California People
"California people are not like us," my father said. He was rolling a joint at the time, twisting the crinkly paper end between his stubby fingers. This was the first time my father had shared his weed- I was seventeen at the time, and it felt like a right of passage. It was mid-April, right after the tax time crunch. My father used to love and loathe the first couple of weeks in April when everyone brougth their taxes to him, and expected him to perform some sort of accounting miracle. I think he liked the power of it all, as much as he disliked the long hours and desperation.
We hadn't been discussing California, or talking about human nature or anything like that. We rarely said anything meaningful to each other, so what had brought that on was a kind of mystery. I might have said anything before it from "pass the remote" to "I think I'm failing history this marking period." Whatever. It wouldn't have mattered to him, and it certainly wasn't what had brought the topic up. I waited for him to continue, but he only put the blunt in his mouth and lit the end with his commemorative Zippo. He'd gotten it for 25 years of working at the same firm. I thought that was pretty sad, myself, spending twenty-five years at doing any one thing. He took a puff, and passed it over, watching my face like maybe I didn't know what to do with it. I brought it to my lips, and inhaled deep - coughing just a little for show so he wouldn't maybe realize I'd been doing this for a couple of years already. I half-closed my eyes to fully embrace the feeling, and passed it back.
"What about California people?" I asked, when it was clear he'd stopped speaking. I felt his blank stare, though I didn't reopen my eyes for it. I'd seen that look often enough that my skin had memorized the weight of it. Either his memory was getting crappier, or he hadn't meant to say it out loud. I didn't usually press, but this was a momentous occasion after all, so I felt emboldened. "You said 'California people aren't like us'. Just now. You said that..."
"I did?" he asked, slumping his shoulders back into the couch. I opened my eyes now, because my outstretched hand wasn't receiving the joint I'd expected him to pass back. It was dangling from his lips like an exclamation point that had lost its reason to be exclamatory. "Yeah, I guess I did."
I couldn't just reach out and take it out of his mouth, not without risk of a nasty hand slap for the impertinence. But if I just let it dangle there, it would eventually drop ashes onto the old man's pants, and then he'd blame me for that somehow. Not to mention, it was a waste of a good j. "Why?" I prompted, figuring that talking would be awkward with it hanging there and he'd pass it then. I was pretty self-centered at that age.
"They're not," he said, jerking the words from his mouth along with the joint. He gestured emphatically with it to further his point. "Things are different out there. They're not our kind of people, they don't understand New York time, or the proper ways of doing things. They've got their own goddamn country going on out there, maybe a whole other world..."
"Oh-kay..."
"Your mother was from California," he said ,flicking an ash off the end and passing it to me.
Stunned, I took it and inhaled deeply, quick, before words could come falling out of my mouth. THC induced calmness over the nervous laugh that would have otherwise erupted. "Oh yeah?" I replied, as casually as if we were talking about the weather. We never spoke about Mom... not since that day she'd left three years ago.
The old man merely nodded, taking back the joint and helping himself to a long steady drag. "Don't you have homework or something?" he asked, which was his way of telling me to get lost.
"Yeah, I think I do." I got to my feet, didn't ask for another hit, started making off towards my bedroom.
" Michael!" he called when I was halfway across the room. I stopped, but didn't turn. "Don't go to California."
I don't think I was ever planning to, until just then.
We hadn't been discussing California, or talking about human nature or anything like that. We rarely said anything meaningful to each other, so what had brought that on was a kind of mystery. I might have said anything before it from "pass the remote" to "I think I'm failing history this marking period." Whatever. It wouldn't have mattered to him, and it certainly wasn't what had brought the topic up. I waited for him to continue, but he only put the blunt in his mouth and lit the end with his commemorative Zippo. He'd gotten it for 25 years of working at the same firm. I thought that was pretty sad, myself, spending twenty-five years at doing any one thing. He took a puff, and passed it over, watching my face like maybe I didn't know what to do with it. I brought it to my lips, and inhaled deep - coughing just a little for show so he wouldn't maybe realize I'd been doing this for a couple of years already. I half-closed my eyes to fully embrace the feeling, and passed it back.
"What about California people?" I asked, when it was clear he'd stopped speaking. I felt his blank stare, though I didn't reopen my eyes for it. I'd seen that look often enough that my skin had memorized the weight of it. Either his memory was getting crappier, or he hadn't meant to say it out loud. I didn't usually press, but this was a momentous occasion after all, so I felt emboldened. "You said 'California people aren't like us'. Just now. You said that..."
"I did?" he asked, slumping his shoulders back into the couch. I opened my eyes now, because my outstretched hand wasn't receiving the joint I'd expected him to pass back. It was dangling from his lips like an exclamation point that had lost its reason to be exclamatory. "Yeah, I guess I did."
I couldn't just reach out and take it out of his mouth, not without risk of a nasty hand slap for the impertinence. But if I just let it dangle there, it would eventually drop ashes onto the old man's pants, and then he'd blame me for that somehow. Not to mention, it was a waste of a good j. "Why?" I prompted, figuring that talking would be awkward with it hanging there and he'd pass it then. I was pretty self-centered at that age.
"They're not," he said, jerking the words from his mouth along with the joint. He gestured emphatically with it to further his point. "Things are different out there. They're not our kind of people, they don't understand New York time, or the proper ways of doing things. They've got their own goddamn country going on out there, maybe a whole other world..."
"Oh-kay..."
"Your mother was from California," he said ,flicking an ash off the end and passing it to me.
Stunned, I took it and inhaled deeply, quick, before words could come falling out of my mouth. THC induced calmness over the nervous laugh that would have otherwise erupted. "Oh yeah?" I replied, as casually as if we were talking about the weather. We never spoke about Mom... not since that day she'd left three years ago.
The old man merely nodded, taking back the joint and helping himself to a long steady drag. "Don't you have homework or something?" he asked, which was his way of telling me to get lost.
"Yeah, I think I do." I got to my feet, didn't ask for another hit, started making off towards my bedroom.
" Michael!" he called when I was halfway across the room. I stopped, but didn't turn. "Don't go to California."
I don't think I was ever planning to, until just then.