I am an adolescent. A fraud. A bum. Maybe even a terrible person. I could never follow the rules. No matter how small the ask, being told what to do makes the hairs stick up on the back of my neck. My fist balls up, and an act of defiance engulfs my face.
The fact that everyone has a boss doesn’t make sense to me. Can someone explain it? Well, that’s just how the world works is always the answer. Why does it work that way? The look of confusion, and a quiet suffocation, would stab my eyes. It was a thought they’d never entertained.
How could they accept things for the way they are? Why was I not able to do that? A level response to that question would be entrepreneurship. One can start a business and become his own boss. But this is not true. Your customers are still your boss. You work for them.
I was never motivated the same as others. Just wanting stuff for the sake of wanting stuff. Seeing your boss, or someone who makes lots of money, as better than you. I could not buy into the status game, and I lacked any effort to chase it.
I just wanted a nice house, a car that’s paid for, and enough money to afford a few vacations every year. The barrier of entry for these things has become too high. Sure, working hard and moving up the corporate ladder far enough to achieve this was plausible. But what about your dignity? What about the corporate jargon, politics, puckering up to kiss your boss’s ass every time they walk into your office? What about the sales goal meetings and quarterly reports?
You can’t just be a schoolteacher, or work in the woods anymore and afford these things. We are now resigned to corporate culture or manual labor. Without striving to please your boss, and working fifty hours a week to show your love for the company, that dream is dead.
What is left for a man like me? Coconuts on the beach in the clear Caribbean waters, teaching surfing lessons to tourists? Maybe start a guide company? Everyone is getting ripped off, and it seems people want to be ripped off. It seems slightly more moral to do it when they are on vacation, with a budget and looking to spend money, than to offer them another thing they don’t need. What is value, anyway?
I remember raking my neighbor’s yard as a kid. At first, we did it for fun. You would make a pile of leaves and jump in. My buddy would come over and throw them on top of me. I could feel them crumbling underneath me. Bugs crawled over my limbs, and I could smell the earthy tones shooting up my nostrils.
Then one day the old lady came outside and asked if we would put them in a bag for her. We shook our heads and agreed to help her out. Two black trash bags were full of leaves. We tied them up and dragged them to the road for the garbage man to pick them up.
Afterward, she handed us each five dollars. It was the first time I had ever earned money in my life. I folded it in half and rubbed each side of the bill together. It just felt different to know that I earned that. My eyes peeled to the front yard, and not a leaf was in sight. In my small, opaque world, I made a difference that day.
Later that night, during dinner, I pulled the folded five-dollar bill out of my pocket to show my father. He reached for it across the table, and I reluctantly let it go. He gently unfolded it and straightened it out, making sure to remove all the wrinkles. He held it up to the light to check the validity of it, then lowered the money and handed it back to me.
“Your first dollar earned,” he laughed. “You will spend your whole life chasing this, son.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Enjoy it now. One day you will understand.” He smiled, took a spoonful of peas, and shoved them into his mouth.
Maybe I was naïve, caught in my little bubble, my own little world. But I just knew that it was more fun to rake the leaves to jump into than it ever was putting them in a plastic bag.
Well, I sold out, and here I am.
I’m boxed in by four cement walls all stacked together. My Windsor knot is tight, shoulders stout. I stare at the dizzy stacks of folder and bullshit paperwork I don’t want to do, it almost reaches the ceiling as dim fluorescent lights bleeds across my face. There’s a dead palmetto bug in the corner, but I’m too lazy to pick it up. I’ll let the custodian deal with it later.
The analogue clock ticks, and I watch the seconds crawl. Each twitch of the largest thin hand is a step closer to freedom. I’m waiting on the short arrow to hit three, the long one to hit twelve. I just want to go home. What’s worse, wishing your life away, or living for the future? Knowing that just by showing up to this meaningless job you’re agreeing to it? “A man’s gotta make money to live in society,” I tell myself. It’s a lie and the truth.
No one wants to live in a cave. I like the conveniences, air conditioning, cars, grocery stores. I can’t see myself in the woods hunting, drying meat, waking up cold, keeping the fire alive, fighting off wolves for food. There are tradeoffs. There’s never a perfect answer.
I play solitaire on my computer for the next two hours. When a coworker or manager walks by, I close the tab and pull up the report I finished at ten a.m. The last forty-five minutes, I drift off, mapping out my weekend, plans I’ll never do. At least there won’t be five o’clock traffic today. Yesterday the boss kept us an hour late to wrap up quarterly reports, graphs, charts, spreadsheets, all stapled neat. Hours of work for a “Good job, Malcom. We’ll go over your goals Monday.” I smile with my lips pressed tight and head back to the cubicle.
When I finally leave, I loosen my half Windsor knot and skip the elevator for the staircase. My eyes are smeared, my vision unfocused, brick stacked on top of brick, stacked on top of more brick. Painted white with little chips missing in some places to show the concrete behind them. It’s a maze that I have walked through a thousand times, so my descent to the parking lot is as familiar as the back of my hand. 5 days a week, 251 days a year, I take this path and it never feels better or worse. It’s anticipation, knowing that I’m finally free for the rest of the day.
My BMW is new, delivered last week. I bought it with my bonus money from all my salary incentives. Tech sales pay handsomely, and a lot of people are always asking me to get them a job. I’m not sure they actually want in.
I live in a $4,500-a-month apartment overlooking the city. Last year I made $480k; this year I’m sure to do six. My weekends usually consist of eating at fine restaurants with beautiful women I take out. I used to get such a kick out of it.
Having a gorgeous creature on your arm can only make a man feel good. We’d drink expensive wine and take caviar bombs off the back of our hands. The salty burst of each pearl turns creamy, coating my entire mouth, and rolls my eyes to the back of my head.
This type of indulgence was merely a precursor to what was to come. We’d walk back to my place and her dress would hit the floor shortly after. The next morning I would get her a cab home. I repeated this over and over. At first it was fun; I could only see the good in it. Giving beautiful women experiences, being a playboy, lying on silk sheets naked, perfection, her body in its prime, riding you until the sun came up. But then something changed. I’m not really sure what it was, but it felt different.
Maybe I changed, or maybe I started to see it for what it is. On the dinner dates I began to realize we were both there for the same reason. Opportunity. She wanted to taste luxury. She wanted a rich man. This was her shot to get a grip on me. I was merely there to experience her body. I guess it was an even exchange, but it got avatarish. The same experience, just a different face with slightly different dimensions. I certainly had a type. I got so numb to it that it became almost routine, and routine is empty.
When we’d go back to my place, I started having them face the opposite direction because I did not want them to see the disinterest or lack of enthusiasm on my face. I wanted to wear a mask, to hide that I actually felt nothing. In fact, last weekend I drank a magnum of Pontet-Canet with this brunette. I think her name was Tara. In the middle of sex she was on top, rubbing her breast, moving her hips, staring at the ceiling, and I was dozing in and out of sleep. She took notice and got off. It was awkward, but I couldn’t help it.
Thinking about these things makes me even more depressed, and that’s not the way to show up to a kid’s birthday party. So I snap out of it, look in my sideview mirror, and crack the biggest fakest smile I can muster. Being in sales teaches you this. Meeting with clients, bosses, company dinners, you are really forced to be a fraud. What’s unique about tonight is now I have graduated to doing it with family as well.
My engine roars and I hit the interstate to a rural area outside the city. It is a local pizza parlor that used to be an old Burger King in the ’90s. It even has a play place out back. I haven’t been this far out of town in a while, and I have never eaten here, but my brother suggested it. I guess me showing up is a gift for my nieces. It’s the least I could do, since I am barely around.
The speed limit is seventy, so I drive ninety. The key is to stay below twenty-five over, or they want to arrest you. A ticket is just mailing in the fine, but an arrest is an embarrassment. I weave through traffic, right lane to left lane, whichever gets me there faster. Time is money, and I like to get to places as quick as humanly possible.
I get stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler and curve to the left lane, but there is no opening. I stare in the mirror. I can’t be late. I force my way into the left lane, making the guy behind me brake. Oh well. I feel like I have nothing to really lose.
When I take exit ramp forty-seven and veer toward the pizza parlor, I’m looking for the sign. Where is this Santino’s place? I scan the area. Trailers and small homes line the road, with small businesses intermixed. It’s so foreign to me now. I grew up in parts like these, but I felt above them. It is like becoming a king, a glorified soldier returning to humble beginnings. The difference is I don’t feel godly or better.
When I pull into the parking lot, my brother Blake is getting his two kids out of their older minivan. He waves as I look for parking. I go to make a right into the spot, but some sense of douchiness or superiority kicks in. Instead, I cut left and back into the space. I know what I am doing, and it feels horrible, but my impulse just takes over. I already know I’m doing better than him, but I need to show it. I feel disgusted, but I keep backing in.
Once parked, I take my tie off and unbutton the top two buttons on my dress shirt. I place it in the back seat with my suit jacket. I look in the mirror three times and repeat, place nice. Then another impulsive thought overtakes me, and I put sunglasses on before I get out of the car.
My brother walks over. “Wow, is this the M5 Competition?”
I open the door and smile. “Yeah,” I say, examining his older minivan, as I see his wife pulling my two nieces out of their car seats.
“The gray and white seats are nice, man.”
“Yes, it’s great,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You going Hollywood with the shades now?”
“Well, it’s four o’clock and the sun’s still out.”
His wife, Linda, waves from across the parking lot. She has their four-year-old Carly in her arm. When she turns to get the birthday girl, Maisey, unbuckled from her booster seat, Carly waves at me. I return the favor and take the shades off, putting them in my center console.
Maisey climbs out of the back of the minivan and yells across the parking lot. “Uncle Malcumm.”
She almost gets it right for the first time, and it is so sweet. Her face carries the innocence I missed. She is wearing smiley-faced sunglasses, a white dress with small blue polka dots, and little sandals with a train on the buckle. I would give anything to be her today. I wave back and smile.
As we walk over, I ask if anyone else is coming. My brother shakes his head. Only my parents.
“I thought this was a birthday party?”
“The real one is tomorrow in our backyard. I figured you, Mom, Dad, and the kids could just get pizza.”
“Why didn’t I get invited for tomorrow?”
“Malcom, we knew you wouldn’t be able to make it,” he laughs. “Did you get her a present?”
“I figured I’d just give her this.” I reach in my pocket and pull a hundred-dollar bill out.
For a split second, Blake’s eyes grow wide, as he studies my face. I catch it, the disbelief, and feel confused. Since when is money a bad gift? I hope this doesn’t make me look worse than I already do. I really don’t know how to do this.
“Malcom, she is eight. She wants to open a present. You could have just spent ten dollars, and she would have been happy.”
“I just haven’t had time, plus I’m not sure what an eight-year-old kid would want.”
“I’ll buy her something with it, wrap it, and give it to her tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll just make sure she knows it’s from you.”
I hope she doesn’t think I don’t care. I hope she still likes me. I hand him the money. My parents pulled up, unloading a balloon that reads Happy Birthday and a gift wrapped in pink paper.
His wife waits at the front door, across the parking lot. I step up and she gives me a one-arm hug. “You look snazzy, Malcom.”
“Thanks, Linda. I just got off.”
“Uncle Malcumm, I’m glad you came,” Maisey says as she hugs my leg.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Are you coming to my birthday party tomorrow?”
Linda injects, “Sweetie, Uncle Malcom probably has to work.”
The disappointment on her face as she looks down at the sidewalk sends a chill up my arms. She wants me around, and that doesn’t feel normal.
My parents share pleasantries with everyone, and we go inside the restaurant. They are no longer interested in me. Since my nieces were born, they’ve have given all their time to them, which isn’t totally bad. He used to ride my ass.
The restaurant is dingy and old. Tanned booths line the windows. The tile floors are cracked, and old grease stains embedded in the walls of the open kitchen. An old steel pizza oven sits with exposed rust. This is a far cry from any restaurant I’d dare step in. I walk carefully to our booth, making sure not to scuff my Italian leather shoes on the dirty floors.
We sat down, and the waitress took our order. She had missing teeth and large black circles under her eyes. Everyone was so warm with her, I avoided eye contact as much as I could and placed my drink order.
“It’s Maisey’s birthday,” my dad said, smiling, and handed her a balloon. She jumped out of her seat and bounced next to her chair, pulling the balloon string up and down.
“When my birthday?” Carly said.
“It’s not for another two months,” Linda said and held up five fingers. “You’re going to be this many.”
The waitress brought the drinks, and I waited for everyone to try theirs. I grabbed a napkin from the holder and wiped the rim of my glass before taking a sip. It tasted like well water. Then we ordered the pizzas.
It was loud, and Maisey kept interrupting the waitress, declaring, “It’s my birthday,” while my dad tried to place the order .
Once the order was in, my dad suggested taking the kids to the playground until the food came, since the kids wouldn’t stop moving. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake roll his eyes. He looked tired.
The playground outside had enclosed stairs that led to a room with a big bubble window to look out. There were two slides: the smaller was faded red, the larger at the top was baby blue, though I could tell it had once been royal blue when whatever fast food chain first opened it. The girls ran off, Linda and my parents followed them.
I marveled that they still had a playground. In today’s world, the insurance must be so expensive, the liability they take if on someone gets hurt.
My brother walked over to me. “What are you thinking about?”
“This might be the only restaurant I’ve seen with a playground.” I laughed. “One slip, and they will probably have to close.”
“Nah, man. People around here aren’t like that. I bet it helps business.”
Carly was jumping back and forth over an imaginary line while my father held her hand. Maisey climbed toward the bubble window.
My brother rubbed his hand over his face, real slow.
“You must be tired,” I said.
“I’m always tired. Between work and the kids, it never stops.”
“I bet they are full of energy,” I said.
“And chaos,” he laughed. “But you got to love them.”
“I can’t imagine. It seems stressful.”
Maisey peeked through the bubble window and waved at my brother before disappearing. Linda told her to head for the top slide, and she would wait at the bottom.
“It’s not a carefree life, Mr. Tech Sales.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just joking.”
We watched her climb closer to the top.
“I just wish I could get a minute for myself sometimes,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s worth it though.”
“Malcom…sometimes I envy you.”
“Why?”
“Because you make all that money, carefree, no responsibilities but to yourself. It’s tough when people count on you.”
I stayed silent. Maybe he was right. I’m not sure, but it’s tough when people only see you as a transactional piece. To know you’re just useful to others feels worse.
I tapped Blake’s shoulder and smiled. “You’re my big brother. There isn’t much you can’t handle.”
“I know, but having kids is hard, especially with work.”
“How is the plant treating you?” I asked.
He exhaled. “They’re bringing in a consulting firm in the next few months to tighten the ship.”
“Daddy, Daddy, catch me at the bottom of the slide,” Maisey yelled.
“You will be fine, Blake,” I smiled.
He shook his head and walked to the bottom. She disappeared down the slide and reappeared, where he scooped her up, spun her around, dipped her low, and kissed he on the cheek. Her eyes were lit, her laughter pure.
My dad and Linda walked by with Carly “Time to eat,” they said. My mother followed, grinning.
“Isn’t that so sweet?”
“It is, Mom.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” she said, smiling, and went inside.
Seeing the way my niece looked at my brother, the warmth, the purity of their interaction, was foreign to a man like me. I waited on them, then we all walked back into the restaurant.
The waitress was placing the pizza on the table, and Carly reached for a slice.
“Not yet. You’ll burn yourself,” Linda said.
The kids got their slices, then everyone else. Maisey grabbed the red pepper shaker, and her mom quickly took it from her hand. Smiles spread across the table as everyone bit into their pizza. My plate was still empty.
“You’re not eating?” Dad asked.
“Probably not. It doesn’t have any truffle on it.” Blake laughed.
“Whatever,” I said, reaching for a slice.
“Uncle Malcumm, it’s really really really good,” Maisey said.
I bit into the slice, and it was absolutely terrible. The sauce was too acidic, the cheese tasted like it came from a bag, and the undercarriage wasn’t crispy. But because I am a fraud, I looked at the table and confirmed how delicious it was.
We finished the pizza, I actually only ate two pieces, when my dad reached for the birthday present behind the chair. Her eyes went wide, her hands outreached.
“Where’s mine?” Carly said.
Maisey looked at her. “It’s not your birthday.”
Carly pouted, but Maisey turned to her, “You can help me open it.” The whole table went, “Aweee.”
My dad set the gift in front of her. They ripped the paper off together. It was a Barbie dollhouse. She raised both fists in the air. “Yes! I always wanted this. I thought I’d have to wait for Santa Claus to get it.”
“Nanna and Papa wanted to get you a special place for your dolls.” Mom said.
I sank into my chair. She tried to open the box but was stopped quickly. Blake told her to wait until she got home.
“Uncle Malcumm, did you get me anything for my birthday?”
Everything slowed down. I scanned the table, everyone staring at me, waiting for my answer.
“Actually, Uncle Malcom gave Daddy some money to…” Linda started.
I cut her off. “I’m bringing it to your birthday party tomorrow.”
“Oh really? You’re coming?”
Blake looked at me, puzzled.
“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss it for the whole world.” I smiled.
“That’s awesome,” She cheered. “Dad, can I go play on the playground before we leave?”
Blake looked at Linda with a worn face. “Baby, Daddy is tired. We need to get home so you can play with the dollhouse.”
Carly and Maisey both stuck out their bottom lips.
“Only for a few minutes,” Blake said.
The little girls cheered, and we all went outside to the playground while my dad went to pay the bill at the counter. Blake took the girls to the slides, and I stood next to my mom and Linda, watching them climb to the top.
“You know you don’t have to come tomorrow, Malcom,” Linda said.
“I want to come, Linda. The girls seem to want me too.”
She smiled and joined Blake with the kids.
My mom stood next to me as we watched them climb the stairs and go down the slides. The innocence and freedom they possessed, their clumsiness and fearlessness stood out. It was something most adults no longer had.
“You know you’d be a good dad,” my mom said.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
She smiled. “Gotta grow up sometime, Malcom.”
My dad came out, and Blake rounded the kids up. It was dusk, and the parking lot’s old streetlamp lights were starting to warm. I kissed my mom’s cheek and shook my dad’s hand while Blake and Linda loaded the kids into the car.
After my parents left, Blake walked over to me in the parking lot.
“So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Two o’clock, right?”
He shook his head and got in the van. The engine turned four or five times before starting. As they backed out, I saw Carly waving from the back seat window. I waved and smiled back.
As I sit in the parking lot, it all has become too much. An impenetrable epiphany that I can’t let go. It’s definitely better to cry in a BMW than it is on a bicycle. But is it better to be perceived as strong, a man who needs no one or nothing? Or is it better to love and fight every day, to wallow in the fear of loss or real responsibility, to have consequences for your actions?
To know your decisions actually affect other people. Is it better to hold strength within or show raw vulnerability to someone you love, even though they make your skin crawl at times? Or to fight the temptation to blow it all up at any second for ten minutes of sex with that hot young woman? Your biology screams at you to do it, and you must have the discipline to resist real nature.
Is it better to eat caviar, foie gras, and drink fine champagne with the upper class, knowing it will all turn to shit within twenty-four hours? That you only remember a few meals, a few sexual encounters. Experiences dissolve like the weather, changing day to day, eventually erased in your mind and forgotten as time moves forward, because they were never truly memorable.
Maybe it is better to be frustrated with the crying kid and the wife, knowing everyone you love will take you for granted from time to time. For a chance to hold something you created and know it loves you for you. Maybe it’s worth going through hard times with someone who ages and outwardly becomes a shell of what you chose to marry.
Knowing that growth and creation are hard, I do wonder if it’s better to sit in a grocery store parking lot, listening to classic rock and running your fingers through your hair, because you don’t want to go home to the chaos, versus coming home to an empty place. I’m not really sure of the answers yet, but tonight has offered the perspective to at least ponder them. To at least consider that maybe the money, lifestyle, and vanity we all chase, blind us from the things that are actually memorable.
I place my Italian dress shoe on the brake and push start. The engine roars. My GPS comes to life. I search for the nearest box store on my way home.