Week 10: Take a Hike!
“Okay, I think I’m getting hungry,” I manage, looking up from my phone. My partner-in-crime looks up from her phone, the twirl of her stylus almost hypnotizing as she lobs a virtual ball at a virtual monster in hopes of capturing it.
The Wharf is littered with cars -- my own is parked somewhere near the Rising Sun Tavern on a nearby corner, just a couple of blocks away. People are milling about, idle chatter and the music of Pokemon Go filtering through the sounds of the Delaware River crashing up against the pier. We’d come to Old New Castle just after I dropped my brother off at work; had walked the length of the park once already and wandered up and down the streets of the historical district, hunting Second Generation Pokemon.
“You said you wanted to go try Jessop’s, right?” Sarah asks. She turns away from the view of the sunset, the sky dripping with shades of blue to pink to orange as the sun sank towards the horizon. “What do they have there, anyway?”
“I dunno,” I answer with a shrug. “I mean, I heard the food’s really good but I haven’t bothered to check them out, yet.” We start walking away from the Wharf and towards the heart of Old New Castle. Jessop’s Tavern is just down the road, not even a block away from our location, and along the way, we’re both catching Pokemon, almost out of habit and while making small talk.
When we step inside the small restaurant, the first thing I notice is how dimly lit it is -- and how the servers and bartenders are dressed as though they were transported from the late 1700s. Given the colonial age of the town, I shouldn’t be at all surprised -- Jessop’s Tavern is located in a building hundreds of years old and has housed various businesses since it was built -- according to the insert in the menu.
Sarah and I make idle chitchat, both of us glancing at our phones as we leave Pokemon Go up on our screens so we can spin the nearby PokeStop, reachable from our table. After a few minutes of cleaning out some of the new Pokemon I caught, I notice the little text notification icon and groan.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asks, her thin brows bunching together.
“Nothing -- just have a text message from Evelyn,” I mutter, picking my phone off the table and bringing it closer to my face. “Wanna bet she asks whether Bob’s been sick recently?”
It’s almost become a running joke. Every time Evelyn’s taken Bob to her place for the weekend, she messages me, inevitably asking whether Bob’s been sick lately -- or, in the instance of her last weekend with our child, she asked whether he’d been sick since she’d last seen him.
I always want to tell her No, bitch, he hasn’t been. It’s winter (though the weather hasn’t been acting much like it, lately). He’s in a new school. He’s exposed to new bugs, he’s had a semi-permanent sniffle. Had one stomach bug that infected my whole house (myself included -- and it was terrible enough to knock me out of work for three days).
Of course, I can’t actually text Evelyn all of that. That would be rude and passive aggressive and I’m doing my best to keep things civil -- as I have been for the past three years.
Sarah snorts and shakes her head. “I’m not taking that bet,” she says -- wisely, as Evelyn’s message reads Has Bob been sick?
Sighing, I massage the space between my brows with my thumb. After a minute of deliberating, I start typing back a response: He’s sniffly in the morning but has no real cold symptoms aside from that. It’s winter he kind of always gets a permanent cold this time of year
It takes everything I have in me not to mention how this year’s perma-cold has actually been milder than the ones Bob has had in the past two years. Instead, I put my phone back down and pick up my menu -- only to notice a few minutes later that she’s messaged me again.
Well I’m a little worried because he is peeing a bunch, has been clingy/whiny/tempermental, he’s throwing himself on the ground a bunch
“Can’t you tell her you’re on a date or something?” Sarah grumbles, pouting a little as I probably audibly roll my eyes at Evelyn’s text.
I snort and give her a wry smile. “I so should tell her to just fuck off because I’m on a date,” I say. And I almost do. Evelyn’s reaction would be impressive -- or well, it would at least get her to shut the fuck up and stop messaging me. Our child is fine. But I take one more stab at responding seriously -- to help her potentially see reason and that maybe, just maybe, she’s reading into things a bit much.
He had a bunch to drink before he left and also I don’t think he’s adjusted to your new place yet? It’s still a pretty big change in routines for him.
The period lets her know I’m srs, you understand. Because our son is autistic, and huge changes in routine like new living spaces do take some time to adjust to, even for those of us not on the spectrum. And Evelyn, I know, lives with a couple I have never met. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to convince her that our child was perfectly fine, I put my phone down on the table again.
Sarah and I manage to order our food before I look at my phone again, intending to spin the PokeStop again, only to realize Evelyn had sent me more messages while I had been preoccupied. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ev?” I mutter.
“Seriously, tell her you’re on a fucking date,” Sarah repeated, grinning and sipping at her water. “I mean, we’re not really on a date but she doesn’t know that -- or just ignore her messages, dude.”
She says this just as I’m opening the messages anyway, reading:
His mood hasn’t been like this the last couple of times so I don’t think that’s it
But the past couple of times he has peed a lot
Right, because it’s never because maybe he’s realizing he can pee a little more frequently instead of holding it until he literally can’t, anymore. And it’s never because maybe, just maybe, he’s uncomfortable and adjusting to a new place. She’s only lived there since the middle of December -- he’d only been over there maybe five times since she moved.
While swallowing another frustrated groan, I put my phone down and do my best not to respond. Because Evelyn can’t be reasoned with, and everything to do with our child has some type of pathology behind it. Always.
And as much as I want to tell her I was on a date, that would only lead to her accusing me of being callous and uncaring about our child’s welfare, later.
“I wish she would just go away,” I tell Sarah once our server has taken our order. There’s a hint of despair I wish wasn’t present in my voice, and I hope more than anything the din of the tavern drowns it out.
“I know, dude. I wish she would, too.” Sarah meets my eyes and smiles. “Just try and relax, okay? You deserve it.”
“So do you,” I say, smiling back.
I don’t pick up my phone again.
The Wharf is littered with cars -- my own is parked somewhere near the Rising Sun Tavern on a nearby corner, just a couple of blocks away. People are milling about, idle chatter and the music of Pokemon Go filtering through the sounds of the Delaware River crashing up against the pier. We’d come to Old New Castle just after I dropped my brother off at work; had walked the length of the park once already and wandered up and down the streets of the historical district, hunting Second Generation Pokemon.
“You said you wanted to go try Jessop’s, right?” Sarah asks. She turns away from the view of the sunset, the sky dripping with shades of blue to pink to orange as the sun sank towards the horizon. “What do they have there, anyway?”
“I dunno,” I answer with a shrug. “I mean, I heard the food’s really good but I haven’t bothered to check them out, yet.” We start walking away from the Wharf and towards the heart of Old New Castle. Jessop’s Tavern is just down the road, not even a block away from our location, and along the way, we’re both catching Pokemon, almost out of habit and while making small talk.
When we step inside the small restaurant, the first thing I notice is how dimly lit it is -- and how the servers and bartenders are dressed as though they were transported from the late 1700s. Given the colonial age of the town, I shouldn’t be at all surprised -- Jessop’s Tavern is located in a building hundreds of years old and has housed various businesses since it was built -- according to the insert in the menu.
Sarah and I make idle chitchat, both of us glancing at our phones as we leave Pokemon Go up on our screens so we can spin the nearby PokeStop, reachable from our table. After a few minutes of cleaning out some of the new Pokemon I caught, I notice the little text notification icon and groan.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asks, her thin brows bunching together.
“Nothing -- just have a text message from Evelyn,” I mutter, picking my phone off the table and bringing it closer to my face. “Wanna bet she asks whether Bob’s been sick recently?”
It’s almost become a running joke. Every time Evelyn’s taken Bob to her place for the weekend, she messages me, inevitably asking whether Bob’s been sick lately -- or, in the instance of her last weekend with our child, she asked whether he’d been sick since she’d last seen him.
I always want to tell her No, bitch, he hasn’t been. It’s winter (though the weather hasn’t been acting much like it, lately). He’s in a new school. He’s exposed to new bugs, he’s had a semi-permanent sniffle. Had one stomach bug that infected my whole house (myself included -- and it was terrible enough to knock me out of work for three days).
Of course, I can’t actually text Evelyn all of that. That would be rude and passive aggressive and I’m doing my best to keep things civil -- as I have been for the past three years.
Sarah snorts and shakes her head. “I’m not taking that bet,” she says -- wisely, as Evelyn’s message reads Has Bob been sick?
Sighing, I massage the space between my brows with my thumb. After a minute of deliberating, I start typing back a response: He’s sniffly in the morning but has no real cold symptoms aside from that. It’s winter he kind of always gets a permanent cold this time of year
It takes everything I have in me not to mention how this year’s perma-cold has actually been milder than the ones Bob has had in the past two years. Instead, I put my phone back down and pick up my menu -- only to notice a few minutes later that she’s messaged me again.
Well I’m a little worried because he is peeing a bunch, has been clingy/whiny/tempermental, he’s throwing himself on the ground a bunch
“Can’t you tell her you’re on a date or something?” Sarah grumbles, pouting a little as I probably audibly roll my eyes at Evelyn’s text.
I snort and give her a wry smile. “I so should tell her to just fuck off because I’m on a date,” I say. And I almost do. Evelyn’s reaction would be impressive -- or well, it would at least get her to shut the fuck up and stop messaging me. Our child is fine. But I take one more stab at responding seriously -- to help her potentially see reason and that maybe, just maybe, she’s reading into things a bit much.
He had a bunch to drink before he left and also I don’t think he’s adjusted to your new place yet? It’s still a pretty big change in routines for him.
The period lets her know I’m srs, you understand. Because our son is autistic, and huge changes in routine like new living spaces do take some time to adjust to, even for those of us not on the spectrum. And Evelyn, I know, lives with a couple I have never met. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to convince her that our child was perfectly fine, I put my phone down on the table again.
Sarah and I manage to order our food before I look at my phone again, intending to spin the PokeStop again, only to realize Evelyn had sent me more messages while I had been preoccupied. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ev?” I mutter.
“Seriously, tell her you’re on a fucking date,” Sarah repeated, grinning and sipping at her water. “I mean, we’re not really on a date but she doesn’t know that -- or just ignore her messages, dude.”
She says this just as I’m opening the messages anyway, reading:
His mood hasn’t been like this the last couple of times so I don’t think that’s it
But the past couple of times he has peed a lot
Right, because it’s never because maybe he’s realizing he can pee a little more frequently instead of holding it until he literally can’t, anymore. And it’s never because maybe, just maybe, he’s uncomfortable and adjusting to a new place. She’s only lived there since the middle of December -- he’d only been over there maybe five times since she moved.
While swallowing another frustrated groan, I put my phone down and do my best not to respond. Because Evelyn can’t be reasoned with, and everything to do with our child has some type of pathology behind it. Always.
And as much as I want to tell her I was on a date, that would only lead to her accusing me of being callous and uncaring about our child’s welfare, later.
“I wish she would just go away,” I tell Sarah once our server has taken our order. There’s a hint of despair I wish wasn’t present in my voice, and I hope more than anything the din of the tavern drowns it out.
“I know, dude. I wish she would, too.” Sarah meets my eyes and smiles. “Just try and relax, okay? You deserve it.”
“So do you,” I say, smiling back.
I don’t pick up my phone again.