certain walls that prevented unwanted communication. Unfortunately - and this is where the responsibility comes into play - other people aren't usually aware of these walls. Having them be broken from the other side isn't necessarily something Kevin usually expects, or likes.
Kevin is in his New York apartment, doing precisely what he shouldn't be doing. He's having a smoke and a can of beer in tandem, watching a football game. As luck would have it the half-time marching band makes their appearance right when the phone rings beside him. He mutes the television and scoops up the receiver in his cigarette-hand without bothering to check the caller ID.
"Yeah?"
"Junior?"
Oh, shit. His Mom. Kevin visibly winces and curses silently though there's nobody there to see it. He butts out his smoke with a frustrated gesture. "Yeah, it's me. Hey, Mom."
"We were starting to get worried," she says, and her Southern accent is almost thick enough that he can't believe he used to speak it as native. "You never call, or e-mail. Casey asks about you all the time!"
Casey, his brother that was in the car accident... "Yeah," Kevin says, suddenly abashed, "yeah... sorry about that. Is he doing okay?"
"Oh, he's doing marvelous. He's able to name the capitals of the states now and everything. He knows your father's full name, too. Won't call him anything else!"
Kevin nods. "Good sh--good stuff. Good to hear." He clears his throat. "And you and Pa?"
"Well, business hasn't been good for your father. The oil market took a big hit, last week, down fifteen points on the DOW, you know. And myself, I'm here wondering what I did to make my oldest baby not want to -" squeak, "-to talk to me anymore!" He can hear the beginning of tears in her voice; his Mom's tears are always a conversation piece rather than real emotion, Tammy Faye Bakker-like streaks of too much makeup that can only be wiped away with gossip or promises.
Kevin sighs, and clicks off the television. Good times are over for the moment. "I've been busy, Mom." The beginning of a wail makes him steel himself, and offer up one of his tender secrets as an offering to stem the flow, "I got a new job. With the U.S. Government - 's been keeping me busy enough for three or four people."
"The government?" She asks, "I thought you were a teacher! Oh, Junior -"
"I'm fine," he says firmly, "you remember STARS? The RPD? I got my position doing that, finally."
"They haven't rebuilt Raccoon since the plant meltdown," she says, frankly.
"I know," Kevin says, fighting every urge to correct her as to what actually happened two Septembers ago, "they reformed it as a branch of the government. RPD cops got seniority in the selection process, and here I am."
"...so...you were at boot camp? That's why you didn't call?"
"Yeah. It's more specialized than the Army, so it took longer." They'll go with that.
The following conversation, mostly concerned with how much he makes and if he could be deployed for a war (like Kevin Sr. was when he went to Japan, bless his heart) takes much longer than it should. When Japan is mentioned, Kevin makes a face, then swallows a icy gulp of beer. He hesitates then decides he needs another one for this.
"Yeah... uh, speaking of that." Kevin segues, clumsy, and sits on the sill of his fire escape. "I got some other news, too. Well... there's no real easy way to just come out and say this."
There's silence on his mother's part, then a horrified gasp. "...Kevin. You're not telling me you're GAY."
"No! Jesus Christ, no!"
"Language!" She says, reproachful, and he can almost hear her crossing herself. Kevin rolls his eyes. "Sorry. Well... uh." He stares at the tab on his beer can, pushes it around in a circle with his thumb. "You and Pa. You're gonna be grandparents."
Kevin waits through the silence with studious experience. "Junior," his mother finally says low, conspiratorially, her voice barely a whisper, "it's not a black girl, is it? I don't think it's right, but... we can pay for a--"
"Nope." He says, strangely unfazed by his mother's clandestine racist tirade, let alone her convenient abandonment of her closest personal politics. "She's Japanese, actually. Really sweet, you'd like her."
"Well," she says, as if this SHOULD be good news but she's not convinced of it yet, "she has her Green Card already, doesn't she?"
Kevin thunks his head against the window frame. "She's a citizen. Can we not do this, Mom?"
"I'm just saying," she says defensively, "that happened a lot in the War. Poor American boys would marry a Japanese girl and make her a citizen not knowing she had a family and -" there's another horrified pause, "- you did marry her, didn't you?"
"Not yet," Kevin says, and takes a drink of beer. "Can't pick out jewelry to save my life. Soon, though."
"You know what your father will say about having a Japanese in the family."
"Yoko," he corrects mildly, "and yeah, I do. Just, uh... make sure he puts those swords up when we come to visit."
"He's very proud of those swords, Junior."
"Yeah, I'm sure Nazis're proud of the guns they got off of GIs, too. Just tell him, okay? Or at least not to bring up where they came from."
"Alright. Don't shoot the messenger."
The rest of the conversation is uneventful. There is eventual, somewhat grudging coos over having a new baby in the family, and names that have been picked out (Kevin has to guess, but puts up something suitably Scottish that will appease his mother). There's discussion about Seth, his other brother, about cousins and aunts and gossip about people he doesn't remember any longer but "mhm"s and half-listens anyway. When they finally hang up (after another spate of tears), Kevin tosses the phone onto the couch and has a moment of reflection, alone, with his beer.
The band-aid had been ripped off, but he didn't feel any better. It was possibly just now dawning on him what sort of family he was bringing a child into, and that he probably couldn't hide it from everyone who wanted to hurt it.
He leans, one hand on the top of the window frame, and stares out at the street over his fire-escape. Maybe hiding it wasn't the thing. Maybe having it out in the open, teaching it by example to not be a piece of shit would be the medicine.
More than anything, Kevin's not sure he trusts himself with being the moral compass for another human being.
It's not a black girl, is it? It's not right, but we can pay for a
This is the first time, though, he's not prickled at the concept - the first time he's seen it as a challenge, a defiance of someone else's authority over him, and the thing becomes a little less all-consuming.
Maybe they would give it a Japanese name, after all.
He doesn't turn the television back on.
It's not surprising, then, that scoring a job with the government didn't seem important enough to breach certain walls that prevented unwanted communication. Unfortunately - and this is where the responsibility comes into play - other people aren't usually aware of these walls. Having them be broken from the other side isn't necessarily something Kevin usually expects, or likes.
Kevin is in his New York apartment, doing precisely what he shouldn't be doing. He's having a smoke and a can of beer in tandem, watching a football game. As luck would have it the half-time marching band makes their appearance right when the phone rings beside him. He mutes the television and scoops up the receiver in his cigarette-hand without bothering to check the caller ID.
"Yeah?"
"Junior?"
Oh, shit. His Mom. Kevin visibly winces and curses silently though there's nobody there to see it. He butts out his smoke with a frustrated gesture. "Yeah, it's me. Hey, Mom."
"We were starting to get worried," she says, and her Southern accent is almost thick enough that he can't believe he used to speak it as native. "You never call, or e-mail. Casey asks about you all the time!"
Casey, his brother that was in the car accident... "Yeah," Kevin says, suddenly abashed, "yeah... sorry about that. Is he doing okay?"
"Oh, he's doing marvelous. He's able to name the capitals of the states now and everything. He knows your father's full name, too. Won't call him anything else!"
Kevin nods. "Good sh--good stuff. Good to hear." He clears his throat. "And you and Pa?"
"Well, business hasn't been good for your father. The oil market took a big hit, last week, down fifteen points on the DOW, you know. And myself, I'm here wondering what I did to make my oldest baby not want to -" squeak, "-to talk to me anymore!" He can hear the beginning of tears in her voice; his Mom's tears are always a conversation piece rather than real emotion, Tammy Faye Bakker-like streaks of too much makeup that can only be wiped away with gossip or promises.
Kevin sighs, and clicks off the television. Good times are over for the moment. "I've been busy, Mom." The beginning of a wail makes him steel himself, and offer up one of his tender secrets as an offering to stem the flow, "I got a new job. With the U.S. Government - 's been keeping me busy enough for three or four people."
"The government?" She asks, "I thought you were a teacher! Oh, Junior -"
"I'm fine," he says firmly, "you remember STARS? The RPD? I got my position doing that, finally."
"They haven't rebuilt Raccoon since the plant meltdown," she says, frankly.
"I know," Kevin says, fighting every urge to correct her as to what actually happened two Septembers ago, "they reformed it as a branch of the government. RPD cops got seniority in the selection process, and here I am."
"...so...you were at boot camp? That's why you didn't call?"
"Yeah. It's more specialized than the Army, so it took longer." They'll go with that.
The following conversation, mostly concerned with how much he makes and if he could be deployed for a war (like Kevin Sr. was when he went to Japan, bless his heart) takes much longer than it should. When Japan is mentioned, Kevin makes a face, then swallows a icy gulp of beer. He hesitates then decides he needs another one for this.
"Yeah... uh, speaking of that." Kevin segues, clumsy, and sits on the sill of his fire escape. "I got some other news, too. Well... there's no real easy way to just come out and say this."
There's silence on his mother's part, then a horrified gasp. "...Kevin. You're not telling me you're GAY."
"No! Jesus Christ, no!"
"Language!" She says, reproachful, and he can almost hear her crossing herself. Kevin rolls his eyes. "Sorry. Well... uh." He stares at the tab on his beer can, pushes it around in a circle with his thumb. "You and Pa. You're gonna be grandparents."
Kevin waits through the silence with studious experience. "Junior," his mother finally says low, conspiratorially, her voice barely a whisper, "it's not a black girl, is it? I don't think it's right, but... we can pay for a--"
"Nope." He says, strangely unfazed by his mother's clandestine racist tirade, let alone her convenient abandonment of her closest personal politics. "She's Japanese, actually. Really sweet, you'd like her."
"Well," she says, as if this SHOULD be good news but she's not convinced of it yet, "she has her Green Card already, doesn't she?"
Kevin thunks his head against the window frame. "She's a citizen. Can we not do this, Mom?"
"I'm just saying," she says defensively, "that happened a lot in the War. Poor American boys would marry a Japanese girl and make her a citizen not knowing she had a family and -" there's another horrified pause, "- you did marry her, didn't you?"
"Not yet," Kevin says, and takes a drink of beer. "Can't pick out jewelry to save my life. Soon, though."
"You know what your father will say about having a Japanese in the family."
"Yoko," he corrects mildly, "and yeah, I do. Just, uh... make sure he puts those swords up when we come to visit."
"He's very proud of those swords, Junior."
"Yeah, I'm sure Nazis're proud of the guns they got off of GIs, too. Just tell him, okay? Or at least not to bring up where they came from."
"Alright. Don't shoot the messenger."
The rest of the conversation is uneventful. There is eventual, somewhat grudging coos over having a new baby in the family, and names that have been picked out (Kevin has to guess, but puts up something suitably Scottish that will appease his mother). There's discussion about Seth, his other brother, about cousins and aunts and gossip about people he doesn't remember any longer but "mhm"s and half-listens anyway. When they finally hang up (after another spate of tears), Kevin tosses the phone onto the couch and has a moment of reflection, alone, with his beer.
The band-aid had been ripped off, but he didn't feel any better. It was possibly just now dawning on him what sort of family he was bringing a child into, and that he probably couldn't hide it from everyone who wanted to hurt it.
He leans, one hand on the top of the window frame, and stares out at the street over his fire-escape. Maybe hiding it wasn't the thing. Maybe having it out in the open, teaching it by example to not be a piece of shit would be the medicine.
More than anything, Kevin's not sure he trusts himself with being the moral compass for another human being.
It's not a black girl, is it? It's not right, but we can pay for a
This is the first time, though, he's not prickled at the concept - the first time he's seen it as a challenge, a defiance of someone else's authority over him, and the thing becomes a little less all-consuming.
Maybe they would give it a Japanese name, after all.
He doesn't turn the television back on.