Long Way Out, page 11
Ultimately, Chuck E. Cheese cleverly serves up its brand of perpetual mayhem to distract from its horrible food. Multi-generations of party attendees weave like ants around 20-foot-long, theme-decorated tables. Guests collide and switch directions like Rumbas in a room populated only by Rumbas. Pimply, purple-polo-shirted staff members weave through the swarm, balancing pitchers of radioactive punch (zero percent fruit juice, laboratory flavored, and dyed the color of Mars). Paper plates featuring the image of the cartoon pizza-chef Pasqually — definitely a blood relative of the Mario Brothers — accommodate peperoni, peperoni, and more peperoni, singed and curled at the edges, resting on a substance with the color of cheese and the flavor of dried spackle, melted upon a crust that tastes like discarded file folders. Dads wearing backwards baseball caps congregate on the periphery, tucking their hands into hoody pouches over bellies that somehow seem to expand another belt loop every year. Moms who, some years ago, gave up trying to lose the baby weight, waddle around in saggy sweatpants and wrinkled tops they yanked off a hanger at Ross For Less, herding packs of sugar-crazed child hyenas, pouring punch, and kissing booboos.
With the birthday table set and the clock ticking down on pizza-and-cake time, Tess dispatched Russell to wrangle Rory and his posse. Russell was pleasantly amused not to find his younger son’s contingent engaged in a digitally simulated auto race or a battle in outer space, but huddled around the old-school, mechanical “Pro Baseball” game. Russell stood observing his second-born son taking charge of what appeared to be a lively, enthusiastic tournament, having divided his friends into teams, with each individual player taking his turn “at the plate.” Members of the “home team” were howling in collective disappointment over making their third out, leaving the bases loaded in the bottom of the seventh inning, when Rory noticed his father looking on. “Hey, Pops!” the boy called out.
“Pizza’s on the table,” Russell responded. “Where’s your brother?”
“Over there.” Rory pointed in the direction of a two-player simulated motorcycle race. Russell was pleased to see Hank and Carter laughing and hooting while leaning their bikes into the turns on the video screen. It had been painful to observe the melancholic effect being forcibly separated from this best friend had on Hank. How, Russell wondered, could he comfort his sensitive firstborn son without tangling an already squirmy pit of vipers into even tighter knots? Hank’s unsolicited mention that Carter harbored suspicions about his dad’s sexuality added fresh flypaper to an already sticky situation. It was heartwarming to see the two boyhood pals renewing their comradeship. Russell sighed, wishing the whole scenario could be that simple. But this circumstance couldn’t be distilled down to the re-burgeoning of an erstwhile pre-teen friendship... because, if Carter was here, Russell had to conclude that the boy’s Harpy mother and/or his dishonest, egocentric-but-adorable dad must be close by as well.
Russell redirected his attention to the birthday boy. “Hey, Roar,” he called out, “when this game is over, you guys head over to the party area.”
Rory sprung to attention, clicked the heels of his Vans sneakers, and gave his father a proper military salute. “Roger, Dodger,” he replied. “Copy that.”
“And, don’t dawdle,” Russell said. “Your mother is waiting. I’m gonna drop by the restroom.”
No one had provided Russell with a translation book to decipher the symbolic language of anonymous man-to-man hookups. Like a foreigner who learns English from watching American sitcoms, he gradually picked up on the secret codes men like him use to make their interest and intentions known to each other. While such covert signals and cryptic phrases can happen almost anywhere, for Russell, the automatic association of certain olfactory stimuli and the cognizance of ever-present potential made nearly every entrance into a men’s public bathroom a somewhat titillating experience. This automatic physical response sometimes came at inconvenient times, thus making emptying his bladder that much more challenging. Russell bellied up, unzipped, pulled out his semi-erect penis, and waited. Thirty seconds had passed, with only a couple of tiny squirts emitting from his constricted urethra.
He was about to give up and shake it off when someone approached the adjacent urinal. “Hey, Buddy,” the man said. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you today.” Russell remained focused on the organ in his hand. There was no need to look up to confirm the person’s identity. “I missed you,” he said. “How ya been?” The half hard-on Russell had been trying to talk down immediately sprung full-on erect. “My, my, my!” Bryan whispered, leering down at Russell’s stiffy. “Looks like somebody missed me, too.”
Stowing this ramrod back into a spot only designed to accommodate its more flexible, flaccid state proved to be a trick worthy of David Copperfield. “Fuck you, Bryan!” Russell hissed, as he struggled to yank up his zipper. “You’re a fucking asshole. You know that?”
“Wait a minute! Coach, please!” beseeched Bryan, swiveling around, exposing his genitals. “Let me at least explain.” Russell stood silent, transfixed on the button head of a circumcised penis peeking out from between a pair of — no surprise — extra-large testicles. Suddenly, in Russell’s mind’s eye, Bryan’s genital region bore a haunting resemblance to a pair of comical “Groucho” glasses, the kind one might pick up in a joke shop. Russell couldn’t help himself. He burst into peels of involuntary laughter. “Hey, Dude!” protested a now-embarrassed Bryan. “I’m a grower not a show-er!”
“And I fantasized... for months? About that?” Russell exclaimed, between guffaws, still gazing down in the direction of the very package he had, so often, daydreamed about unwrapping. “Wow!”
Russell was still chuckling to himself as he rejoined the birthday celebration. “What’s so funny?” Tess asked. “Where have you been?”
“Men’s room,” Russell replied, before breaking into yet another spate of titters.
“Carter’s here,” said Tess. Her smile was warm and maternal. “Isn’t that fantastic? Look how happy Hank is!” Hank and Carter had isolated themselves in their own bubble at the furthest end of a table.
“Yep,” Russell agreed. “That is fantastic!” Russell took his wife’s hand in his and the couple stood side-by-side, observing the festivities.
“Now, it’s time to see whose birthday it is today,” shouted a teenage mistress of ceremonies, clad in her regulation purple polo shirt, black cap and pants. The young lady’s shrill, nasal voice would have been irritating enough at normal conversational volume. Cranked up to maximum intensity, her every utterance threatened to shatter glass. “Who is today’s Chuck E. Cheese birthday star?” she screeched. “Step on up!” Rory stuffed the remaining half slice of pizza into his mouth, leapt to his feet, and bounded to the front of the room. “What’s our birthday boy’s name?” The boy of the hour accelerated his chewing, then stole a gulp of punch from a pitcher before articulating his answer. “How about giving Rory a big round of applause!” urged the MOC. Responding to clapping and cheers, the uninhibited honoree offered a series of immodest bows at the waist and exaggerated blown kisses. Richard Simmons would have seemed reticent and withdrawn next to Russell and Tess’s second-born son.
“Now,” bellowed the MOC, “who wants to meet the star of the show?” This was a line that invariably got five- and six-year-old party attendees to issue a deafening, unison cheer. Nine- and 10-year-old boys, however, tend to be less responsive to obvious manipulation. “Come on, you guys!” the MOC shouted. “Chuck E. needs to know that you love him!” To gin up enthusiasm, she attempted to initiate a chant... “Chuck. E. Cheese. Chuck. E. Cheese.” With only the younger siblings and some of the elderly guests chiming in, Rory embraced the camp-ness of the proceedings by pumping his fist with mock-seriousness and leading the refrain. Within a few seconds, the entire building was quaking with this tri-syllable mantra. Feeling sufficient love from the assemblage to make an entrance, the eponymous rodent, clad in “his” signature purple top with a large, yellow “C” emblazoned on its chest, weaved through the crowd, trading high and low fives with kids and adults alike. “Can you all say happy birthday together?” yelled the MOC. “Okay! Happy Birthday on a count of three! One! Two! Three!”
By this point, Russell had released his wife’s hand and was wadding up shredded napkin fragments, hastily inserting balls of paper into his noise-assaulted ear canals. A distorted polka-derived instrumental piece blasted from shredded boombox speakers, as the MOC and “Chuck E.” launched into some loosely synchronized, robotic Hokie-Pokey dance steps. “Repeat after me,” screamed the MOC. “I like to party!”
Fist-bumping the air like an Ivy League cheerleader, Rory gleefully led the crowd: “I LIKE TO PARTY!”
The MOC: “At Chuck E. Cheese!”
Rory and his acolytes: “AT CHUCK E. CHEESE!”
MOC: “When I say happy, you say happy! When I say birthday, you say birthday!” Under Rory’s exuberant rally leadership, the guests answered calls with responses, until dancing and chanting came to a halt with the MOC’s announcement: “It’s time for cake! Let’s light those candles.” Dutiful mother Tess scooted over to unveil the ovular cake, frosted to replicate a super-sized baseball. “Ooo’s!” and “Wows!” filled the room as she flicked a Bic lighter across the wicks of 10 bat-shaped candles. “Count down from ten,” the MOC instructed, “and we’ll all sing together!” As the room resounded with a rowdy, dissonant “Happy birthday to yoooooou,” the honoree grabbed Chuck E.’s gloved hand and spun “him” around the floor in a comical, impromptu waltz, much to the amusement of everyone present — with the single exception of Rory’s reluctant dance partner.
Before the weary company mascot would be excused to rest up for the next party of the day, the oversized mouse was obliged to pose in a group picture with Rory and his guests. Tess was helping the MOC in her attempt to shepherd sugar-crazed kids into a pose capturable by still camera when Russell observed the situation unfolding at the far end of the table. Bryan was crouched down on his haunches next to his son. By their expressions, both Hank and Carter appeared displeased. Russell observed, as Bryan stood and took Carter by his arm. Carter shook his arm free, refusing to budge. Hank, who now seemed to be on the verge of tears, said something in protest, which Bryan disregarded, while grabbing his son’s arm more forcibly. “Ow!” Carter complained. “Dad, you’re hurting me!”
By this point, Russell could no longer remain uninvolved. “Hey!” he barked, striding in the direction of the escalating conflict. “What’s going on?”
“Stay out of this, Coach,” Bryan insisted. “This is a family matter.”
“Damn right it’s a family matter,” snapped Russell. “It matters to my family, too.”
Releasing his son’s arm, Bryan turned to face Russell. “Can we talk? Privately?”
“It’s my kid’s birthday party, Bryan,” Russell replied. “This is not the time... for, you know... it’s just not...”
“Please.” Bryan’s appeal was barely audible against the canned instrumental overture for the long-awaited main-stage show.
Lights illuminated the front-porch set as an unlikely cast of animatronic characters creaked to life: a chicken with shifty, bugged-out green eyes, a purple hound dog with a banjo on his knee, alongside a robotic Chuck E., whose long snout and two snaggled buck teeth appeared more rat-like than mouse-ish. Completing the ensemble was the aforementioned, mustachioed Pasqually, evidently taking a break from throwing inedible pizza dough to show off his vocal acumen. An overly excited toddler streaked up to pinch robot Chuckie’s black-ball nose. Another high-spirited child took this as permission to pry open the chicken’s beak. Meanwhile, in spite of the intrusion of these two willful children, Chuck E. Cheese’s low-budget twist on Disney’s Country Bear Jamboree played on.
Meanwhile, Russell and Bryan had retired to a slightly quieter corner to facilitate communication. “What are they doing now?” Carter asked Hank, who had the better view of their fathers’ private confab.
“Just talking, I guess,” Hank reported, lifting a plastic forkful of soggy chocolate cake to his mouth. “Oh, shit!” he suddenly blurted. “My dad didn’t do anything!”
“What do you mean?” Carter swiveled in his seat just in time to see his father withdrawing his hand from Russell’s clavicle.
“He just stood there,” Hank remarked.
“So?” Carter seemed confused.
“Look... you said you thought your dad was gay, right?” Hank recalled. “Or, he might be, or whatever.”
“Well, yeah,” Carter said. “But, I didn’t mean it. Not really.”
“Your dad just put his hand on my dad’s chest, like right here.” Hank pointed to the place just above his heart. “And, my dad... well, he didn’t do anything. I mean, it looked... sorta... gay, I guess.”
“Maybe your dad’s gay,” Carter suggested.
“You mean, like gay gay? Or, are you saying he’s lame? Because they’re not the same thing. You know that, right?”
“Whatever, Dude,” Carter said, swiveling back to the remainder of his birthday cake. “My mom’s a bitch,” he stated, as simple a matter of fact.
“Don’t look now,” Hank said, glancing over his friend’s shoulder, “our fag dads are comin’ back.”
Carter was mid-chuckle when Bryan delivered the order. “Come on, Buddy, we gotta take off. We’re late. Your mother’s not gonna be happy.” Carter looked across the table at Hank. No words were necessary. His dad had just confirmed his appraisal of his mother.
The boys rose to execute their elaborate Pirates handshake. “Good seein’ you guys,” said Bryan through an unusually unconvincing smile. Russell and Hank didn’t respond verbally. And, as Chuck E.’s mechanized quartet entertained the entourage, one father and son watched another father and son trundle off toward the exit.
FOURTEEN
“What’s going on, Babe?” Tess closed her book, removed her readers and set them on the bed-side table. Her tone indicated that she wanted a direct, unambiguous answer. Russell lay on his side of the king-sized bed, doing his best impression of a dead man. “Russ,” she persisted, “I know you’re awake.”
“I’m tired,” he mumbled into his pillow.
“You were acting so weird today,” Tess remarked.
“Weird?” he scoffed.
“At Rory’s party. The way you were laughing when you came back from the restroom. And then, you got all sentimental and lovey-dovey.”
“Our baby boy just turned ten,” he grumbled. “Kind of a big deal.”
Fourteen years of marriage had taught Tess to pick her battles. She was willing to write off her husband’s odd giggling and atypically affectionate hand holding earlier that afternoon. “Yeah, okay,” she capitulated, segueing to the topic she really wanted to address. “But, later... what was happening between you and Bryan?”
“Jesus, Tess!” Russell exclaimed. “Do we really need to get into this now?” He was still mulling over a conversation that had shaken him to the core, clueless as to how to feel about what was said during those intense three minutes. But, above all else, Russell was wondering if guys like him, guys who live in glass houses, might be better off keeping stones in their pockets, even though toting a load of rocks makes each step of the trek incrementally more emotionally laborious. And, now, it felt like his exceptionally intuitive — some husbands might say “nagging” — wife was poking at a fresh and very tender contusion.
“I think I deserve to know,” Tess persisted.
“You deserve to know?” Russell flopped over to face her. “What do you mean, you deserve to know? I don’t pry into your conversations with your friends. Do I?”
“This is different,” Tess volleyed, “and you know it.”
He did know it. Still, he wasn’t about to abandon his fortified position simply for the purpose of indulging his wife’s prying curiosity. “I told Bryan to fuck off,” he said. “Okay? Are you happy now?”
“Wow!” she said. “Way to go! What else?”
“Jesus!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean, what else?”
“You were talking for what? Four minutes? And that’s all you said? Fuck off?”
That Tess had been observing this verbal skirmish from across that frenzied party room with such assiduous attention felt like a violation. It was as though she’d found his private journal in the back of a sock drawer, hadn’t read it yet, but was shoving it in his face, demanding, “What the hell is this?” Russell feared that, if he failed to execute his next step with extreme caution, he might have to chop off his own foot to make it out alive. His survival instinct directed him to try a diversionary tactic, in this case, sarcasm. “So, you were timing us with a stopwatch?” For approximately 10 seconds — no one, after all, had a timer on this particular conversation — Tess appeared to be stymied. Her eyes revealed that she was wounded, which left Russell feeling feckless. While he was tempted to tell her how sorry he was — about everything — he saw a short-term win in his wife’s momentary, sorrowful silence. So, he left his apology unspoken.
“Okay,” Tess snapped. “You obviously don’t want to talk about it.” She rolled over with her back to her husband, switched off the lamp, and buried her head in her pillow. “Ya know, sometimes,” she murmured, “I don’t even feel like I know you anymore.” When passive aggression is the weapon of choice, the wife often fires the final shot. But Tess wasn’t simply shooting from the hip. Something untoward was simmering beneath the surface of her husband’s defensiveness. She was relatively certain that he wasn’t having an affair. But the earth was beginning to shift beneath the foundation of a partnership she had always considered rock-solid.
