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Myrna
Part 7
It seemed like the minute I got my learner's permit, everyone in the whole
family had a million other things to do that were more important than letting
me practice driving. Everyone had time to take me out, like, once, and then all
of a sudden their schedules were totally full.
I'm not one to complain about shit, but, um, selfish anyone?
I didn't mind that much about Mom and Ma. They were both way too high strung.
Some kid the next county over would get on his bike, and they'd start hollering
and pointing and getting all out of control.
Michael wanted to, like, talk about everything. 'This is how we're going to
pull out of the driveway,' and 'this is how we're going to gently come to a
stop at the next light,' and then every single time we'd get going, like, ten
minutes into the drive, he'd suddenly remember something he had to do at home.
Justin was cool though. Sometimes he'd say, "Little heavy there on the
brake pedal, Gus," or "Try accelerating a little less dramatically
next time," but other than that he didn't say much. I guess it was a
little bit cheating to drive around with Justin because he wasn't technically a
licensed driver, but I always combined our driving around with some helpful
errand, so he and my dad could see how responsible and helpful and responsible
and stuff I could be.
I remember driving around with my dad one Saturday, and it kind of illustrates
how far we'd come since Justin had first lost his sight, and we were all
forbidden from, like, acknowledging that.
The whole drive with my dad had been a debacle. Usually he was pretty good
about showing me how to do stuff, but he was all short-tempered and irritated
while we were driving. I figured he was probably pissed about something at
work, even though twice he tried to make me pull over so he could drive the
rest of the way, but I was like, "Shuh, right."
So we got home, and Dad slammed out of the car and stalked upstairs. "How
do you play ball so well?" he asked. "You have the least coordination
of any human being I have ever met."
We walked in the kitchen where Justin was working on his laptop. That meant he
was just messing around. If he's in his study with the door open, he's working
on a book, but you can interrupt if you want; if the door's closed, you're not
allowed in-you're not even allowed to knock on the door.
"Hey guys," Justin said, "How'd it go?"
"Shitty," my dad said. "I hope you have a good pair of shoes,
Sonny Boy, because you're not getting behind the wheel of one of my cars ever
again. You are a terrible driver."
"That shows what you know! Justin thinks I'm a great driver!"
"Justin is blind!" my dad shouted. "He can't see the semi you're
careening towards!"
"Oh ha ha," I said.
"Okay, just tell me this, would you?" my dad said, tossing the cap of
his water bottle on the counter. "What the fuck is going through your
brain while the rest of us are thinking, 'There's a stop sign. There's a stop
sign. THERE'S A FUCKING STOP SIGN!'?"
"Justin!" I whined for help.
"He's kind of got us on the blind thing there, Gus. Not much of a comeback
for that one."
Ben finally agreed to regular driving lessons, and he was totally cool. I
pretended like it was just coincidence that my dad handed over a $200 bottle of
wine every time we went out driving.
The day I got my license (on my first try, thank you very much. Moog had to
take it three times, and his dad's a pilot so there's some big ironic meaning
in there somewhere), Gran had a big dinner over at her house.
Dad and Justin pulled in right behind us in a brand new Porsche. Well, I knew
that wasn't for me because Mom and Ma had both been really, really clear that
there was no way in hell I was getting a sports car. Still, I'll totally admit
I was expecting some wheels, but when Dad drove up in that new billion dollar
number, I was a little confused. Okay, worried. And then I was a little mad,
too. I mean, that is so totally like my dad to go to a car dealer to get me a
car and end up driving away with something for himself. It was like when we'd
go shopping for school clothes. A shirt for me, two pairs of pants for him. A
shirt for me, a new suit including the Italian loafers for him.
Dad got out of the car slowly, all dramatic, like he does with this stuff and
leaned against the door. "Hot off the line," he said in a bored
voice. "Only six others like it on the whole fucking planet."
"Christ, your dick must be so small now you can hardly see it," Ma
said, but the look in her eye was kind of envious. She loves cars.
"I haven't seen it in years," Justin said affably.
"Yeah, but you've felt it," Dad said, sparing him a sideways glance.
"So you say," Justin said. "How do I really know for sure it's
you..."
"Ew! Could you, like, *not* scar me for life for, like, five minutes or
something?" Sarah said, and stomped into the house.
"Boyfriend trouble," Mom said, shaking her head.
Dad snorted at that. "Sarah doesn't have a boyfriend," he said, while
the rest of us-even Justin--shot daggers at Mom. Some things we're all better
off with Dad not knowing.
Thankfully Emmett drove up then, in a brand fucking new all black,
leather-interior, killer sound-system Benz. Shit the mother, man I almost came
in my pants right there. It was all I could do not to shove Em aside and shout,
"Mine!" at the top of my lungs, but I had to try to play it a little
cooler than that or my dad would torture me for the rest of the day.
"Why, Emmett, what shiny new wheels you have!" my dad said with just
a glimmer of interest.
"Well you know, a person gets tied of lugging themselves around in the
same old bag of nuts and bolts. Thought I'd trade up a little."
"A little?" Dad scoffed. He made a slow tour around the car.
"Mmm, looks nice," he said. "Three-D navigation; one touch
direction input, voice activated wireless computer. All the bells and
whistles."
"It's important to treat yourself," Emmett said seriously. "I've
always said that."
"You have," Dad agreed. "I remember you saying that on numerous
occasions."
"Shit, Brian, I'm a fucking wreck here-give him the keys already!"
Justin finally said.
Dad laughed and tossed me the keys, and I whooped at the top of my lungs and
started jumping around and yelling and hugging and kissing Mom and Ma and
Justin and Dad and Emmett and anyone else who ran out of Gran's house to see
what was going on.
I herded Mom and Ma into the back seat, then ran back to drag Emmett and Justin
in too. "Aren't you coming?" I said to my dad. He was just standing
there watching with his arm around Michael.
"Let the old man choke down seven to twelve shots of whisky then I'll be
ready!" he said with a wave.
"Shut up!" I called.
A couple of weeks later I collected my birthday present from Justin-he took me
with him when he went to New York to do the interview circuit. He went on all
the morning shows, did Late Night and one of those ABC News Special things.
Everywhere we went, he introduced me as his personal assistant, and it was so
cool. It was great to see Justin working like that, because all I usually ever
saw was him typing at a computer.
It's not quite as glamorous as you might think-it was tons and tons of waiting
around for one thing. Justin laughed at one of my not so subtle sighs when we
were waiting for him to be interviewed on the Today Show. "Your dad did
this with me once," he said. "Can you imagine how irritated he was by
the end of the day?"
"God, he must have been trolling the halls looking for guys to mess
with," I said.
That made Justin laugh too. "You want to know something awful? Since I
became kind of famous, your dad has to work a lot harder for his pound of
flesh. A lot of the young guys feel bad about the poor, blind partner at home.
Pisses your dad off. Turns him into such a shit sometimes."
I laughed, knowing what a fucker he can be about stuff like that.
Justin pointed a finger at me. "You let on, and I will accidentally key
that shiny new car of yours, you hear me?"
"Are you kidding? Dad would key my car just for me knowing!"
We ended up having to reschedule one of the talk shows, so to make up for that
we got to tour the studio where they shoot Thirty Six West and even watch them
do a few scenes which was so fucking awesome. Then we went to this party, and I
swear to God, Mandy O'Riorden was coming on to me! No one fucking believes
that, but it's totally true. If Justin's asshole editor hadn't told her I was
16 who knows what could've happened.
The funny thing was, when we got back home, I kind of was Justin's assistant.
Sometimes, anyway. Since I could drive, it was just as easy for me to pick him
up and run errands as it was to hire a driver.
Justin and my dad started to kind of rely on me, and that was a cool feeling,
you know? It felt good to be needed and the more they asked me to do, the more
they started to see that I wasn't just a kid anymore. Justin talked to me like
I was a person. Sometimes he'd lay out what was going on in his latest book and
ask me if this scenario or that scenario made more sense, and that was so
fucking awesome! I couldn't believe he was asking my opinion about something
that was going to end up on a movie screen.
But the closer we got, the more rotten I started to feel about how nasty I'd
been back when I was a kid. I wished I could make it up to him. And I knew,
even then how idiotic it was, but I felt a little bit like maybe if I'd only
been a little less crappy, maybe Justin would still be able to see, and I know
that's totally fucked, but there you go.
So that's about the time that I decided I'd go to the Pittsburgh Institute of
Fine Arts.
I know, Christ, I know. I'm the moron who just typed those words, and they are
as absolutely fucking ridiculous today as they were back then. But I was
convinced it was the perfect act of atonement.
I decided to tell Justin first, so I showed up one night around dinnertime and
set myself a place at the table, but then I chickened out. My dad was in a mood
because someone at work had messed up the paperwork on some deal and they were
going to have to wait another four weeks before he could gain the title on some
property and it was going to cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars. Blah
blah blah.
After Dad ate, he excused himself to the computer in the sitting room outside
the kitchen, and I was kind of bummed he didn't go back to his office because I
sort of wanted to tell Justin alone, and then tell my dad. Still, he seemed
pretty engaged in work after awhile, so while Justin and I were washing up, I
took a deep breath and said, "Well, I decided where I'm going to
college-Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts."
Fuck if I didn't hear my father snort and start to laugh. I started to close
the kitchen door, but that would make him even worse, so I just ignored him.
"You're applying to PIFA?" Justin had said, his eyes rolling upward
in undisguised disbelief. "Gus... Jesus, I don't even know where to start.
How in the fuck do you think you'll get in? Let's start there."
I couldn't believe Justin wasn't all, like, touched and excited and
congratulating me and stuff. And what was with the totally stupid question? I'm
sure I relayed that sentiment in my tone. "Dad'll get me in," I said.
"Right." Justin leaned against the counter and scratched his head.
"So, you're going to use your father's money and influence to get you a
position in a university you don't deserve to attend so you can pursue a career
you don't want. And then what, I'll be able to see again?" He said that
really gently, but I still felt kind of...reproached.
"Maybe he thinks we'll forget that he spent the first part of his
adolescence being a total shit," my dad helpfully offered. I did go over
and close the kitchen door then. Screw him.
"Gus, you were twelve before you realized that crayons were good for
something other than melting on the sidewalk and pretending it was vomit,"
Justin said. "You don't just wake up one morning and decide to be an
artist. It comes to you as much as you go to it..."
"But I want to do this! I *can* do this," I said, and I sounded a
little bit like I was begging, like I was asking his permission more than I was
convincing him of anything. "I'll paint, like you did! I'll do the stuff
you didn't, like, get to! I want to do this, J."
Out in the sitting room it had become awfully quiet, and I knew I was treading
on delicate territory.
"I know you want to," Justin said. "And, God, Gus, I just...I
love you for wanting to, okay? But you can't just forfeit everything
you..."
"I'm not forfeiting anything!" I said, and now I was getting upset.
This wasn't going anything like I thought it would. "I want to do this for
you! To show you! To give you something!" God, I was practically starting
to, like, bawl or something.
Justin took my arm and led me out to the sitting room, past my dad who was
acting like whatever was on his computer screen was the most interesting thing
he'd ever seen in his whole life.
"I know where you're coming from," Justin said. Then he kind of
laughed, but I could tell he wasn't laughing at me. "I was going to go to
Dartmouth so my parents wouldn't get divorced."
"Huh?" I sniffed and wiped my nose on my sleeve. "Your parents
got divorced because you didn't go to Dartmouth? That was the deal
breaker?"
Justin laughed again. "Well, there were other things going on too, but I
thought going to Dartmouth, where my father wanted me to go, would fix things
somehow."
"So what happened?"
My dad loudly cleared his throat, but Justin just rolled his eyes and shook his
head at me. "I don't know. Your father fed me some load of crap that I
lapped up like the pathetic puppy dog I was, and the next thing you know, I'm
waltzing through the doors at the Institute of Fine Art."
My dad, who'd stopped pretending to be working, threw a magazine at Justin, but
I batted it away before it hit him. "Fuck you," my dad called.
"I saved your ass, and you know it. Fucking Dartmouth. What a joke."
"If I had a dime for every time you think you saved my ass," Justin
said to him.
"He was just a boy then, Gus," my dad said, "Same age you are
now." Then the mocking, teasing tone of his voice changed, and so did the
look on his face. He moved closer to Justin, and he wasn't talking to me
anymore. I wasn't even in the room anymore.
"I can still see you dancing in the confetti," he said in a low
voice. "Wearing one of those tight shirts, looking so fucking edible. Mmm.
Makes my mouth water just thinking about it."
Justin just laughed, but my dad kind of crept up behind him and hugged him.
"You haven't changed," he whispered into Justin's ear. "And as
far as you know, I still look exactly the same too," and while I made
coughing, choking sounds of disbelief, he started dancing Justin around the
room. Flipping me off all the while.
I remember my dad singing into Justin's ear. "So many songs we forgot to
play, so many dreams swinging out of the blue, we let them come true."
Justin laughed, his eyes closed, even though it would have looked the same to
him if they'd been open.
Justin's the only one I know who can pull off this attitude with my dad that
says, like, he knows Dad's totally full of shit, but he'll play along anyway. Okay,
well, tons of people know my dad's full of shit, but it's like he likes it when
Justin points it out.
"Forever young," my dad sang quietly. "I want to be forever
young. Do you really want to live forever, forever and ever..."
It was one of those times when I realized my parents have this...like, this
life, that I so don't know anything about; that there's all these things that
happened to them that don't have anything to do with me.
That is a totally freak ass feeling.
So, I let go of the idea of PIFA as...what, penance? I don't know. And the good
news is, it only took, like, a year for my dad to quit making fun of me about
it.