I just accept it as a fact now.
Our three townhouses are connected by a series of speakers, several in each room (including the bathroom). The music serves as our wake-up alarm. We shuffle out of bed, add loose-fitting clothing if we slept naked (Chris and Sadie) then meet out on our respective balconies at 7:00 a.m. sharp. (Our three balconies are also connected, a waist-level wood gate and latch sectioning each.) We start with a communal nod, wave, or raise of the coffee mug to acknowledge one another; no one speaks before our daily stretches, and some of us are always more disheveled than others. David and his daughter, Lizzy, me by my lonesome in the middle, Chris and Sadie – we breathe in the fresh coastal air and finish by taking an extra moment of silence to look out over the ocean.
Then we head in.
Each of us have our own routine. (I just assume Chris’ morning routine is sex, in one form or another, before cleaning himself, dressing, and heading out.) Depending on how much work I have during the day, I’ll sometimes get a shower, dress well, kiss Lizzy, then head out; on slower days, I join David and Lizzy for breakfast and their walk to her school. There’s a door leading from my kitchen into David’s back hallway, and today I walk in to see Lizzy’s thin frame at the kitchen table. We try to fatten her up but her metabolism keeps her tall and lean, rail-thin even; she’s not a timid girl, at least not about her appearance, though she does keep her brown hair long and straight to cover her face when she wants to hide.
I’ve seen her hide out of sadness mostly; seldom does she throw tantrums.
There’s an open school book in front of her at the kitchen table. Even though it’s mid-summer, Lizzy enrolled herself in a summer school program – she did so without asking anyone and even used her own money. No one had urged it – in fact, David and Chris had looked forward to sleeping in an extra hour. She told us it was to keep busy and “stay pointy,” as she called it. David had her I.Q. tested at the end of last year and the results further cemented the fact that she was highly gifted.
“Here he comes, ask him,” I hear David’s voice say while he cooks at the stove, just out of the doorway. I’m certain it’s a math question before I’ve even closed the door and entered the bright hallway – neon pink on one side and neon green on the other. The colors are shocking to the eye after leaving my house, which is very plain and white and sterile, just how I like it – every corner visible and clean.
Each of us designed the interior of our houses.
Chris’ house is the most interesting as it has hidden rooms and passages; it’s also the dirtiest.
“Uncle Sandwich, I got a question,” she starts, watching me for a response.
“Please don’t call me Uncle Sandwich…” I remind her.
She giggles.
Recently, I had been so tired I fell asleep in my recliner with a sandwich on my chest and no one has let me forget it – even though David and I have walked in on Chris masturbating so many times we had to install a loud buzzer at the door leading from my back hallway to his kitchen. (He’s been temporarily prohibited from making family dinner since the time I caught him jerking off while cooking, a memory that still haunts my waking life.)
I look over her shoulder at the book and the problem she’s stuck on. Behind me, David cooks eggs in grease, a full plate of bacon soaking under a paper towel next to the stove. As I point to a mistake in Lizzy’s multiplication of fractions, my left leg gently mule-kicks the back of David’s knee so his leg crumbles – nothing painful, just annoying; he knows it’s my way of scolding him for cooking scrambled eggs in bacon grease, something I find horrifically unhealthy. I’ve scolded him so many times for it that I don’t even need to say anything anymore.
When I finish and David turns to me, I ask a single word,
“An hour?”
He thinks a moment, pushing further up the bridge of his nose the thick-rimmed glasses I affectionately call his “nerdy-writer glasses.”
He nods.
“Good,” I confirm. “Text Chris, make sure. I’m going to jump-start payroll.”
After a kiss on the top of Lizzy’s long, honey-brown head and a quick piece of bacon—“There’s about 2,000 calories in that pan grease,” I just have to say (he rolls his eyes)—I head out their front door.
Today is certainly going to be a good day.
HEY, IT STARTS ALL OVER AGAIN
I enter mid-conversation.
“It’s just worse when the male penis is involved,” Chris is explaining.
“—as opposed to the female penis?” David asks.
Chris doesn’t understand, tucking his shoulder length blonde behind his ear; it was a habit of his when he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Whatever you’re talking about—and I really don’t want to know—but it should probably stop while I eat. Can we focus on something important?” I interrupt, hopefully ending the conversation for good. I sit across from Chris and next to David with my plate of sushi and sashimi. A glass of ice water is already waiting for me, as it is every day.
“Let me see the itinerary,” I say.
David gets defensive.
“You put me in charge of the itinerary, I’m in charge of the itinerary. What would you like to know?”
“I…would like to know the itinerary. What’s the plan for tonight?”
[“Itinerary,” Chris says, adding one more repetition.]
“Okay,” I sigh, rubbing my brow before digging into my food with chopsticks, “so what do we have tonight?”
David looks over an electronic, pocket-sized calendar. He keeps touching it, flipping through pages, looking, touching it more, waiting while it loads…
“Tonight is…Christmas. That can’t be right. It’s July.” He looks up to make sure we’re paying attention. My food is clutched between my chopsticks and halfway to my mouth, paused. “I’m just fucking with you, alright. Relax. You just take care of the numbers and the fighting and I can handle the scheduling. Tonight, uhhhhh—Sadie’s obviously got M.T. from 5 to 10 but she’s taking a break from 7 to 8 – she’s gonna have them work on each other while she comes test her for belt.”
“Chris,” I say, knowing this is a mistake, “I’m almost certain this is a bad idea but I want you to test her. What am I saying? Chris, I’m absolutely certain this is a bad idea, but I want you to test her. I think she’ll do her best against you. Okay?”
“Yeah, if that’s what’s on the itinerary than that’s what the itinerary wants an’ the itinerary’ll get what the itinerary wants.”
I sigh.
David looks at me and waits until I’m prepared to hear more, then continues, “You’re up to do basic defense for the massage class…what, next week?”
“Yeah, how about next Thursday?”
David looks over the calendar.
“Can’t Thursday, you got a Chamber of Commerce meeting – unless you want me to do it?” David asks in a distinctly prodding manner.
“Which, the meeting or the defense class?”
“Let’s go with defense.”
“Do you think you could handle basic defense?”
Though my voice sounds serious, I’m actually joking and fully aware that my brother, David, has become a fantastic practitioner of Jun Kae Do - the martial art that I teach. (The name is fictional – really, I teach a combination of Krav Magaa, Ishinryu, Aikido, and Ju-jitsu, with bits of Tai Chi thrown in for balance and harmony.) In reality, David is well-versed and, if necessary, lethal.
“Seriously?” he says, mocking.
“Uh…sure, you can do defense Thursday.”
“Why not me?” Chris asks, well-versed in Jun Kae Do, too.
A glance answers his question.
Chris is mainly involved with the massage school, serving as Vice Director (his choice in title) to Sadie’s position as Director of The Massage School at Dove’s Grove. We choose our titles as they come up: David is Lead Instructor of The Music School at Dove’s Grove; I’m Head Instructor of Jun Kae Do at Dove’
s Grove; Chris is Visual Advertising Consultant for all three schools; David is Print Advertising Consultant; they’re also Masters in the dojo; I’m the Business Accountant; David recently became Scheduling Coordinator, which includes scheduling shifts for the bar as well as all of the classes; I’ve been picking up the slack and teaching Basic Guitar to our adolescent class, mainly because it’s an after-school program and David’s busy giving private lessons to Lizzy since she’s moved on to Advanced Guitar; Chris teaches harmonica or bongos to anyone that’ll listen, for free, but it seldom finds eager ears let alone a need for a title; Chris, David, and I agreed to be called Co-Managers of our bar, Pairadice at Dove’s Grove (They got majority vote on the naming of the bar – we just tell everyone it’s a typo instead of explaining that it’s actually an inside joke about Chris’ balls, from when he was a pornstar.); none of us have a title with the Buffet at Dove’s Grove, situated at the end of the Dove’s Grove Shopping Center (I had bought out the whole shopping center in one deal, turning it into a very large school sectioned in three, plus a buffet at the end and a bar at the outer edge of the large parking lot. The buffet only got bought because I wanted them to include fresh, limitless sushi whenever I wanted – I even personally trained them how to cut and serve it.); and, for tax reasons, I’m listed as the Sole Proprietor of the entire property.
“Um,” David continues, both of us ignoring Chris’ volunteering, “I got piano from 4 to 5 with Sam the Driver—”
“Can we talk about that for a second?” I ask.
I’ve met “Sam the Driver” twice and he’s always been standoffish, unreadable; that led me to look him up – disconcerting is an understatement for the information he’s hiding from us. I didn’t tell David because he gets pissed when I look into people’s pasts. He tells me that if we can move on from our (he means my) past, then anyone can be forgiven and start over.
It’s never too late to do good, he says. Leave the past in the past. Just like your own.
“About what, Sam the Driver?”
I nod.
“He’s a good guy,” David tries to persuade me, “quiet, but he listens. He learns very fast, actually. He’s only been to four lessons and he’s pretty far along, it’s—it’s actually kind of impressive.”
“But he drives?”
“No, no. He used to. Said he drove someone pretty famous but he won’t tell me who. Just…ease up, I can tell your spidey sense is tingling. He’s a good guy. Just quiet, a little socially awkward.”
My brow is furrowed the whole talk about Sam the Driver. David’s right that I’ve picked up the scent of menace off the guy. There’s a familiarity, some unspoken quality, some look in his eye – it makes me nervous, as the familiarity is something I can’t distinguish, something I can’t form into reason. It’s not that I know him from somewhere, more like I know the type and it’s an uncommon one.
“Whelp, either way, he’s my student so fuck off. I like him. That’s it for tonight at the school,” David continues. “You’re watching Lizzy while I’m at Pairadice—Chris, you’re bartending tonight after the testing. Right?” I’m disappointed that it’s not already scheduled, and David catches my disapproving glance. “—hey, don’t blame me. He volunteered to replace Pam Noel. I’m just making sure he knows.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Chris affirms, then asks in an insinuating tone, “Is uh Kate gonna be there?”
David pretends to pay more attention to the electronic calendar as he mumbles a “mmmmmmmmaybe.”
And I finish my plate.
“Jesus Christ, did you chew? You’re like a fuckin’ duck,” my brother starts, mimicking a duck tilting his head back to swallow without chewing. “Were you just—did you eat rocks?” Chris looks curious. “To help digest. It’s what ducks—nevermind.”
It’s true that I eat as quickly as I can.
“Why don’t you ever tell the end to your ‘Ki-jo’ story?” Chris asks. My one-off answer to why I eat so fast is always Sensei Ki-jo and his twitch (the stick he so often smacked me with), and Chris must have thought of that in order to bring up something so unrelated; though Chris often asks questions unrelated to anything presently going on, so I could be wrong. Either way, this is a question he asks almost every time I tell the story of Sensei Ki-Jo to someone new.
“Because the story isn’t supposed to be sad—hell, it’s not even true anymore,” I remind him, as always. “It’s just a story to psyche up the kids.”
“He’s trying to pep them up,” David chimes in, “give them a little crouching tiger, maybe some hidden dragon if there’s time. Story gets better every time I hear it,” he pats my back. “Remember that picture Lizzy drew of the Mosquito Warrior?”
We all chuckle.
A year or so back Lizzy had drawn an awesome picture of a mosquito with an old west hat and samurai sword. It’s still on my fridge.
“Fair enough,” Chris answers and returns his attention to David. “Anyway, since Scrooge McDuck is done – I’m just saying that it’s worse when a male penis—”
“—as opposed to a female penis?—” David interjects again.
And again, Chris tucks his hair behind his ear, paused, missing the fact that he doesn’t need to preface that it’s a male penis; instead, he charges on. “—yes, a male penis, when it’s in frame without…”
“Hey, it starts all over again,” I say, leaving to head back to the office and finish payroll, “I’ll see you guys at class.”
FAMILY DINNER
Classes during the day.
I have a morning and a mid-day training, then a break (which is now filled with basic guitar lessons for summer school students) and evening classes between 7 and 9; the rest of my time is spent on investments, watching Lizzy, payroll, managing bills, and a dinner at 5 o’clock strong every night with Lizzy and David. Afterwards, David and I practice guitar for a short period until I have to leave for evening lessons.
The 5 o’clock family dinner routine is one that we had started some six years earlier, when I had reluctantly agreed to let David move into my house in Philadelphia. His girlfriend had died of a brain aneurysm and he arrived in a hopeless state, depressed about everything except for the three year old child he brought with him. To address this, we came to the agreement that I would play guitar with him if he would write a book for me. In the years since I returned, we’ve practiced guitar several days a week, and David has published seven books: four are part of a continuing series of children’s books he’s writing for Lizzy, with the fifth long since finished and near its publishing date; one had been a gritty crime novel loosely based on his (and what he knew of my own) history, though he took so many creative liberties and wildly different paths with wildly different characters, situations, and outcomes that there was zero resemblance (and I checked it thoroughly to make sure); but the one that stands out above all others is the one he started while living with me those first few months before all hell broke loose: finished and published in the two years I was gone, Landphiladelphia was a heavily researched, deeply affecting nonfiction account of the deterioration of the Philadelphia school system. It received a large amount of attention (and acclaim and awards) as it was a follow-up to the book he wrote in high school. David forfeit taking notes or tests or homework for the first quarter of his junior year in high school, instead opting to protest by writing a book called Bombing Timoom – a powerhouse of ridicule and anger at the hypocrisy, poor funding, and generally lazy handling of the Philadelphia school system. The book led to his expulsion; it also led to a massive swirl of controversy and notoriety, led him to sue the district, led to a massive book deal, led to 280,000 copies selling nationwide, led to him being ostracized by our parents – both college professors in Philadelphia – and, finally, led to his emancipation at 17 and subsequent move to Florida.
If we miss too many after-dinner guitar practices, David forces me to stay up until Sadie and/or Chris finishes at the massage school and returns home; then we all meet in Chr
is and Sadie’s living room, where they smoke a lot of weed before Chris blasts the harmonica or bangs the bongos, Sadie continues her long, hard road to teaching herself the violin, David plays a portable keyboard, and I continue on the acoustic guitar.
We’re making progress as a whole but it’s slow.
On weekends, we have dinner with everyone – it’s mandatory. Lizzy always sits next to Sadie and the two of them whisper and giggle to each other all dinner, afterwards heading off to do make-up and hair, or run along the beach, or an impromptu dance party on the deck – Sadie’s in her mid-thirties, looks as if she’s in her early-twenties, and has the capacity to act as a teenager. Chris, David, and I often sit out on the deck, prideful as we watch Sadie and Lizzy play in the water of the shore. They drink a few beers (I opt for ice tea) and we joke and stare out over the ocean as the sun goes down.
It’s so simple, so easy.
And surprisingly delicate.
SAM THE DRIVER
“Hey,” I catch him before he goes into my brother’s class.
The young man has gentle eyes; they always look squinty and cheerless. He’s muscular and, each time I see him, he’s pulling off driving gloves – something I find unnerving. His hair is dark with subtle highlights, always groomed and combed into a symmetrical disorganization. He wears cotton tee-shirts and ripped black jeans, some nice sunglasses that I’m sure are fancy and expensive. I usually catch him at a glance in the distance as he walks into the school. I’ve encountered him twice, once for a brief introduction and once in passing. It’s his eyes that catch me – he keeps them hidden most of the time behind sunglasses, unless he’s learning from David.
“Yes, Mr. Ridley?” he asks, practically standing at attention.
He’s stopped in the street while I’m on the sidewalk between the buffet and David’s section of the school. I have to motion for Sam the Driver to get out of the street and join me on the sidewalk.
While I’m at it, I also motion for him to take his sunglasses off.
His head tilts in a questioning manner, then he does as I ask.
“David tells me you’re doing very well in his class,” I say, looking into his eyes. He doesn’t blink or shift his weight or look at his feet like many people do when I stare into their eyes. I’m socially awkward in the same ways David considers Sam the Driver to be socially awkward.