As Dad prattled on I added an item to the list of things I'd never do when I grew up: tell war stories. You know, war stories. When some adult male (is it always men?) recounts a life event demonstrating that he is, or was, heroic, brilliant, wise, and/or brave. One of these stories might be interesting the first or second time told, but they are never told once or twice. They are endlessly repeated. The only reason I figured anyone listens is to gain an audience for his story. There's an implicit bargain: I will pretend to be entertained by your story for the twentieth time if you pretend to like mine the nineteenth time you hear it
Still, it's probably not a good sign that Dad had only one: How I Met Your Mom. It went like this. My grandfather, John Nicholas, who at the time owned the first of what was now a chain of car dealerships, threw a promotion: "St. Nick in October." In exchange for his sponsoring an event for a Tulane University sorority, the girls agreed to work the show. Cute college girls sell cars. My mother, Jennifer, had recently pledged the sorority and was, as Dad told it, the cutest girl in the bunch. Grandad, who was quite the lech, spotted her immediately. Dad intervened to protect her. They started dating and soon married. What he did not say but was clear to anyone who could do the math, as had I, was that this particular bun was in the oven at the nuptials.
Dad picked this day to retell the story because he had come upon copies of the company newsletter recounting the promotion along with photographs taken that day. The photographer had certainly noticed Mom. While the newsletter featured a photograph of all the girls, many of the unused photographs featured Mom alone or posing with others. Dad was right: Mom was a knock-out. Her brown hair was cut short. She was wearing brand new tennis shoes, a tee shirt with the dealership's logo, and tan shorts. She had been on the gymnastics team until her pregnancy; she was well-muscled and fit.
It would not be fair to say I dislike Dad. It would be fair to say I did not respect him. Family lore was that Grandad had tried to mold his son into a salesperson, but it didn't take. Dad now worked in the finance department. He was apparently a talented bean-counter and made the company a lot of money, but in a sales-driven organization he would always be considered second tier. Unfortunately years of bullying by his father had reduced Dad to a cipher and Dad had made his bargain: he would take any amount of crap if he could crunch numbers, collect a pay check, come home, overeat, and fall asleep in front of the television. Ambition and strength had deserted him.
Mom, on the other hand, had always been the family personality. However, over the past few years she had slid in Dad's direction. Among the indicia of that change was a gradual weight gain. She was not eighty pounds overweight like Dad, but could lose twenty. Unlike Dad, she was still active in the community, but even that had slowed.
After Dad finished his tale and turned back to the television, I kept looking at the pictures; something about them bothered me. Mom was young and, what the hell, beautiful. She looked squarely at the photographer; she lacked neither intelligence nor confidence. Granddad was not the first older man who had hit on the woman in those pictures; she must have fended off plenty of unwelcome advances. The woman in those pictures did not need Dad's help to deal with a man's unwanted attention.
Mom had seemed annoyed most of the night. She was as bored by the story as I and, I figured out later, was bothered to see so many photographs of her younger fitter self. My border-line ogling of the pictures probably didn't help.
After Dad started snoring, Mom asked, "What do you think, buster?"
"Mom, is there any truth to Dad's bull-shit story?"
Mom looked surprised. "It makes him happy. And watch your language."
A little while later Mom woke Dad and they headed for bed.
The idea of my Mom as a young cutie stayed with me. I fetched a photograph album from the basement. It had pictures from the family's annual beach trip. While the intense musculature of her days as a gymnast was gone, Mom stayed in shape and her hair, make-up, and clothes were stylish. I put the picture album away and fired up the family computer to look at the more recent pictures. These showed a woman who had started to let herself go. Mom was gaining weight and not paying as much attention to her appearance. I shut down the computer and headed upstairs. I was getting in bed when I heard Mom coming up the stairs.
This requires a brief description of the house. We lived in a camel back. A camel back is a long narrow house in which the back but not the front is two stories tall. There are two bedrooms on the second floor, mine and the guest bedroom. The master bedroom is on the first floor at the front of the house. This provided me maximum privacy by isolating me from the rest of the house.
I stuck my head outside the door. Mom was entering the guest room, muttering to herself.
"You okay?"
"Besides being pissed off, hurt, and unable to sleep, peachy."
She must be mad at Dad, who else was around? Since I had long had a certain prurient interest in Dad's faults, I said, "Why don't you lay on your stomach and tell me all about it."
I started kneading her neck and shoulders.
"Mmmmm, feels good."
"You and Dad have a fight?"
"Yeah. After seeing those pictures I took a long look in the mirror. I look at myself every day, but I hadn't accepted how much I've let myself go. When I said that to your father, he said he likes his rolly-polly wife. Then he fell asleep and started his freight-train snoring. I was hurt, couldn't sleep, and all I could hear was him. So I came upstairs. I hope I'm not bothering you."
This was not, in fact, the first time she had retreated to the guest bedroom. Dad's snoring could be deafening.
"It's not a bother at all. Am I working the right spots? Dad's not exactly smooth. What do you see in that guy?"
"Right now I am not sure. Your hands are amazing. Can you do my lower back?"
I sat up for better leverage and started working her lumbar.
"What did you think of the pictures?"
I took my time, wanting her to believe that I was searching for the right words.
"Mom, well, you're, kinda hot."
"You shouldn't talk that way to your mother." And then, after a pause, "You still think I'm kinda hot, even with all this extra weight?"
"Yeah, I do actually. You worried about the weight?"
"I think I could lose twenty pounds."
"I'm not sure of that, I think you look great. But if you're interested, Coach told me he wants me to move to outside linebacker for my senior year. I am under direction to gain twenty-five pounds of muscle. I talked to a personal trainer who has several spots open; some of his clients are leaving for the summer. He and I are going to start tomorrow. He told me if I know anyone else who is interested I should bring them along. Why don't you join us?"
"Do you want to work out with your mother?"
"It would be perfect. We could make sure the other one wasn't cheating on the diet. On the other hand, if you like being called rolly-polly by Mr. Who-Am-I-to-Point-Fingers, I wouldn't want to deprive you of your fun."
A moment's thought and, "You win. I'll try it."
I finished her back and returned to my bedroom. At 5:15 A.M. my alarm clock blared. I shut it off, hit the shower, dressed, and headed downstairs. I was surprised to see Mom in a bathrobe. She had the coffee going.
"Morning. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"Don't worry. If I going to start getting myself in shape, I need to see what the well-muscled crowd eats for breakfast. No more sticky buns," she gestured down the hall to the master bedroom, "with hubby."
I fished some blueberries from the frig and whipped up protein shakes for two. Mom looked doubtful, but tasted it. "You know, you could come work at the dealership at a less ungodly hour."
"Mom, I like my job and I don't want to end up like him," gesturing to the same door down the hall. Mom raised no objection. Dad must have really pissed her off last night and I was enjoying taking potshots at him. I was gonna ride this one as long as I could.
* * * *
The first few weeks of summer were great. I was working with a crew that installed patios and decks. We started at 6:00 A.M. and worked to 1:00 P.M., calling it a day before the summer heat became oppressive. Unexpectedly, Mom and I got into a regular workout routine. Mom, in fact, loved the program. She and I spent two hours each afternoon at the gym. At night and on weekends we often returned for classes. Mom even took up jogging. While Mom and I were committed to eating healthy, Dad stuck to his old ways, gobbling down junk food and pre-packaged foods in front of the television.
Mom beat her weight and BMI goals each week and, in response, her confidence was growing. Her relationship with Dad remained frosty. It was as if, having gotten herself back in shape, she lost respect for him. Her communications with him became increasingly curt and Dad's immobile ways became an inside joke. While she would not let me insult him to his face, she no longer stood up for him when I mocked him behind his back.
* * * *
A few weeks into the summer Patricia Miley called. She and I had dated when I was a high school sophomore and she a senior. We had fooled around a lot but had never gone all the way. She went to college in Massachusetts where, based on her intermittent messages, she had discovered her wild side. She was coming home for two weeks. She asked if I was free next Saturday, my eighteenth birthday, and, if so, could I pick her up at the airport and spend the night celebrating in the city.
Over the past few weeks Mom had essentially relocated to the guest bedroom; Dad's snoring was incompatible with a 5:15 A.M. wake up. While giving Mom a back rub that evening I told her that Patricia was coming into town on my birthday and that I wanted to spend the night with her in the city.
To my surprise, she offered no objection. "I always liked her, that would be great. I'd like to see how college has changed her. Make sure I'm around when you ask Dad."
That night I asked Dad if I could spend my birthday night out. Dad started to say no, but Mom interrupted.
"Don't be silly. You only turn 18 once; it's a special night and he should get to spend it the way he wants. Look at the kid dear, he's built like a brick shithouse. I think he can protect himself."
Dad looked a little stunned by Mom's language. Mom went on.
"Of course you can Randy. In fact, why don't you take your father's Mercedes, that should knock her socks off."
