Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

But first: rest. He flopped into an easy chair and splayed all the limbs he had. He thought about the hostages. The troops in the market. His wife and daughter and the life they had together, pillaged by a lonely guy who screwed up every chance he got. The lights went out. A siren cried.

He buzzed for Vicki. At least Vicki would kiss him hello and put her arms around him and be happier for it. He buzzed for her again and got no answer.

The commissary: Impersonal and square. No weird angles to negotiate, no family photos to remove. Potted plants arranged around a director’s chair. Dean wearing a boonie hat with chin strap and black aigrette pinned to the side, not fancy but more like he’d plucked a duck.

Thurlow watched him and the gaffer spar in one corner and Norman preside over the hostages in another. Their hoods were still on, though Norman had procured an emollient for the Indian’s neck, which was aflame with rash.

Dean said, “Almost ready,” and dragged a bouquet of assault rifles across the floor. They were arranged in a tin stand like umbrellas. He prodded a floodlight with the tip of his boot. “Except it’s too dark in here,” he said. “Too Goddamn dark. Hey, Edison,” he said, and he frowned at the gaffer, who was hell-bent on chiaroscuro. “Watch it!” Dean said as the gaffer’s ladder tipped and fell into the director’s chair.

“Not the chair,” Dean said. “We don’t have another one here. Okay, let me think. I need an hour.”

Norman, who had been standing by the cheese platter — his idea of craft services for the crew — smacked his head. “An hour? What makes you think we have an hour? Just use a different chair.”

Thurlow stood. “And get rid of the rifles. Seriously. That’s not what we’re about.”

Dean looked bereft, as if the seat of passion once vacated by his wife’s death was now vacant all over again. He took Thurlow aside. He said, “You know it’s my job to read everything that comes in here. So you know I’ve seen what the North Koreans have been saying. And I’m all for it. So are a lot of people. So you just say the word. Whenever you’re ready.”

“I appreciate that,” Thurlow said, and was about to say more when a fist of disappointment and upset grabbed his voice and closed it off.

He made for the cheese platter. Nine kinds of curd, sliced thin. Those rounds with the red and yellow wax. Antipasto and toothpicks with tinsel finials half-mooned by a swath of wheaty biscuits.

Then he went back to his room and shut the door.

03:12:53:12: Some people know their destiny from the start. But not me. And even if I did, it’s not like there’s a manual for how to become what I’ve become. It’s not like there’s a school for brinksmanship or a ladder with rungs visible from the bottom up. There’s not even a school for the presidency of the nation, and yet the road to that job is still clearer than mine. And so, a little about me, because I want people to understand how I got here. Plus, I think my time is running out.

My parents were part of the middling salariat that votes right but acts left. Men who tout family values while dropping a load at Tart’s Bigbar. Women who abort their kids in secret. They were Reaganites who imposed an old-fashioned aesthetic on the scheduling of our lives, so that we seemed to meet only at dinners, which were opportunities to know each other that we never took. Our family congress was more like antecedent to purdah among friends, which is, not coincidentally, the experience and philosophy I have spent the Helix trying to retire.

As for my parents, for parents in general, there’s the education they mean to give you and then what they actually give you; in a good family the two are discrepant because at least they tried to give you the best.

Our kitchen was meat and potatoes and squash, carrots in stock, brisket with pineapple Os, short ribs and stew. By age ten, I could out-girth a keg of beer. Or so I was told by my dad, who found in this razzing a way to be intimate that did not humiliate him. For many dads, the way is violence, so I consider myself lucky.

We were not excitably poor or evangelical, but we were striking for how little capacity any of us had to dream of a life outside the one we had. My mother collected Tweety Bird figurines. My dad was a facilities services manager for the convention center. We lived in a shingled bungalow-type residence in Anaheim.

In 1985, my mother was driving by the Larry Fricker Company when it caught fire, sousing the air with methyl bromide. Not long after she developed a cough, followed by a cancer from which she died two months later. I was fifteen.

It took time, but my dad acquired a second wife, which he still has. Mostly, though, he sits in a La-Z-Boy, wears a mouth guard, and watches TV, which pleasure is slain twice a week by epileptic spasms that have revoked his driver’s license and aptitude for work. For the money I spend on his care — that’s him grousing down the hall, by the way — I could have financed a cure for epilepsy, I’m sure. He and my stepmom have been living with me for years. They don’t ask questions about my life, and I venture nothing. It seems to have worked so far.

I guess that’s not the story I meant to tell. But my dad’s calling, so I have to go. If I don’t have time to edit this thing, try to be kind when you air it later.

“Thurlow! Answer me, son!” Wayne was seventy-nine, and since he couldn’t be bothered to move, he’d just yell for people across the house. His wife had the same habit. It drove Thurlow nuts. They’d yell for each other and for him, and now Wayne was just deaf enough to go ballistic when he couldn’t hear you, as though you were to blame. “Son!”

He was actually using the intercom, which Thurlow had asked him not to do. But he did it just the same, because the more he called, the more apparent it would be that Thurlow had not come, that Thurlow was neglecting him, the son grown too big and famous to tend his old man.

He headed for his father’s quarters. He had installed a keypad just in case Wayne had a seizure and couldn’t let him in, but mostly he endured the charade of being asked who was there and how could Wayne know for sure.

He found his dad eating a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. Most of the hair on his head had fallen off years ago, which made inexplicable the flocks spilling from his ears and nose. Today he wore a turtleneck and sweater-vest twenty years old, and jeans that were cropped at the ankle. His sneakers were white and of no recognizable brand. Who knew why older men always seemed to buy no-name sneakers, but it was a phenomenon common to his kind. He offered Thurlow some sandwich.

“Dad, what do you want? I’m having a busy day.”

“Yes, yes, too busy for your old man, I heard that before.”

Thurlow sat opposite his father and folded his hands on the table. They had never been the best of friends.

“Son, I saw something on TV just now that has me wondering what the hell is happening to the world. Something about a kidnapping. Four people who work for the government, and poof! they’re snatched up by some fanatic who wants to change the world.”

Thurlow sighed. His dad rarely took an interest in anything besides sports. He was so out of touch, he seemed to think Thurlow had acquired wealth from a well-placed investment portfolio. It also helped that he was half-blind without his glasses and kept the TV on mute. Still, Thurlow made a note to disable his cable box.

Wayne reached into his mouth to free a bit of peanut that had wedged under his denture plate.

Thurlow began to lose patience. “Dad, what do you want?”

Only Tyrone got in the way — Tyrone, who was his father’s bird. “Silly bird,” Wayne said, and he disappeared down the hall. It was times like these that Thurlow rued having made his dad’s quarter of the house so big.