The Last of Will

2. Last Straw

2

LAST STRAW

“When the hell did he discover social networks??”

It was a legitimate question, seeing as our dad had rarely ventured onto anything past business listings on a search engine. Even online porn held no appeal for him … that we know of. Ignorant bliss is my vote in that department.

“This is dangerous,” Liv surmises. “He’s been spending way too much time on that computer.”

Liv’s my older sister. As you can see, she got the cool name, which justifies the conversation we’re having.

“Why should he care if you modified your name a little? It’s your name, after all. You own it.”

My point, exactly. However, the original purchaser felt it was still under warranty.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know,” Liv argues, as if we need any reminders of her ex-boyfriend, Monty, who learned that the hard way.

Liv loves to devise arguments. It’s one of her specialties, really. So she’s mastered the art of going an entire twelve rounds with Mom, while I usually take a dive to mercifully end it.

“You can’t let this one go,” she insists. “Invasion of privacy is a breach of the owner-tenant covenant. Why do you think I moved out?”

Um, let’s see … Liv is nineteen, in college, with a loser boyfriend whose three regular purchases are beer, condoms, and pork rinds—in that order. Do the math. But she has a valid point.

As for the current drama, the whole thing started because, regrettably, in Dad’s massive time on the computer, he had stumbled upon a few new sites—one of them tragically being my “f*******:” page.

“When did you change your name to Gi?” he wailed.

Let me set the scene … I had gone to the kitchen, while committing the sacrilege of keeping my laptop open in a common area. Who knew Dad was going to venture out of his mental hole long enough to reach the hallway? I didn’t quite hear the full extent of what he said, since the high-pitched warble had more or less mutated through the walls prior to reaching my ears. But I caught enough to know that it wasn’t good. You gotta understand—I’m not a confrontational person by nature, but I do realize it’s best to brace before walking into the unknown. Grabbing a steak knife seemed rather extreme, so I stuffed my mouth with saltines, in case I had to buy time with an unintelligible response.

“Wha?” I mumbled, inching into the den of doom.

“Your name. On your web page. Gi?”

Clipped sentences are never good. They not only imply a level of controlled anger, but also show that the person is only mildly trying to make sense of something they have no use for. They’re not interested in details. They want answers. And they’d better come quick.

“Whassa big de-awl?” I slurred, the saltines steadily building my water retention.

“You want to be named after a karate suit?”

Hmmm. Hadn’t considered that angle. I was just aiming for the phonetic spelling of the letter “G.” But now that you mention it … “Gi” is kinda cool, in a Ninja sort of way. And given that my tongue was now the size of a blowfish, loose attire may be in order, since gout couldn’t be far behind. But Ninjas are so yesterday, and despite my futile hopes, the saltines had dissolved, so I was running out of options.

“Gi could mean other things,” I reasoned.

“Uh huh,” Dad agreed. “Let’s see … ‘g, i’ … Soldier. Gastrointestinal. Glycemic index. Stop me when anything grabs your fancy.”

Copy that, I got it. Impulse purchases are not good when picking a name.

“It’s just … I wanted a change,” I explained. “I’m growing, developing. Becoming my own person. It’s important that I be true to myself. So I wanted to start fresh.”

Wow, I even impressed myself with that one. It sounded mature, rational, even spiritual. Well done, you.

“Huh?” he retorted.

“It’s just …” I tried to find the words to come next. But only one could truly drive home the point. “Greer.”

He stared at me, wanting more. So I plodded on.

“I just don’t … feel it.”

The stare continued.

“It’s not my thing,” I said.

“It’s not a thing, it’s your name,” he frowned.

You know those moments when you should probably stop talking? But for whatever reason, you keep going? Yeeeahhhhh …

“Oh, it’s a thing all right,” I dug in. “A big thing. Like a huge, gaping wound kind of thing, with lots of … salt … dumped in it every day. Which makes it an even bigger, stinging, cavernous … thing. And that thing needs to not be a thing anymore. That’s the thing.”

Dad struggled to be barely interested. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“It doesn’t work for me.”

That’s the simplest explanation I could muster. Not as colorful as others, but to the point. And a whole lot more forgiving than what I coulda said.

A long pause. Then, a breakthrough … of sorts.

“Well …” he offered, “What else would work? Besides Gi?”

Nobody told me there’d be a quiz. I had to think fast.

“Um … I don’t know. How ‘bout … Ger?”

Yep, I totally just made that up. A little angry, but still original. Or so I thought.

“Now you want to be named after a hut in Mongolia?”

A Mongolian hut? Frick, how much useless trivia does this guy know? Wait … Mongolians are sorta cool, right? Was that Genghis Khan? I tend to doze in History.

“You’re not calling yourself ‘Ger.’ Period.”

Great, he had to throw in verbal punctuation. Could this get any worse?

“Wait ’til I tell your mother.”

Boom! Officially worse.

Just for the record, it’s not like I hate my name. I’d just appreciate a little variation, that’s all. Take Liv—her full name is “Olivia,” so she’s got some options: “Liv,” “Ollie,” “Vi.” You get the picture. Just a little something to break the monotony, depending on your mood. Even Dad has that option, since his full name is “William,” but he goes by “Will.” I told him to try “Liam” while he recharges, but he didn’t bite. But at least the option is there.

Options are good. Options give us hope. They keep us sane, because they give us a chance of not blowing it … before we eventually blow it.

*

There are two types of suggestions: the ones that are made to help the rest of us, and ones that are made to help the one doing the suggesting. It’s 6:37a.m. on a Tuesday and I’ve barely had time to pee, let alone clean the crustees outta my eyes long enough to find something less than hideous to wear to school. Take a guess which version of suggestion is being lobbed at me.

“You want me to do what?”

“Take your father to his job interview today,” Mom says.

Yes, those exact words. So I dissect.

“Take …? Does that mean …?”

The pregnant pause. This one’s going full-term. Then … the infamous huff-sigh, one of her patented moves.

“Yes, you can drive him.”

SCORE!! Here I will dare include the ever-so-remote possibility that by some realm of comprehension, there is—on rare occasions—a third type of suggestion that nature throws us as a consolation prize for all the sucky things we’ve had to endure at times. This type of suggestion I hereby christen “the one that is intended to help the ‘Suggestor,’ but instead proves ever so prime for the ‘Suggestee.’” The Suggestee, in this case, being … moi.

For once, destiny has taken pity on me and locked in a scenario where Mom has no choice but to turn over the car keys without the usual knock-down-drag-out drama. Now, hit pause for a sec. Fact-check: Mom is a florist and owns this cute little shop that’s somehow stayed afloat while our family finances squeak by from month-to-month … which brings us to today. See, while things slow down at other companies, the two sure bets in the floral world are weddings and funerals. Or, as Mom puts it, “Love and death never go out of business.”

That doesn’t mean it’s been an easy ride. Not at all. Since Dad lost his job, Mom’s had to lay off most of her employees and is basically running the place by herself. She had massive guilt about the whole thing, even though she kept them on longer than she could readily afford. But the bills stacked up, and over time, she had to let them go. It was harsh.

Anyway, today she’s got some big meeting with a potential client for some Bridezilla society wedding. Major payday if she nails it. So she swallows her pride and calls up second team to pinch-hit. Which makes it my lucky day. Done. I win. You heard right. I. Totally. Win. Since I only have my learner’s permit, any invitation to drive is like seeing a unicorn on a key chain: beyond belief, and not something you shut up about.

Turns out, Dad has a job interview this morning, and Mom feels like he’s too spaced out to be left in charge of heavy machinery. I know that sounds a little dramatic, but considering that I had to check his vitals with a yardstick and hand mirror, at this point, I’d vote to make shaving permissible only on an “as needed” basis. Driving would just be inviting a lawsuit.

Of course, I can’t readily show my inner elation to my mom because, after all, that’s part of the precarious charm of the third type of suggestion. The Suggestor is, by definition, already screwed, and the Suggestee knows it. But playing that card too early could sabotage the whole “mano y mano” aspect of the moment, and give the upper hand back to the Suggestor, who could renege in a fit of bitterness. Cooler heads must prevail … at least long enough to get the car keys in hand.

“Um … what about school?” I ask.

Honestly, sometimes my innate brilliance is more than I can bear. I pretend to be concerned enough to bring it up, when all the while, I couldn’t care less and would die that much happier with one less day of school to crush my spirit.

“I’ll get you excused,” she allows. “For the morning.”

Figures. I knew the whole turn of events had to go south at some point. But I’m all too glad to get out of Geometry and the agony of World History. I mean, yeah, some vaguely interesting stuff happened along the centuries, but all I remember after a chapter is that most wars are about land or religion, most geniuses come off as initially crazy, and most conquerors are shorter than you’d expect. Three constants that never really change.

Bear in mind that I just won the car keys (turf war), crazily asked about school (secretly genius), and I’m fifteen, so am still growing (variable height). There’s no need to go to class, since evidently, I know everything I need to know to apply these principles to my life.

That is, until Dad gets in the car. I haven’t taken Psychology yet, or I might relish the weirdness.

First, he just sits there, which is good on the surface but more than a little unnerving, since I can’t even guess what’s churning in that head of his. But since we’re both too lethargic to sort it out, we just give up on conversation.

Then, he spends about twenty-five minutes (since I’m taking the slow route to milk my driving time) shuffling, paper clipping, proofreading, reshuffling, and clipping his resume. Sure, crunching numbers all day could make anybody a robot after a while. But since Dad doesn’t appear to have a “reboot” button, I just have to bite my tongue and watch this spectacle unfold, in case he has some unseen, turbo-charged robot arm that could muzzle me in a flash if I dare make a snide remark. As fun as it would be to use that gizmo on certain people, I don’t want to be the test case.

But then, I see it … the real instrument of my demise. A stapler. By design, they’re useful tools. But when user error is involved, they can leave a mark.

He whips it out like a samurai sword, its metal glistening from the sun on the windshield. I halfway expect his words to not match his mouth movements, but since he’s not saying anything, there’s no real metric to gauge the madness … except for the fact that the guy is brandishing a friggin’ stapler.

Okay, first of all, who carries one of those things around as a necessity? Think about it … how often is a stapler on your “out the door” checklist? Let’s review. Gum? Check. Cell phone? Check. Lucky penny you found outside the beer tent of the music festival your parents still don’t know about and you will forever regard as your crowning underage social achievement? Check.

But a stapler? What the “f”?

As we get closer to the building, he stares straight ahead, like he’s taking a visual survey of what may or may not become his life for however many years ahead.

I park with such stunning proficiency that no one could ding the doors if they wanted to, which is ridiculously impressive, considering that you need a can opener to get out of most compact spots. But do I get kudos? Any parking props at all? No. Still the forward stare.

“Um … we’re here,” I say, in a flimsy attempt to keep the universe spinning.

He slowly removes the paper clip from his resume, and holds up the stapler. His hand loosely grips around it, with all the best intentions. But like a one-hit wonder band, the moment goes nowhere fast. Inwardly, I imagine he’s ready to rage against anything and everything for all the stress and anxiety of the last several months. Outwardly, he’s just too tired to make a fist. Or his robot arm is out of batteries. So the stapler sits idle.

I think about asking if he’s okay, but I know he’s not. Why belabor the point? He was already damaged enough before the stapler, so I decide it’s time to disarm him, to keep the situation from imploding.

If you’ve ever had to do it, you know that saving someone from themself is a noble—if not particularly pretty—task, so the actual maneuvering is anything but graceful. But I’m able to get the stapler into my hand and, more importantly, out of his.

I staple his resume together and hand him the copy. Then he gives me a look I’ve never seen before. Something between surprise and irritation and gratitude. Who knows what’s going on there. Whatever it is, his reaction makes me tense up enough that the stapler unleashes its wrath on me.

“Ow!!”

“Stay still.” He calmly removes the staple from my finger.

The sight of blood always makes me queasy, which is beyond inconvenient when I’m an accident-prone nimrod. So Dad keeps me distracted, to discourage barfing.

“You okay?” he asks.

Funny … he managed the words I couldn’t use on him.

“It just stings,” I reply.

Let me clarify here that “cool” is not a word I would automatically equate with my dad. It’s not that he’s square so much as just a little old-fashioned—like how he carries a handkerchief in his suit pocket. Something my grandpa had taught him: “gentlemen are always prepared.” It’s a bit of a lost art, since there are plenty of “guys,” and lots of “dudes,” and even more “losers.” But “gentlemen” are a rarity, and whatever it takes to create them is what makes him silently wrap that handkerchief around my bleeding finger.

Then, without a word, he’s gone. Will Sarazen, heading into another job interview. Into the abyss. Unaware of the gentleman that he is.

I study the white clump of cloth encircling my hand, contemplating, “What kind of dumbass staples their own finger?” and “How big of a man does it take to not call out that dumbass for being so dumb in the first place?”

Apparently, it takes a man like my dad. I learned something about him just now. That sometimes his silence isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes, it’s just the right amount of noise.

Huh. You think you know someone for fifteen years, and then one day you realize, there’s like a whole new side of them you never saw before. A surprisingly cool side. And it creates this, sort of, warm and fuzzy bonding moment, that comes out of nowhere and saves my dumb ass a trip to the emergency room.

But we’ll just keep that to ourselves, since my online version of the whole incident is way more elaborate and grotesque. I’ve already posted photos.