Chapter Fifteen: Cat's Cradle

We drove back to the city in silence. I rarely even glanced in his direction. However, Matt had a smug little smile every time I did. He obviously didn’t feel the least bit sorry.

No matter. I’d find a way to make him pay. I remembered a summer at camp, when we were maybe eleven years old. Matt had soaked me in my bed with a bucket of lake water. Later, I had pulled down his pants on stage during a talent show. Payback was part of the deal in our friendship.

“You are so dead!” I promised, punching him in the arm. He swerved the car into the next lane, and then back again, laughing the whole time as we cut someone off and they honked their horn.

“Digger, you’re hilarious,” he chuckled. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s the principle of the thing. I’m not even dating Calla.”

“No, but if you do, your mother will like her. If you don’t, it buys you some time before they ask about your love life again. Either way, they’re off our backs.”

“Screw you. You enjoyed every minute of it.”

“I did.” He laughed again. “You should have seen the look on your face!”

“Jerk,” I laughed, feeling about twelve again, when we would play pranks on family members and maids. Matt made everything fun.

“We are so immature,” I chuckled.

“Hey, it’s better than turning into our fathers. I don’t think they smiled once the whole time through lunch.”

“Yeah, well, it’s always been like that. I’m still getting you back.”

“What are you talking about? I’m just claiming payment for my shoes!”

“That’s what this was about? You acted like a dick with Calla and my parents because I puked on your shoes?”

“Well, yeah. They cost three hundred dollars.” He grinned at me. “I love those shoes.”

“Oh, you are so dead…”


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Matt and I acted like college frat boys the rest of the day. We stopped for a greasy dinner at a pizza place, sitting on stools at a narrow bar that went around the room. We left our sweaters in the car, discarding them and our ties in the back seat. We undid the buttons of our collars and ruffled up our hair.

In short, we tried to pretend we weren’t our parents’ children.

“Dude, what do you want to do next Friday?” I asked.

“Madison’s, man. The ladies.”

“We do that every Friday. Let’s do something new. Drive out to the coast and hang out at a new bar. Eat oysters. Find a new nightclub in town. I don’t know.”

“Digger, since when don’t you want to do the same thing? We’ve been going to Madison’s for, I dunno, eight years.”

“Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t want to end up like my father.”

“Your dad has never been to Madison’s. He’s so rich he might own it, but he’s never been there.”

“No, he doesn’t own it. I wouldn’t go there if he did.”

Matt looked at me funny. “Whatever. What are you talking about?”

“Our dads. They do the same thing every day. Surgery or a business deal, come home, ignore their families… I don’t want that routine. I want more than that.”

“I think you let the grease go to your head.” Matt chewed thoughtfully. “You like routine. You get pissed at me when I break you out of it.”

“So why are you busting my chops when I volunteer to shake things up? Come on, let’s do something different on Friday.”

He shrugged, smiling. “Okay. But you have to go wherever I want, and do whatever I say.”

“That’s a serious blank cheque.”

“You’re right, it is. You want to walk on the wild side? Fine. But you’re an amateur. Let the pro show you how it’s done.”

“You’re on.”

We shook on it, with our greasy, pizza-stained fingers.

I decided to walk home, enjoying the sunshine. I wondered how many nice days were left before the grey of autumn took over. I waved at Matt as he pulled away in his shiny sports car.

I slung my sweater over my shoulder, felt the breeze on my face, and pointed my feet for home. I wasn’t going to let my father, Calla, or my mother get me down. I was going to move past all that stuff and just loosen up, have a good time.

I smiled at strangers on the sidewalk, which was unusual for them. A few smiled back, most just stared at their feet and continued walking. I felt like a dork in a 50s television show, like Leave it to Beaver or some shit, but I didn’t care. Life was too short. I was going to enjoy it.

It wasn’t until I got home that this cheerful mood was ruined. I saw my father’s file, still spread out on the living room table.

“That jackass!” I said. I realized he hadn’t even brought up the Colorado deal during lunch. Hadn’t even mentioned the file. He had sent me to work on my Saturday off just to inconvenience me. Probably to get back at me for missing Friday. “Arrgh!”

I picked up the papers in a frenzy, stuffing them into the manila folder. They jutted out at haphazard angles, some of the edges folded and wrinkled. I threw it onto my kitchen counter and turned my back on it.

“Grumpy, self-centred old bastard!”

I turned on my television and the PS3 and commenced stealing cars, running over pedestrians, and shooting at people.

Especially old men with beards.

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