Today is the second day of the teacher’s strike. To try to appease the back to school gods, I have posted another excerpt from my coming-of-age memoir. Everyone has a story about facing the generation gap with their parents: this one is mine. I hope you like it.

Slacks

Coming down the third floor stairs, I hear Mom call to me from inside her bedroom. I have been looking for ways to make up with her, so I quickly poke my head into the room and find her sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Listen,” she says to me with no preamble. “I got no money for your school clothes this year.”

I look at her confused. Lack of money is always a complaint, but this comment seems uncomfortably targeted towards me.

“I’m buying for all the others,” Mom says. “You get your dad to take care of you.”

“Dad?” I ask, panic in my voice. I have been avoiding Dad since my failed attempt to steal the car radio from his van, but that’s not what alarms me.

To read the rest of the story, click here.

I wanted to post another excerpt from the work I’ve been doing in my memoir.

I show my wife all the stories I come up with and rely on her sage comments and suggestions. After reading this one, she said, “You were such an pain in the ass.”

But she said it with love.

I call this one, “I Am Not Your Broom” (with apologies to They Might Be Giants).

I Am Not Your Broom

“I’m sick of this,” Mom says. “Sick of it.”

I am lying on the love seat and hear Mom come grousing into the living room. Cocking my head, I see she is upset but have no idea why. I ignore her and continue to watch TV, a dull sitcom from the 60s.

My little brothers retreat from the living room to the front porch. Still complaining, Mom continues into the kitchen. I can hear the kettle being filled with water for coffee as Terri heads up the stairs toward her room, calling for Tina to follow.

When Mom’s mood plummets, everyone knows to leave her alone. She makes coffee, calls one of her sisters, or just sits at the kitchen table, staring across the room. This has been going on for as long as I can remember. When I was little, Mom would regularly throw everyone out of the house. I remember staggering into the afternoon sunlight, after being in the cool of the living room, curled up with a book. Mom would say, “Run around, play! Have fun like a normal kid, for Christ’s sake.”

Although I can go hang out with my new friends at their apartment on Front Street, I decide to hold my ground here in the living room instead. I haven’t had an opportunity to swipe any cigarettes, and I hate to arrive at the girls’ apartment empty handed. I focus on the TV, even though I’m not that interested in the program.

Mom stands in the entrance to the living room.

“Out,” she commands.

Reaching down, she snaps the TV off, and then goes back into the kitchen. Scowling at the empty doorway, I listen to the TV cool. This is the point were I would typically sulk up to my room or wander outside. Why does she get to throw us out whenever her day goes bad? If you ask her this question, her response is always the same: “Because I’m the Mom.”

Chest hammering, I decide I don’t have to take it anymore. Reaching forward, I snap the TV on and settle back into the love seat. I try to look relaxed, but my body is on high alert. Mom comes to the door and looks at me incredulously, her hands on her hips.

I don’t look into her eyes or smile. My best bet is to pretend she didn’t realize I was watching, that her turning the TV off was some sort of accident.

“I want this off,” Mom says.

She snaps it off.

“I’m watching this, Mom.”

Leaning forward, I turn the TV back on. The picture wobbles into focus as I fall back onto the couch. Mom is looking at me as if I were some stranger sitting in her living room.

“It’ll be over in a bit,” I say. “You want me to turn it down?” I throw these last few lines out as a concession, but Mom clearly doesn’t want to negotiate. She has her hands on her hips and her one eyebrow is riding high on her forehead, the internationally recognized facial expression for, “Child, Have You Lost Your Mind?”

Realizing I am in deep trouble but not yet ready to give up the charade of being in control, I use my peripheral vision to scan the room for things my mother might hurl at me. When Mom loses her temper, it’s nothing like Dad; she is mostly manageable. Mom has thrown handfuls of cooked rice at me, and if she ever gives you the ultimatum, “Eat It Or Wear It,” you know you had better start eating. I don’t see anything she might use as a weapon at first, but then I notice a broom propped in the corner. I can easily imagine my mom swatting me with that broom. Not wanting to give her any ideas, I casually glance back toward her but then I see I am already too late: Mom has spotted the broom.

Watching her move quickly toward the corner, I throw off all pretense of being in control and spring from the couch. Not sure what I am going to do, I just don’t want to suffer the humiliation of being swatted with the broom.

Mom and I reach for the broom handle at the same time. Both of us end up clutching it with two hands, the handle jutting out horizontally between us. My palms are sweaty and my heart jack-hammers in my chest. I start formulating a plan where I let go unexpectedly and then run away as fast as I can. Looking down, I notice my mom’s pursed lips. For the first time in my life I realize that I’m a little taller than her. Mom winces and groans, trying to twist the broom from my grasp. Suddenly I become certain she can’t do it. I believe I am stronger than her. To test my theory, I put a little pressure on just one end of the broom handle, and watch it fall easily, like the loser in a lopsided arm wrestling match. When I see this, I am surprised. I feel myself start to grin, even as Mom grimly sets her face to the task at hand.

Not quite sure what to do with my advantage, I stand there and watch my mother struggle. And then suddenly, in the most smarmy adult voice I can muster, I whisper,

“It’s never okay to hit, Mom.”

This voice makes my mom go crazy.

She gets a last burst of energy and I almost lose control of the broom in my sweaty hands. Then as she peters out, I whisper,

“Come on now, Mom. This is not okay.”

Mom groans in disgust and lets go of the broom. She is breathing hard, a lock of her long dark hair has fallen into her face. I prop the broom back in its corner and whisper one final time in my adult voice,

“Let’s try to act like adults. Okay?”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen. Storming out of the living room, Mom grabs the kettle off the burner. I settle onto the love seat to watch what’s left of Gilligan’s Island. From the kitchen I hear my mom say,

“No dinner for you, boy. You hear me? Nothin’. That’s it for you.”

Snuggling deep into the couch, I realize I am so full of myself, I am not even a little bit hungry.

A FEW DAYS GO BY AND I have almost forgotten about the day Mom threatened to leave. Dad comes home unexpectedly one afternoon and asks me if I want to go for a ride.

“Where?” I ask.

“What do you care,” he says. “Come on. Go for a ride with your dad.”

I feel a little anxious about committing to something as visible as a trip with Dad, but I decide I don’t have much to lose. This summer I am spending most of my time at an apartment down on Front Street, smoking cigarettes and attempting to impress two young ladies who are somewhat older than me. My sister Terri, my primary ally in the house, is only now just beginning to shun my company for the company of our next door neighbor. Although Terri and I are not disdainful of one another yet, our relationship has devolved into constant pestering: I bum cigarettes from her while she chides me to help her clean. I hold a vague hope that I can hide my travel with Dad from the rest of the family, but especially from Terri.

Jumping into his Gremlin, I slink down into the passenger seat, furtively looking out the windows. How will Dad feel if I ask him to drop me off up the block when we get home?

As it turns out, none of that matters. This is the first of many car trips for me and Dad that summer. At the start of each trip, I am always a little hesitant to get in the car, but once we pull away from the curb, everything changes: I am on the road with Dad.

I get to operate the radio and the 8-track tape player. He teaches me how to read a road map. If we stop for gas, I watch as he jots down mileage and time in a little spiral notebook he keeps in the glove box. We always go to his brother or one of his sister’s houses, just like the whole family did when we were kids; only now, it’s just me and Dad.

I never know exactly where we’re going, until we’re already on the road. When I ask Dad for our destination, I like to hum the Mission Impossible theme song under my breath. I pretend I am Jim Phelps receiving another impossible mission. We listen to Dad’s 8-tracks: Jim Croce, Sly & the Family Stone, and Mowtown’s Greatest Hits. Left untouched, 8-tracks play endlessly, and I quickly memorize the order of all the songs. When Dad gets tired of the tapes, he asks me to switch to radio.

On one of our first trips that summer, I switch to radio at Dad’s request, and then start humming along to an old Simon and Garfunkel tune from the 60s. My window is open. I am watching the scenery go past with the wind on my face, when suddenly Dad turns down the radio. I cut my eyes at him, annoyed. As I turn the radio back up, Dad slaps my hand away and clicks it off.

“No man is a rock, son.” Dad says this and points his index finger to the roof. “No man is an island.”

When Dad tries to sound profound, it makes me feel self-conscious. To make myself feel better, I consider telling him he has the lyrics wrong. At the last second, I decide to just smile and nod my head.

“Cool,” I say.

Dad wants to talk about my behavior, but I don’t have any explanations for him. I hum songs about feeling lonely and isolated, as if they were theme songs written expressly for me. Any irony in the lyrics about what happens to people who feel this lonely and disconnected sails right over my head. If he is going to reach me, this is what my father must overcome.

“You think,” Dad says, “you’re not as good as Tom and Tony, but that’s not true. You’re just different. You can do things those two can’t.”

Looking out the window, I pretend what Dad is saying doesn’t even matter to me, but I am listening carefully to every word he says. The wind rushing in the window makes a loud noise. I wait quietly for a few minutes. When I finally speak, my voice sounds creaky and dry.

“Like what things?” I ask.

I have waited so long to speak, my father is caught off guard. As he stumbles for words, I click the radio back on, keeping the volume low.

“I dunno,” Dad says. “Drawing? Reading?”

Bad answer. My interest in these things is well-known, but both have proved to be poor substitutes for athletic prowess. I look at Dad with such disdain he immediately begins searching for something else to say. After a few minutes of hedging, Dad zeroes in on one thing with confidence.

“You can make small talk,” Dad says.

I look at him warily. I am not even sure what small talk is, but at least it is unexpected. I sit quietly while Dad recounts an incident that happened weeks ago when his sister called, but his hands were full, and he couldn’t take the phone. I chatted with her about the weather and school for a few minutes. Small talk.

“That don’t sound too important, if you know what I mean.” I tune the radio to a pop station I like.

“Your brothers can’t do it! If they took that phone, they’d be like two lumps on a log.”

I patronize Dad with a smile. I like hearing him call Tom and Tony lumps on a log, but this small talk thing sounds desperate.

“Come on, Dad.”

Putting my hand out the window, I let it coast in the rushing wind. Dad protests about the inherent value of small talk for a bit, but then he sighs. He gives up and the car goes quiet. On the radio an advertisement plays for a charitable foundation called, Save the Children. It must be a well-funded campaign, because the radio stations play this ad constantly.

I am humming along with the radio when suddenly my father’s hand comes crashing down on my thigh. I look over and he has a wide grin.

“You,” he says, “are special.”

His hand clutches my stinging thigh and he squeezes hard enough to make me wince. “And you’re gonna do something none of them others can do. I know it.”

I turn my head so he can’t see me grin. When I have my face under control, I look back again.

“Like what?” I ask.

I know this question puts him on the spot. I know I probably shouldn’t even ask, but I can’t resist. Waiting patiently, I look to him for an answer.

He thinks for a minute, then he says, “Save the children.”

I laugh, astonished.

“That’s a radio commercial,” I say. I am looking at him incredulously, but still chuckling. “You just told me what was on the radio.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dad says. “It’s important. And you’re gonna do it.” He grins at me. There is nothing in his manner that suggests he is unsure of any of what he is telling me, despite how stupid it all sounds.

I am pretty sure he is patronizing me but not completely certain. I don’t know how I feel about any of this. Finally, I decide I am annoyed. I tell Dad to cut it out. To just quit.

“It’s a commercial,” I say. “Stop.”

“You don’t want to save the children,” Dad says. “Alright. Don’t.” He keeps his eyes on the road. I hear the rhythmic thumping of the tires on the highway.

“Sit on your ass,” he mumbles quietly to himself.

When I hear this, I feel exasperated. His disappointment consumes me. I find myself wanting to explain to him why I cannot save any children. Then I realize how ridiculous it is to justify this nonsense with an explanation, and I give up. The car goes quiet. I feel a mixture of relief and frustration. I tell myself I can at least feel grateful we have put this uncomfortable conversation behind us. There is the tiniest hint of disappointment, lingering at the back of my mind. No sooner do I think I have won, than Dad’s big hand comes crashing down on my thigh again.

“You’re special, son,” he says. “I know it.”

He says this with such enthusiasm and sincerity it takes my breath away. I have to use both hands to push his meaty palm off my thigh, but even two-handed, I never try too hard. I can’t. I have to keep turning my head, so he can’t see me grinning.

For the rest of that summer, save the children becomes a sort of code word for Dad and me. I never say it once, but I long to hear it from him. When Dad says it, I always do one of two things: I either turn my head away and grin, or I search Dad’s face to see if he is pulling my leg. Although I look often and hard, I never find any hint of insincerity there.