The Squirrelly Dad

He's not a bad kid.

Everyone needs to give this kid a break cause he’s not a bad kid. He’s, in fact, a good kid. It’s a crying shame he also happens to be the world’s shittiest busboy, cause no one sees what a good kid he is when they look at him. They look at him and see what a world’s shittiest busboy he is.

Cause he is the world’s shittiest busboy. Let there be no doubt. You will never find a shitter busboy than George’s nephew. If there’s a shittier busboy in the world than George’s nephew, please god don’t ever let him darken our doorstep. Man. Man oh man.

That table over there’s been dirty but empty for minutes now, minutes, while the kid simply stands there, staring out the window. I’m tempted to bus the fucking thing myself just to put it out of its misery, even though to do so would risk getting gunk over yet another necktie cause I didn’t wear a tie-clip tonight cause why would I? I didn’t think I’d be bussing tables so all a tie-clip’d do is slow me down.

Then again, I didn’t think when George told me he had an emergency busboy coming in tonight to replace Rudy who had something better to do, George meant his nephew, who I’d asked never bus tables here again cause he’s hands down the world’s shittiest busboy, even though he’s a good kid, which he is. He’s a good kid. (Unlike that dishwasher who punched me in the face, last winter. Now that was a bad kid.) This kid here’s just so bad at being a busboy, it makes me be a busboy for him. That’s all. He’s a good kid. I’m gonna keep reminding myself of this until it obscures the shitty quality of his busboy skills, or decided lack thereof.

Remind myself that when I was his age, (and yes, I’m getting to the age where I use phrases like ‘when I was his age.’ Kill me now. Just kill me now), I hadn’t seen anything like having a few of my friends gunned down over some stupid gang shit. Someone chased after me with a baseball bat. A couple guys beat the ever-lovin’ crap outta me for pocket change and a train ticket. Some wacked out dude shot at me in Hyde Park. But I never had a single friend shot cause he walked home from school down the wrong block, much less a few.

Kid goes to funerals way too often. Funerals of schoolmates, cousins and friends. He’s sixteen. There’s something fucked about that. I try to bear that in mind when I see him standing still, staring out the window as opposed to, oh I dunno, bussing a table, which is what I pay him for.

And you know what? Every time I see him, he’s carrying books. Books, and he’s not even in summer school. Reads ‘em too. That’s ... laudable. I never carried books. Never. Not once. Not even during school. You ask him what he did the night before, he’ll tell you he stayed in reading. Most busboys don’t say that, and if they do, they’re either A: talking bout soccer magazines, which don’t exactly count, since they’re mostly pictures and scores and standings, or B: lying.

Though while carrying and reading books is laudable, it doesn’t make up for the fact that … wow. He’s a shitty busboy. I watched him earlier. It took him five trips to the tubs to clear off table twenty-two. Five! It’s a small table! Then it took him three trips to reset the table. Three! It’s the same small table! I can see two trips, maybe, and even then. I’d hafta be persuaded, but three? Three? Only a shitty busboy needs three for twenty-two.

And look at him now. He seems to be trying to break his own inertia record. Maybe in one of his books, he just read that ‘bodies at rest tend to stay at rest’ so he decided to test it. Who knows. But dang. Test laws of motion on your own time, please. Not when I’m paying you.

All right. Before I get angry and out of sorts and stop giving him the benefit of whatever doubt, I’m just gonna go ahead and bus the table he can’t see cause he’s not looking in that direction.

Here I go. Going to the table now. It’s me going.

Yeah, George’s nephew, you just stand there proving Newton right while I hope I can bus this table without getting … what is that, Heinz 57 or A-1. Heinz 57. Without getting Heinz 57 on my tie. Here goes. Water glasses, silverware, side plates covered in … Heinz 57 sauce … and the pilsner glass. Shouldn’t be too difficult, all this stuff. Good thing, otherwise I’d be ticked cause he is one shitty busboy.

Though, before I head for the tubs, let’s be honest. When I was his age? Shit. I was no one’s definition of a hard working kid. I thought that if I ignored things, like a big pile of dishes, they’d get done somehow. Or that if I told dad I’d rinsed out the bus-tubs, he’d take my word for it andoverlook the little bits of lettuce, egg, potatoes, or whatever else was lining the inside of the bus-tubs that I had most definitely not rinsed out.

(If anyone out there wants to contact my dad, it’d involve a séance, which seems kinda hokey. I don’t think he’d answer if you were … séance-ing him. He’d prolly pretend he didn’t hear you. He might answer to a Ouija board contacting, I guess. Which I doubt they work, Ouija boards. But if you’re so inclined, go ahead and ask him what kinda dishwasher I was when I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, round there. You know that little tile piece that points to the answers? That thing’d shoot so fast to the NO on the board, it’d scare you, the speed. You’d think you’d made him angry. Which you would have. I was a horrible dishwasher. Oh, and also, ask him if he’s seen his parents and how the food is wherever he is. Cause that was something he said he was looking forward to. Seeing his parents and finding out how the food was.)

Yeah, it wasn’t til later that I realized work’s work and you gotta do it sooner or later so might’s well get it over with. I was a late-bloomer, but once I bloomed? Shit. Look out world. There was no stopping me. And look at me now. Would you just look.

Bussing a table cause the busboy’s too busy standing still. Hoping I don’t get my tie stuck in Heinz 57 cause I don’t wanna hafta dick around with trying to clean it before I just give up and take it to the cleaners. Trying to grab all the glasses at once and make it all the way over to the bus-tubs without dropping any of ‘em, even though, to do that, I hafta concentrate real hard and when I concentrate real hard, my lips purse to one side and my tongue sticks out, so it looks like I got a little … palsy or something, and then Jason and Steve and Alan (yes, even Alan) will make that face for the rest of the night, soon’s my back’s turned. They’ll think I won’t know. But I’ll know. I always know.

6:01 - 6:18.

This is the gist of a phone conversation with my mom a while ago. She's in quotes. I'm after a dash.

"How did you know I’d be awake.”

- You’re always up by six.

“Fleegle has to go out. He’s on a schedule, you know.”

- Fleegle? Fleegle doesn’t get outta bed til eight.

“His bladder’s getting tricky. If I don’t get him out of bed and to the yard, I’m washing Fleegle tinkle from the sheets.”

(Except for the time he peed on Santa’s leg and a few times when dad first got him and Fleegle was still skittish so he peed on the kitchen floor a few times, he’s always had pretty good control in the pee department. Once, when my dad was real sick but hospice let him come home for a night before they took him for the last … week or so of his life, Fleegle got so rattled by seeing what’d … become of the old man, and how … out of it he was, and how … different he smelled with all the sickness and chemo, that Fleegle peed all over mom’s bed. The next morning, after I’d seen the old man safely delivered to the hospice, I went home and she was in the laundry room. She told me to strip the bed because Fleegle tinkled. I asked, since when does Fleegle pee inside. She told me just get the fucking sheets already.)

“And why are you up so early. It’s five by you.”

- Couldn’t sleep.

“Is (Wife-asaurus) asleep?”

- Sleeping the sleep of the undead.

“Pregnant women need sleep.”

- I should wake her up, piss her off.

“She might not take too kindly to that.”

- What is life without risk, mom.

“Don’t I know it.”

- You, after all, risked when you answered the phone.

“Where are you?”

- Den. Where are you?

“Lanai.”

- Hey. Did I tell you that five-dollar-for-everything-on-the-menu place closed?”

“It doesn’t seem the most practical idea in the world.”

- I was amazed they lasted long as they did.

“You know, there’s one just down the road.”

- An everything five dollar place?

“It’s just down the road. Right before you get to the hotdog wagon.”

(For years, the family vacationed in the town to which she wound up retiring. After Glen and I had gone on to college then adulthood – his adulthood’s way more adulthood than my adulthood – she and the old man continued the tradition. The last few years of his life, he noticed a hot dog wagon that kept changing hands. No one could make a go of it. He joked that he should take the damn thing over and show ‘em how it’s done. Then the jokes became more like talk, the talk became more like serious considerations, the serious considerations became more like plans. Then he got sick and all that crap just kinda fell by the wayside.)

“… And two strip malls down from there is this fantastic little Italian joint. A small little mom and pop. Remember where the Jewish deli was?”

- The one that had the tongue in the case?

“These Italians took it over. I go with Gina at least once a week.”

- Whadya get.

“Well, you know her. Pasta and seafood.”

- That’s disgusting.

“What else does she ever get.”

- What about you.

“They do a meat sauce that’s out of this world.”

- Oh yeah?

“Out of this world. But I can only eat half. So I bring home the other half and Fleegle attacks me soon as I walk in the door.”

- You go anywhere else?

“Only the usual spots.”

- You only go with Gina, or you got others you go with.

“Gina’s not my only friend.”

- They all women, your friends? Or do you have friends that are boy.

“It’s too early in the morning for you.”

- Gotta boyfriend yet?

“Does Mr. King Frog count?”

- If he’s ever your boyfriend, I’ll kill myself.

“I’ll be way ahead of you.”

- He’s got money, though.

“The world hasn’t enough money to make him my boyfriend. If I’m going for rich, I’m going for Dr. McGann.”

- Oh, he’s an idiot, he’s like two feet tall.

“He’s over five.”

- You two together’d be like Mutt and Jeff.

“I’d be Mutt.”

- And he’d be Jeff, so …

“We could be Krazy Kat and Ignatz.”

- Which one was the one that made it unrequited.

“Well, Ignatz threw the bricks.”

- Wasn’t there a dog?

“Mm. Mm-hm. A dog who was also a policeman.”

- How’d he fit into the whole thing.

“He didn’t like Ignatz throwing bricks.”

- Why’s he throwing bricks, anyway.

“Don’t know that it was ever explained.”

- He just threw bricks?

“Far as I know.”

- Huh. Well.

“So.”

- So. Anyway …

“Anyway …”

(There is a silence now. Into every conversation a little silence must fall, I guess. Though I don’t mind. I used to. The silences made me uncomfortable. I filled the air with … chatter. You could practically hear her holding the phone away from her ear. Now, hey, what’s a little silence every now and then.)

“What’s that you’re sipping.”

- Who says I’m sipping anything.

“You’re sucking in air.”

- Coffee.

“Are you using his mug?”

- Indeed I am.

“It was his favorite mug.”

- As it’s now mine. I don’t even keep it on the same shelf with the other mugs. It has its own shelf. The middle one. To it, I make formal and elaborate gestures of obeisance.

“What’s wrong with you.”

- How much time you got.

“Can you believe Glen thought for even a second he’d get that mug and not you? Glen should have known there was no way you’d fork it over.”

- That’s cause Glen’s a dick.

“You shouldn’t call your brother a dick.”

(The old man’s favorite ever coffee mug is one he stole from his favorite ever diner. He was particular bout his corned beef hash to the point of being a dick. The diner he made his favorite was the only diner that served corned beef hash he deemed satisfactory. And when he discovered they didn’t mind popping two slices of buttered rye under the broiler to toast it for him, he damn near plotzed from orgiastic glee.)

“Is it coffee or tea in the mug.”

- Tea’s only in the afternoons, mom.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. That’s right.”

(But back to the mug. He stole it, and even though he claimed, he swore up and down, he didn’t mean to, no one believed him. not for a second. Because, you see, he’d been joking bout stealing a mug for a few years, and in fact had stolen mugs from other places, among them, a Waffle House and a Davis Brothers Cafeteria in Georgia. So him claiming to have lifted a mug on accident’s a bit like the boy who cried wolf, but in reverse.)

Her next husband.

I’m not saying there will be another husband for Wife-asaurus. That’s not what I’m saying at all. In fact, I hope I’m the only husband she ever needs. (Though if I’m not, and if she winds up divorcing me and marrying someone else, the general consensus of all concerned seems to be it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for her. Her next husband almosthas to be an upgrade. That’s the scuttlebutt, anyway. There’s a few people floating round out there who think she’s got it pretty goddamn sweet and it’ll take her way longer than she thinks to find someone better than me. That ‘few people’ is really only ‘one person.’ That ‘one person’ is, yep, you guessed it, me. But hey. I’m right. Everyone else is wrong.)

What I’m saying is ... let’s say there will be another husband in her distant to immediate future. If he does wind up being better, I’m willing to wager I know the areas in which she’s gonna ‘try something different since the old way didn’t turn out so good.’ Wanna hear ‘em? Cool. Here goes.

He won’t be as tall. That’s for sure. I’m six foot three. Her next husband will be closer to five eleven or six flat. Not basing this on anything, other than every once in a while she tells me I’m too goddamn tall. (Though without me, they’re gonna hafta have a step ladder round here. Me, I can reach anything that needs reaching. Someone even only a few inches shorter, however …)

In all likelihood, what he’ll have is a more than passing knowledge of a car engine and how to handle the basics when it comes to why won’t the car start. His first response won’t be to ask if the battery’s dead, and then (even after finding the lights, power locks, power windows and radio work just fine, which means the battery’s still got juice) check the glove compartment for the thing to see if the battery’s still under warranty.

Her future man-partner won’t buy an iPod touch when the occasions he’ll actually use an iPod touch are rare indeed. (Which also means he won’t have this game I just got. Free from the App store. All you do is toss a paper ball into the wastebasket. I can’t stop playing it. My current high hot streak is 24.)

He won’t make jokes bout her wailing on him. Which I think makes him boring as paste, but … sensible as well. Commonsensical. Nonetheless, life with him won’t be chockablock with dizzying highs and desperate lows, like it is with me. Cause you can say I’m all sorts of things. Lazy, forgetful, selfish, myopic, profligate, foul, inconsiderate, boorish, mule-headed, tactless, ignorant, hinky, crotchety. The list of things you can say I am is long. Endless. But you can’t say I’m boring. I’m anything but boring. Ergo, life with me is also anything but. She better think long and hard bout this. Ask herself if she really wants to live life on a constantly even and boringkeel.

He won’t mind spending a precious weeknight off at the library. Even that stupid library over there. The one where the books’re never ever where the computer lookup system says they are. So I gotta spend all this time scouring the shelves for some book I only barely wanted in the first place, and when I ask someone who works there (they can’t all be called librarians, can they? Is everyone who works at a library a librarian? Except for the janitor. I know he’s not a librarian. But I’m not talking bout him right now, cause he’s not the one I asked) where that book is, all she does is walk me back to where the book should be and then when she can’t find it, says ‘Oh, it must be somewhere else.’

He’ll be able to whip up a delicious and fresh-tasting dinner using just crap laying round the fridge and pantry. (Last time I tried, the results weren’t pretty and much … intestinal distress ensued. Though, the silver lining of that particular bowel movement cloud is we’ve established one thing that shouldn’t be done with pork shoulder.)

Better at sports is a quality I don’t for a moment doubt is high on her list. She’s got a kid on the way, you know. My kid. And she’s gonna want that kid to learn how to play sports. For any number of ... child-development issues. Who’s gonna teach him. Me? Not if she wants that kid to be good, I won’t. And since she does, it won’t be me. It’ll be a subsequent husband.

Whoever’s next will prolly not have a full head of hair. She’s prolly starting to resent my full and thick head of hair. Gray and cowlick-y, sure, but thick and full. Though when it’s too long, it doesn’t grow down, it grows out, so that it winds up looking like a helmet made entirely of hair. Still she’s starting to resent it, I bet, so I bet she’s gonna go for someone either bald or balding.

And he’ll have brown eyes as opposed to my blue/green. His posture’ll be better. Arms and legs’ll be stronger. Stomach’ll be flatter. Butt’ll be less droopy. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. And I spose this magical, wonderful, goddamn perfect specimen of a man won’t swear so fucking much, either. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

He won’t be a church-going man, cause she’s not much interested in one of those, but I’m not a church-going man either, so in this instance, her husband-move is a lateral one.

Her next spouse will be able to sleep through the night more than once a week. And if he doesn’t, he won’t wake her up by asking her if she’s asleep, just so he can tell her he can’t sleep. He’ll lay there til Sleep once again visits him. Under no circumstances will he wake her up by asking her if she’s asleep, just so he can tell her he can’t sleep.

He’ll have a normal job, with normal hours. A job which provides a consistent, predictable, healthy paycheck. Like a salary. Not one that veers from comfy and no-worries to ‘You call this a paycheck?’ depending on business or lack thereof. Just as important, he’ll have a job which doesn’t lead him to believe that the humorous use of ‘Mexican’ as an adjective is without fail, funny as hell. (“What’re you getting so Mexican for?” was last night’s fave.)

This new guy will tuck in his shirt, shave as soon as there’s stubble, and wear fancy argyle or striped socks, not those ratty tatty tube socks, even when just lazing around on a lazy afternoon. And every single day, he will be showered and out of his robe by noon. This new guy’s gonna be a jerk. I just know it.

Husband The Next shall be handy around the house and wouldn’t fuck up something as simple as hanging a few things of art and posters on the living room wall. He’d be able to do it without having the posters or art come crashing to the ground whenever someone closes a door too hard, cause he will have hung it at the stud, which is something I can’t seem to get, even when I do the hammer/towel trick.

And, after successfully hanging yet another framed bit of tasteful this and that, when he makes the ‘Wanna help me find the stud?’ joke, she’ll go along with it. She’ll point at him and, with that certain glint in her eye, (you know the glint), say ‘There’s the stud,’ as opposed to either ignoring him or pretending there’s no stud to be found, anywhere in the house, except for in the walls, which is not the kinda stud I’m talking bout when I make that joke.

Wife-asaurus just busted me in the chops.

This is a first. Since I knocked her up, our relationship has gone from physical-violence-free to one that now contains incidents of her elbowing me in the ribs real hard, her kicking me real hard on my left (or right, I forget which, though the bruise lasted for days …) thigh and her punching my upper arm so real hard I couldn’t lift that arm above the shoulder for an afternoon. She smashed a couple of my toes with a television that she just didn’t feel like carrying anymore. She smashed a couple different toes with the front door that she took out some kinda pregnant-lady rage on. She wanged me real good in the stomach with the ironing board even though I was the one who was ironing so I don’t know what she was mad about. But up until now, the face has been off limits. Up until now.

She just one-timed me in the face. Damn. That hurt.

She sure is in a surly mood, lately, when it comes to food. She does not play around. Nor does she much cotton to the playing around of others. (When she first craved bananas in the morning, I said to her ‘I’ll give you a banana in the morning. If you know what I mean.’ She told me ‘Stop being a wise-ass. Where’s the bananas.’)

Every morning, she’s gotta have the same breakfast. A cereal which is either oatmeal or bran, a small thing of V-8, other small nibbles I’m forgetting right now (cause I’m dazed cause she just went whoopsy-daisy to my grill, but it’s usually like a handful of berries or some shit) and a banana with peanut butter on it. It’s a well-rounded breakfast and a decent nutritional start to her day. (Then she heads to the office where she willy-nilly eats her ass off cause all her coworkers bring her healthy snacks cause they’re all scared shitless of her, but I could care less cause she’s outta my hair at that point.)

Just now, all I did was suggest peanut butter also goes good with apples, which we have handy, after she … discerned … I had failed to buy bananas yesterday. I was standing behind her, sneaking up for one of those neck-shoulder kisses she likes so much and a little pat on her huge belly. She wheeled around and in the act of wheeling, cold-cocked me almost. Right in the old trap. Stopped me dead in my tracks. It was one of those moments where you were gonna say something, then something elsehappens, and it makes you forget what you were gonna say. I was just gonna say something. Something after peanut butter and apples. But now, for the life of me, I have no idea what I was gonna say. Yeah, I really shoulda delivered her some bananas when I promised her it was bananas I would deliver.

Hey, hey, I freely admit I didn’t do what I told her I’d do. I definitely told her I’d get bananas on the way home last night, and she definitelyimpressed upon me the importance of me bringing home bananas so she could have bananas for breakfast like she always does, and I definitely told her ‘yeah, yeah, I’m not an idiot, I won’t forget, I’m not an idiot,’ and Idefinitely proceeded to forget. But punching? Wouldn’t a good yelling have done the trick? A scolding? A reaming?

I spose what I’m in for next is a good bout of blaming the victim. It’ll be my fault for putting my face in the way of where her fist was going. Or I shouldn’t have gotten up at seven in the morning when I usually don’t get up til seven-fifteen. Or she never liked the neck-shoulder kisses, she only pretended to for my benefit but she can’t pretend anymore and the only way to get it through my thick skull is to punch my thick skull.

Only it wasn’t a punch as much as it was a forearm shiver, only it wasn’t her forearm as much as it was her fist and only it wasn’t my skull as much as it was the right side of the front of my mouth. Short and sweet. Right to the right of my mouth. Any other place on my body, maybe I’d believe it was unintentional. Now that I think about it, she’s pummeled my balls a few times, which she claimed to be accidental, and once my urge to yak all over the place went away, I believed her. But my face? My face?

No way it’s unintentional if it’s to my face. My face’s no accident. She’s gotta reach up to get my face. She’s like seven inches shorter than me. It’s not exactly like my face is the first thing that her fist would …

Am I bleeding? Jesus. Did she give me a bloody lip? Christ.

I think I am bleeding, cause I taste something in my mouth. What I taste is fear, of course. Fear of the look in her eyes. (I wish you could see the look in her eyes. Boy, she sure is ticked.) But on top of the fear, there’s that metallic blood taste. Great. Blood in my mouth. And if there’s any on one of her knuckles and she licks the knuckle with blood on it, then she’ll develop a taste for blood and then I really will be done for. Wow. I’m scared. She sure is strong. That center of gravity she’s got now sure is powerful. You combine that with her now hair-trigger temper and she’s a force to be reckoned with.

I’m gonna ask Jimmy if he knows any good divorce lawyers, cause the only divorce lawyers I know are from television ads, which means they ain’t any good. No. I can’t get a divorce. (That’s just the pain and fear talking.) No divorce. We’ve only been married two-plus months. It’s lame to give up on a marriage after only two-plus months. We should at least stick it out til our paper anniversary.

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna act like it really really really hurt. Gonna flex my jaw, you know, open wide then close my mouth a few times, so she knows she shouldn’t have done that. That’s what I’m gonna do. Here. This’ll teach her. Open wide … close. Open wide … close. Open wide but wince so she knows it’s a little difficult … and close. Now. There. That oughtta …

Wow. Of all the … she looked then looked away, just going on with the rest of her breakfast. She’s unmoved by how much pain I faked I was in. She’s not in the least remorseful. She shows no remorse whatsoever. (And she’s cutting up an apple. After all this. Cutting up an apple and now she’s spinning the lazy susan for the jar of peanut butter. Ain’t that a fine how do you do.)

Next time Wife-asaurus wonders why she’s Wife-asaurus, I’m gonna remind her of this morning, when she asked for a banana with peanut butter but didn’t get it so decided to wail on me so hard my head snapped back, my eyes went wide open and my mouth made a perfect little O of shock. Cause she’s a Wife-asaurus, all right. Only a Wife-asaurus would react that way.

Names.

The only thing of interest from the weekend is I’m almost positive I caught Alan and Julie holding hands. But since A: I respect their privacy and secondly, the last thing I wanna do is make myself barf by talking bout someone holding hands with someone like Alan, I must move quick to safer, firmer, less barf-inducing subject matter.

So, what you get this afternoon is a list of baby names eliminated from contention by either Wife-asaurus or me.

Milo. This woulda been a fine name, til we realized we know a couple who have a son named Milo. So … Milo, we strike you off the list. Though if, in the next three months, we have a permanent falling-out with that couple, and we know we won’t ever talk to or cross paths with them again, Milo goes right back on the list of contenders.

David. My current Mexican bête noire is David. Clearly, I can’t name my son David, cause every time I talk to him or think of him, I’ll think of kitchen Mexican bête noire David, who didn’t feel like telling me he had things to add to the list of things I had to pick up from the store. He waited til I got all the way back to tell me he needed sausage, beans, tomatoes, cabbage and sour cream (not for the same dish, don’t worry). So I had to turn around and head right back, which I didn’t much feel like doing. As a result, we had the following little back and forth before I left:

ME: Jesus Christ, I was just at the goddamn store, why didn’t you tell me?

DAVID: I didn’t know!

ME: I told you I was going!

DAVID: No, you didn’t!

ME: Yes I did!

DAVID: No, you didn’t!

ME: Fine, fuck it, you go then!

DAVID: Is not my job!

(So we’re not naming him David.)

Otto. There’s a dachshund in the extended family named Otto. Otto’s okay if you’re a dachshund, but not exactly okay if you’re a human. I thought she was wasting ink by even jotting it down on the list of preliminary contenders. Though Otto is a palindrome. A palindromic name cannot be dismissed outta hand. (Bob, Anna, Eve, Tit, Boob, Poop, Ono, etc.)

Felix. There’s something bout the name Felix. Not quite sure what it is, but … has there been a cool Felix? That Felix the Cat wasn’t, no matter how much his theme song told you he was. (I never knew what the fuck was going on with those cartoons. Though Glen loved ‘em. He even had a Felix the Cat lunchbox.) And as far as Felix Unger goes, well … he wasn’t cool. He was funny, but only cause he was so neurotic, stuck living with a slob like Oscar Madison. You take Oscar Madison outta the equation, Felix Unger’s just some guy who got kicked out by his wife and now lives alone, cleaning his apartment all day long. That’s depressing. You don’t name your kid a depressing name.

Otis. Otis is an awesome name. Nothing depressing bout this name. Imagine how cool my kid’d be if he was named Otis. He’d be so cool I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d freak the fuck out. You can color her unimpressed, though. She gets no heat from Otis, and … in the spirit of compromise, I agreed to eliminate Otis from the list of Heavy Hitters. (The secret to any successful relationship is compromise.)

Ezra. There was that crappy band Better Than Ezra. Why would I name my kid a name that’s gonna make me remember a crappy band? She fought like hell, she really did. She thinks Ezra’s a cool name, but there’s a few things about which I will say over my dead body. One of those things is giving my kid a name that’ll make me think of a band that was crappy.

Ben. Ben would be an awesome name. Wife-asaurus has different ideas. One of her exes was/is named Ben. I told her that was a pretty shitty excuse for striking a name off the list. She said so’s my excuse for Ezra. I said but Better Than Ezra really does suck and her ex also sucked but so did all her other exes from back then. She had a phase where all her ‘men’ were morons. That phase was well and truly over by the time I strolled into her life.

Ethan. I tried to read Ethan Hawke’s novel. I didn’t get very far. Plus, what kinda idiot cheats on Uma Thurman? I have the same problem with Fisher Stevens, who (legend has it) cheated on Michelle Pfeiffer, though it’s worse with Fisher Stevens, cause … well, Ethan Hawke’s Ethan Hawke. Fisher Stevens is no Ethan Hawke. And my kid will be no Ethan.

Aidan. Much like Milo, the name Aidan was taken from us by selfish friends who just had to have the name Aidan all to themselves. I hope they’re happy, knowing they took a perfectly good name and kept it. (In their defense, Aidan’s a hysterical kid, a total blast, and the name fits him. It just ticks me off that we can’t use it.)

Luke. Rhymes with puke, Duke, nuke, mook, cuke, gook, juke, kook and book (if you pronounce it slightly wrong). Need I go on?

Jacob. Not sure why we crossed Jacob off the list. Why did we? Cause Jacob from Lost turned out to be really lame by the time we saw who he was? Cause we both hated the movie Jacob’s Ladder? Cause if we wanted to call him Jake, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from calling him Jake the Snake, and Jake the Snake is a dumb nickname for your kid, unless he plays sports, which our kid almost certainly won’t? I’m gonna hafta ask Wife-asaurus when she gets home. Maybe she remembers why we crossed Jacob off the list.

Eamon. Too trendy. It’s like Liam and Ewan. Sides, someone took those names too. As well as Owen. And Ian. And even Ioan. I woulda considered Owen and Ian (but not Ioan, which is too precious by at least half). Man oh man. All these couples taking names we mighta wanted. It’s like we’re being punished cause everyone else had kids already. It’s not our fault we waited til we were bored and couldn’t think of anything else to do with our lives so I knocked her up.

Simon. What a cool kid our kid’d be if we named him Simon. (Simon would go perfect with our last name. Perfect. And wow, maybe he’ll wind up realizing that he should grow a mustache like they had on Simon andSimon. This is a few years down the pike. He wouldn’t  have a mustache til he’s … sixteen, at least. But wow, could you imagine how proud I would be of my kid if he had an awesome mustache? Whatever he wanted, I would make sure he had, just cause of that mustache of his.) Alas, she won’t even entertain the notion. Why’s anyone’s guess, cause she won’t say. Prolly, it’s cause of another one of her moron exes …

There's a hole where there should be my brain.

Most people have a brain where their brain should be. Not me. I don’t. I have a hole where my brain should be. An empty space. Air. Just air. Real big nasal cavity, perhaps, but no brain. Definitely no brain. It’s kinda amazing I’ve managed to get this far in life, and by ‘this far,’ I mean not very. But still. For a man who apparently lacks a brain …

I’ve been thinking bout it all day, cause after all that drinking last night, I can’t do much else, to be honest, except sit here thinking, and I’m pretty sure the only logical explanation for what I did is there’s something either wrong with my brain or I don’t have one in the first place. (No wonder I keep impressing people with how big an idiot I am. This lack of a brain explains so much …)

Or maybe I have a brain only it’s real small. Or could be it’s normal sized but damaged. Or maybe just my brain just … goes to sleep, sometimes. Who knows. I sure as shit don’t. But there must be some reason I keep doing stupid things like stopping on the way home for a quick drink at that place I like to stop at, only a quick drink turned into like a dozen.

I don’t mean a dozen of the same, either. It was an assortment of drinks I drank. Gin, beer, vodka, a fucking flute of fucking champagne for some fucking reason unbeknownst to anyone, a whiskey. This was a panoply I drank last night, I tell you, a panoply. What brain would allow its body to do that?

And wow, what brain would come to the conclusion that the bartender (she’s a nice gal) wanted to hear some lame-ass half-baked idea for a novel? No brain, that’s what brain. And when that very same bartender walked to the far end of the bar to get away from that lame-ass half-baked novel idea, any brain worth its salt would have dropped it and not try to impress some sullen drunk sitting one bar stool over with the very same lame-ass half-baked novel idea that drove the bartender away.

(Here’s the idea: this man and woman are either in love or just drunken screw-buddies, and there’s this gas station attendant who either gets held up or shot and killed, and either the man or the woman goes to the gas station right after either the robbery or murder and is either arrested or compelled to find the crook to either clear his or her name or see to it justice is served. This story is told in either the third-person or first, and if it’s the first, then the narrator is either the man, the woman, the detective, the crook or the gas station attendant who is either alive or dead but still the narrator anyway.)

Ah, but when you have no brain, every idea, no matter embryonic, extemporaneous and stupid, contains multitudes.

Shit, well before I even ‘decided’ it was a ‘smooth move’ to ‘stop off at what a lovely watering hole’ and have ‘all the booze they got behind the bar there’ as I ‘wowed their socks off’ with a novel idea that ‘practically fucking writes its fucking self,’ while I was still closing up, I cracked open a Heineken. A Heineken! I don’t drink Heineken cause it tastes like half-hops, half-donkey-pee. But there I was drinking it as I shouted to whoever was left (the Mexicans, who frankly couldn’t possibly have cared less, as they were too busy watching a tape of Mañana Es Para Siempre), ‘WHY AM I DRINKING THIS HEINEKEN!? I DON’T LIKE HEINEKEN!! WHAT THE HELL!!’

Yet I finished it, and I might’ve even had another one as I waited for the Mexicans to get out so I could lock up. Seems to me, my brain, if I had one, woulda picked a beer I liked. (Lately, it’s been this chocolate stout. That shoulda coulda woulda been the way to go, but … alas.) Though now that I realize it’s cause I have no brain that I keep fucking things up, I can breathe a sigh of relief. I have been worried. My decision making’s been … off. Way outta kilter. Now I know. There’s a hole where there should be my brain.

I hope it’s not hereditary, this lack of a brain. I hope it’s not passed on to Pokey, who’s done nothing (yet) to deserve not having a brain, like his old man clearly does not. But if he winds up not having one, it’ll be my fault, and not wife-asaurus’. She’s got a brain. Sometimes, she’s got one toomuch. Like last night, technically this morning. Sure as shit didn’t expect her to still be up when I saw fit to stumble home.

Yeah, if there’s one thing my skull doesn’t have, that thing would be a brain. Cause she told me she was waiting up. She told me. So why exactly was I surprised to see her awake, in the doorway, that look of admonishment on her face, but who can blame her? I told her I was coming right home. Two and a half hours later, I was home, and believe you me, I do not live two and a half hours from the restaurant. I live like two and a half minutes.

Swear to god, no way in hell I have a brain. No way in hell. Here. Knock my head. Right here. Give it a good knuckle-rap. A nice firm level of hardness. Pretend you’re knocking on a door when you think no one’s home and you’re kinda angry at that person for some reason, perhaps for not being home. Go on, don’t be shy, you have my permission.

See? Did you catch that? Do you know what I’m talking bout now? Pretty hollow-sounding, isn’t it. Sounds as if there’s a big huge cavernous space in there, know what I mean? Thumping a melon in the produce aisle’s what it sounds like, doncha think? Now, to compare and contrast, knock yourself in the head. Same spot, same knuckle-rap, same nice firm level ofhardness.

See? Did you notice the difference? Do you see where I’m coming from now? Yours isn’t hollow-sounding at all, is it. There’s a thing of substanceresiding in your skull, unlike my skull which has nary a thing in it where there should be a brain or am I wrong? No, no, I know I’m right, I know I’m right. I hafta be, cause the only answer to the question of what the fuck was going on in my brain when it decided that drinking that much was a smart thing to do is that it didn’t decide that. No brain in its right mind would decide that. Ergo, I have no brain.

Seriously, if I have a brain, which I seriously doubt right now cause it’s like past lunch and I still can’t move cause I drank so fucking much last night, but if I do have a brain, boy is it ever on the fritz. Maybe it’s cause of that time it got halfway ran over by that car when I was a kid. Or all those times me and Louie rolled downhill in those metal barrels. Or maybe when I got hit in the head with that brick. Or when I was running from that guy in Hyde Park who was shooting at us and I ran head-first into that tree. Any or all of those have led to me having a fritzed-out brain. I think it was a cumulative thing. It added up over time.

Posts I might one day write for/about Wife-asaurus.

These are titles I jotted down in this notebook I keep handy. (I’m on a new notebook, by the way. It’s got a squirrel on it. So … if you ever see a goofy-looking gentleman scribbling in a notebook that winds up having a squirrel on it, please come on over and introduce yourself. Unless you’re eating here. If that’s the case, then please don’t. Things won’t get off on the right foot between us. Either you’ll complain bout what you just ate, and I’ll be ashamed and resentful, or you’ll compliment it, in which case, I’ll think you’re nuts.)

Quit checking out her boobs. She doesn’t like coming into the restaurant since I put her ‘in the family way,’ and her sense of smell got real acute, which means the restaurant’s got a smell that's ... off-putting. She stopped in last night to say hey, plus get a club soda cause she gets thirstier than a bear lately. It was the first time in … a while that she’s been in, and since then, her boobs have … grown. Word of her boob growth spread to the kitchen. They all came out to stare at her boobs. Which is fine for the first couple minutes. After that, I get miffed. Specially if they (it was David, Nando and Rudy) don’t stop after I ask them to stop.

Then again, there’s my dad …

My dad liked your ‘nice cans.’ The first time my parents got to meet Wife-asaurus was at a Gospel brunch buffet. I can’t remember how, but mom and dad knew someone in the choir, or something like that. Anyway, so I was nervous as hell, cause mom and her seemed to be hitting it off, and … uh … that didn’t bode well. Not much good could come of mom and her getting along. They chatted. Dad told me to come with while he loaded up another plate. As we worked our way down the line, I asked him what he thought. He said she seemed great and just as soon as mom let him get a word in, he looked forward to talking to her for a bit. ‘But she sure does have nice cans.’

That was like eleven years ago. There’s times when it lays me low that he’s dead. Other times, I look back on him and his life with fondness and appreciation that I got to be part of him and it as much as I did. Usually, though, it’s a mixed bag of tricks. Like now.

But … speaking of all-you-can-eats …

Wow. She sure can eat. Just look at her eat. Wow. If you were at a certain mall on a certain Saturday and you ate lunch at a certain restaurant called, oh I dunno, Ruby Tuesdays, you might have seen a certain pregnant woman laying waste to a salad bar one gigantic, overloaded plate at a time. I stopped counting after her fourth plate cause she was sick of me counting out the plates. By the time she was done, that Ruby Tuesdays had to order more beets, chickpeas, sunflower seeds, croutons, peaches with cottage cheese, tomatoes and pasta salad, but not the gross mayo elbow macaronione, the somewhat more palatable vinegar rotini one.

That’s an Alan-tizzy, all right. I was in the shower one evening, and Alan called my cell phone from the restaurant. She answered, in case it was something urgent, only to have it be Alan calling. She told him I’d call back just as soon as I was outta the shower, then tried to hang up. (Poor, sweet, innocent, naïve, stupid Wife-asaurus. Thinking she could get out of talking to Alan so easy. If getting out of talking to Alan was so easy, no one would ever talk to Alan.)

She wound up listening to a story bout when Alan was in college and hisgirlfriend at the time was real late on having her period and he was sure he knocked her up but no, she was only two days late, so he didn’t haftaworry bout her being the father of his child cause she was so crazy but the sex was real good so that’s why he put up with all that crazy and he saw her just a couple years ago and she was all over him cause she never really gotover him.

By the time I got out of shower, she was in an Alan-induced tizzy. You know how when you get real frustrated you can only mumble to yourself bout what just happened as you walk in small, tight circles? Well, you would if you knew Alan.

I sure hope I’m the father. George has this bit. Came up with it very soon after we announced there was to be an addition to the (squirrel) household. The bit is essentially someone else is the father of that addition. Jimmy, Glen, David, Oscar, Jason, Steve, Alan, Julie, Laura, King Turd, Stinkhead, damn near everyone who passes through our neck of the woods. It’s not a bad bit, as far as Mexican bits go, which ain’t exactly far. Most of their bits involve them putting various kitchen objects up my butt.

Baby Bargains isn’t much of one. She got this book called Baby Bargains, which is full of bargains for your baby, I guess. I dunno. But the book cost eighteen dollars, which’s a bit steep, for a book that just tells you how to save on baby crap. So I was gonna write bout that, and how it doesn’t exactly seem fair that she can drop almost twenty bucks on something like that when I get taken to the woodshed (by her) when I buy two new cds cause I can’t find the ones I had so I need replacement ones. I had the whole post figured out in my brain, til she told me a friend gaveher the copy.

That Chinese guy almost killed you. We were crossing the street a couple days back, and this green van tried to turn on red, even though it was a No Turn On Red corner. He had to slam on the brakes to not run her over. I told him basically to watch what the fuck he’s doing. He jumped outta his van, got right in my face, yelling real fast and loud cause he’s Chinese. I yelled back, which ain’t normally the case, cause I’m not the most assertive guy you’ll meet.

We jawed back and forth til the light turned green. Then we scooted back to the sidewalk, he hustled back to his van and took off. She remarked that I’m more protective of her now. I told her I didn’t know bout anything likethat, but there’s one thing I’m damn sure not gonna let happen and that’s have her get almost run over by a Chinese van driver who’s trying to make an illegal right turn, and then when that Chinese van driver tries to act likeI’m being the asshole, just stand there and let him yell at me.

Love means always having to say you’re sorry. There was this thing she did that wasn’t a big deal, not in the grand scheme of things, (she left the big heavy trunk half in the bedroom doorway one morning before I woke up, and I didn’t see it cause I wasn’t looking, so I wanged my toes real good on the blunt corner of it as I walked out to get my morning coffee going), but I made her apologize bout it too much. Laid this big guilt trip on her. I shouldn’t’ve done that. To those few remaining people who don’tthink I’m an idiot, I offer this as evidence that, yes, I am.  Sides, the toes weren’t even broken. Just really wanged hard. They turned purple. But they’re fine now. Sore, but fine.

I don’t mind waiting. I’m tall and gangly, with long legs, and I walk fast, cause I’m a spaz. We were walking in the park, and she was slower than usual, cause, you know, she’s pregnant and everything, plus it was a hot, muggy day. I didn’t mean to keep walking ahead, but I kept walking ahead. Four or five paces ahead of her til I caught myself and walked back to her. She started feeling bad cause she couldn’t keep up. I told her hey, no rush, I don’t mind waiting, we’re not in any hurry, we got all kindsa time, baby, all kindsa time.

We have ourselves a nursery! (Just as soon's I build the crib.)

Finally. After months of me saying I’ll do up the nursery this weekend, I finally just hunkered down and did up the nursery. Took all day Friday, all day Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday, but I did it. It’s done. There’s nothing left to do. It is a nursery that is move-in ready. If she went into labor tomorrow, and gave birth to Pokey, I wouldn’t hafta do a thing to this nursery to make it habitable for him.

Other than build the crib. That’s it. It’ll be a done deal, a fait accompli, just as soon as I build that fucking crib that I promised I’d build have build by now. But, you know, like I told Wife-asaurus when she tried to get on me bout the crib I haven’t even gotten round to building yet, ‘Progress is progress.’ She’s looking at the nursery glass as being nearly all empty cause the crib’s stacked in pieces, whereas my nursery glass is ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine percent full. Just that point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one left. Which is the crib. And once I get around to building that fucker, we will have a nursery which is formidable. (Also, she’s been with me long enough to know that not all my promises are gonna get kept. She should know better.)

You know, but that’s her. That’s the way she is. Can’t see the forest for the trees. (Or is it forest from the trees. I get confused.) So I had to point out to her all the things that were in place on Monday morning that were nowhere near in place Friday morning, just … seventy-two hours earlier.

The room is now freshly painted this buttery lemon color. Hell, the color might even be called buttery lemon for all I know. What the hell do I know, she’s the one picked it out, outta one of those sleeves of color strips they give you at the hardware store. Buttery lemon or lemony butter.

But it is a good color. And we got that nice bookcase on the opposite wall that’ll hold my hot wheels and matchboxes and the Curious George figure that collapses when you push the bottom of the base. The top shelf, there’s wooden blocks that spell out his name. A few things hanging on the walls, art things. You know. Drawings of cars and then some illustrations from a book of Aesop fables or something like that.

We got a gray hippo nightlight plugged in that I wish I had when I was a kid. Glen and I didn’t have nightlights. Dad put a bulb in the hallway, but that didn’t do a helluva lotta good when I was in my room. By the time I got to where I could see the bulb in the hallway, I didn’t need it anymore cause I was already where I was trying to get. (Sides, dad really just put the bulb in the hallway so he could find his way to the can without stubbing and/or breaking his toes.)

Pokey, however, will have a gray hippo to light his way.

Yeah, we got this nursery situation pretty well nailed down. All I gotta do is build this crib that came in a box that weighed a hundred and twenty pounds according to the UPS sticker thing. That goddamn UPS guy just left the box on the front stoop. So I tried lugging the thing but couldn’t even get the fucker through the front door, so what’d I hafta do? Open the thing right there on the front stoop and carry it up piece by piece.

Sapped me of my will to build the thing. Been standing there, in pieces, leaning against the wall in the corner there since Friday. But like I told Wife-asaurus, ‘The crib’ll still be there. The crib ain’t going anywhere,’ and also, until she tells me which way it’s going in that corner there, what’s the point of building it. She doesn’t know if she wants it to hug the north wall or the east wall. So … she needs to figure that out first.

Everything else is set. There’s that big steamer trunk in the corner there. That’s where baby blankets and bedding and shit like that’s gonna go. In a year, we’ll hafta worry bout what to do with it, cause it’s got sharp jagged corners that’re, uh … not exactly child-safe. But I ain’t worrying bout it til then cause the thing’s heavier than sin. It’s a real herniator, all right. It stays put in the corner til I absolutely no joke gotta move it.

Next to that’s the chair we’re gonna use for his reading chair. That’ll be where Pokey’ll get read to. I found this book at a garage sale last Saturday: ‘Farts Are Fun!’ It’s got all these drawings of animals farting and smiling. There’s one picture where a dog smiles as he farts right in this other dog’s face. The other dog’s ears go straight up like he’s alarmed as he sniffs, and if that’s not the first book we read to Pokey, I’ll be in high dudgeon. I really will.

But so the chair’s next to the trunk.

And shall he have stuffed animals? He shall have stuffed animals. A Charlie from Charlie and Lola. A lamb. A monkey. A bunny-wunny. A Puddle and Toot. My bear from when I was a kid. Wife-asaurus’ Raggedy Ann. A Marvin the Martian. A couple others that’re hidden at the bottom of the pile. Pokey will not lack for stuffed animal companionship.

Right now, he lacks a crib, but let’s not split too many hairs, okay? He’s not here yet, so what’s he need a crib right now for. I’ll build the thing by October.

We got the dresser and hamper. The ottoman for putting our feet up. There’s that rug on the floor there. That’s nice. And there you have it. There’s our nursery. All’s it’s missing is a kid (Pokey) and a crib (the one we bought and I unpacked but haven’t gotten round to building yet.)

And like I told her, the thing’d be built if life didn’t keep intervening. Friday, time slipped away from me, so I can hardly be blamed for Friday. Saturday was just an odd day all around. The less said bout Saturday the better. And I really for serious intended to build it yesterday (Sunday) til I had to go into the restaurant early to cover for Jason cause Jason was out all night drinking with the All Night Marty Party.

I pointed out to Jason that I was with them for a while Saturday night. With them for a good long while, but I had the foresight to head home when I knew I’d reached that point where the prudent thing to do’s head home. They tried to get me to join them at this weird Korean karaoke place up on Lincoln, but I told them no. ‘No, Marty Party, no, Jason, I gotta go home. Gotta get up early in the morning. Gotta build a crib.’

Then they asked me if build a crib was a euphemism or what, and I told them no. ‘No, Marty Party, no, Jason, I’m being literal. I actually have a crib to build, and if you think it’s a weird sentence to hear me say, try being me and saying it.’

Talking to Pokey as Wife-asaurus drifts off to sleep.

Hey there. It’s me again, it’s your father speaking. Another one of our bedtime chats, Pokey. We call you Pokey until we can come up with a name for you. Did you know that pokey is not only what we’re calling you but is also a slang term for jail or prison? Did you? I bet you didn’t.

Your mom is drifting off to sleep and this helps her. Me talking to you. Dunno why, but she finds this soothing. Then again, your mom’s a weird gal. You’ll see what I’m talking bout soon enough. Half the time, I have no idea where she’s coming from. I look at her and think, ‘Who is this woman.’

Like this morning when we went to that diner over there, and she walked in wanting savory, but then when she looked at the menu, she decided she wanted sweet. So she ordered pancakes with bananas, strawberries and blueberries on them. With whipped cream to boot. How she went from savory to that in a minute is anyone’s guess. Then she ate half my bacon, which pissed me off, cause then I had to order a whole nother thing of bacon cause one and a half strips isn’t enough, not by a long shot. Like I said, she’s a weird gal, your mom.

By the way, I’m kissing her belly, basically more or less at where I’m guessing your head might be. She’s almost lightly dozing right now. It looks like she has a little grin on her face. She looks relaxed. It’s a good look on her. Or maybe she’s relishing the memory of pissing me off by stealing half my bacon when she coulda just had bacon of her own if she wanted bacon so bad.

There. I just kissed her belly a few times round where I think your head might be. Did you feel them, the kisses? Kick your mom real hard if you felt them. Kick her so it makes her eyes open wide startled, and she goes ‘Ooh.’

No? No kick? That’s all right. This book I’m reading, the same book that tells me to talk to you every day cause it’s pre-natally stimulating, tells me that at some point, you might feel it. No rush, though. I’m not rushing you.

I know I say this every damn night, but I love you very much and you’re not even born yet. Now, while some people might view this as being ‘all downhill from here,’ I am not one of those people. I am one of the otherkind. I think I can remain loving you like this even after you’re born and we’ve met and everything. You know what the book says? It says that after me spending all these nights forming an attachment to you by talking to you through your mom’s belly, when you’re born it’ll be like meeting someone face to face for the first time after having talked on the phone for a long time.

Isn’t that cool? I think that’s pretty cool. I hope it’s like that. Otherwise, I’m gonna be kinda disappointed. Not in you. In the book for getting my hopesup like that.

Book also says things like you’re gonna pick up things from me and her. Aptitudes, habits, likes, dislikes and what not. First thing that springs to mind when I think of that is you’re not gonna be good at math. Your mother and I weren’t. But hey. Math is stupid. They make it too complicated. Once you get past multiplication and division, it’s all just a buncha math geeks doing things with numbers cause they can’t handle people. Numbers can be controlled, are predictable, obey rules, whereas people can’t be, aren’t and don’t. Algebra, geometry, calculus, all that. What’s the point.

And if you take after me, you are gonna be cracked up by things that most people would consider lowbrow. Like when Wile E. Coyote falls down the canyon, disappears out of sight, then there’s a moment or two of nothing, then a small quiet poof of dust and earth where he lands. That will crack you up. Unless, as it turns out, you’re not my kid after all. But let’s assume you are. Wile E. Coyote will crack you up, as will the part in Animal House where Bluto eats all the food in the cafeteria line, tries to cheer up Flounder by breaking a bottle over his own head, and hops on the ladder over to the sorority girl’s bedroom window. Also irresistible to you shall be that part in Blues Brothers where the nun penguin beats the shit outta Jake and Elwood with the ruler, beats ‘em so bad they hafta take off, only Jake’s stuck in the chair-desk and winds up tumbling down the stairs still wedged in the chair-desk. You won’t be able to stop laughing. Just like me. Your old man.

Your old man who can’t wait for you to get here. Your old man who jokes all the time bout running away and hiding in his mom’s upstairs guest room but has no intention of doing any such thing. Not only because I wanna stick around to see how you turn out, but also because mom lives in Florida and things are batshit crazy there. Monkey-tits crazy.

By the way, my mom is your grandma, and she’s just as ‘can’t wait for you to get here’ as I am, if not more so. She’s already got a crib and playpen set up for you there. Part of me’s scared to bring you down there cause she might kidnap you. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s been waiting so damn long to get a grandkid, who knows what she’ll do once she gets one.

Hey, here’s something to tell you. I went to Target today and they had clip-on ties seventy-five percent off. I bought a handful. You now have six clip-on ties. Oh, yeah, buddy, that’s right. You better believe it, pal, it’s no joke. I’m hell bent on dressing you up like a nerd. Clip-on ties, a few blazers or sweater vests, white oxford short sleeve shirts, khakis and shoes. This is gonna be your strolling round attire. You’re gonna look like you’re in the cast of Gossip Girl Baby or Gossip Girl Toddler.

Yeah. You’re gonna be the best-looking nerd kid on the block. Way better looking than those other three nerd-looking kids. I’m gonna take you to the park, where all the hot moms are, and they are gonna fawn over you like nobody’s business. I can’t wait. Trust me, those are some hot moms over in that park. Those moms are hot. I’m gonna parade you in front of hot moms like I’m cock of the walk. They’re gonna love you and I’m gonna log some serious time with the hot moms.

Hah. Your mom just slapped the top of my head. She meant it playful, but it came out harder than that. Like a slap that had intent. Which is fine. If she thinks she can dissuade me from talking bout those hot moms in the park by a little hard slap on the top of my head, she’s got another …

Okay, she just slapped the top of my head again and that one hurt, so I’m not gonna talk bout all those hot moms in the park anymore. Your mom sometimes forgets she slaps me with the hand that has the ring on it, and that ring hurts. She should remember, considering all the times I tell her, but does she? I think you know the answer to that one.

All right. I think your mom’s getting good and dozy now. Now that she made the top of my head hurt so bad I gotta rub it, it might be beddy-bye time for her and therefore you. I think it’s time to turn off the light. Get a good night’s sleep, you. If you’re like her, you’ll always get a good night’s sleep. If, unfortunately for you, you take after me, sleep might prove tricky once in a while.

No worries, though. If, when you get here, we find that you sometimes have trouble sleeping, I already know what I’m gonna do. It’s what a friend of mine who lives in England did when his son couldn’t sleep. He drove the mile or so drive to the sea, and sat there with his son in the car, listening to the waves crash lightly against the rocks. He’d stay there long as it took, even if it meant they wound up watching the sun come up. That’s what I’ll do. Drive you to the water and sit with you there until sleep comes. We live only a short drive from water. Though it’s not the sea. It’s a lake. LakeMichigan.

Ah. Great. I'm awake. Great.

I forgot to brush my teeth my teeth and mouth feel like shit my breath must be horrible I hope she can’t smell my breath was I snoring? I hope I wasn’t snoring though I think I mighta been my tooth hurts this one here this one on the lower left back here at the back I should get to the dentist cause this might be a cavity, good thing we have dental insurance oh we’re gonna hafta add the kid to our insurance that’s gonna be expensive there’s another cost right there dental insurance ain’t cheap dunno why it’s not as cheap as medical but it sure isn’t it’s like three times as much I think.

(Roll over to left side, tuck left forearm under pillow, kick right arm out, splay it out behind me on bed.)

Whatever happened to that other book I had it then I lost it or misplaced it or forgot where I left it cause I don’t know where it is, I can’t find it I’m sure it’s an equally dumb book written by a worrywart for worrywarts but I gotta read it, it’s the one geared toward the father-to-be way of looking at things the book that thinks it’s funnier than it actually is, I haven’t seen it since last week sometime I don’t know where it is and I better find it cause I promised her I’d read it it’s important to her it’s just that the book isn’t as funny as it thinks it is which is really annoying, and also I better find it cause it belongs to the library and if I don’t find it I’ll have to pay a big huge fine, a big huge fine which’ll be way more than the book is actually worth quality-wise or content-wise.

(Hit pillow with head three times, hit pillow with head one more time for good measure.)

Is she getting enough vegetables am I feeding her well enough do I send her to work with enough and the proper nutrition, it’s easy to get to the extra three hundred calories that’s a snap nothing to that at all, the tricky part the part I worry bout the part I’m not sure bout is am I feeding her properly, that dumb book why’d I hafta read that dumb book I get a nice lazy Monday evening to myself no interruptions no intrusions no disturbances and what do I do, I read a dumb book that makes me worry bout if she is healthy enough, I hate that book I’m returning it to the library tomorrow.

(Kick left leg out from under covers, drape it over covers, hike leg up, bend it at knee, bring thigh to waist level.)

All that money stuff that went over my head today, I get a minor windfall an extra grand I dunno what to do with so I talk to the Chase Bank guy and he outlines all kindsa options but there’s a reason I never liked being at the bank and that reason is all of it sails right over my head, so I still dunno what to do with it I wanna set something up where I can’t touch it it’s for the kid and no one else I won’t be able to touch it while it earns a bit of money, just a bit cause it’s only a grand but my god if I don’t stash it away I’ll just spend it on trifling shit I don’t wanna trifle it away I wanna stash it.

(Straighten out left leg, adjust right leg for comfort, stretch calves by pointing feet down, wiggle feet clockwise.)

My calves are cramping up, great, great, great, that’ll put my mind at ease, nothing like a good bit of calf-cramping to take all your worries away, something’s gotta take my worries away, though, cause that book freaked me out and the bank guy freaked me out, it all makes me worry, and prolly what I ate for dinner tonight didn’t help anything, it was pizza, a lot of pizza, like half the pizza, and I had a couple beers and whiskeys to wash it all down, top it all off. I gotta figure out how to … I gotta realize that …

Because it’s not just me and her any …

There will be an addition, an addition that’ll need me to …

(Throw covers completely off. Roll onto my back. Stare at ceiling. Whimper. Glance at clock.)

4:15. It is 4:15. I was asleep for … only just over three hours.

(Sit up. Rub my eyes with both hands. Stand at foot of bed. Look at her. Listen to her snoring. Pat her foot, give her calf a light squeeze. Walk to hallway, then to kitchen. Search for coffee. Forget which cabinet holds coffee. Remember which. Grab coffee. Make coffee. Look out kitchen window. Wait for coffee. Wait. Wait. Wait.)