If I knew then what I know now, everything would be different. Or maybe not. Life can be frustrating that way. For example, I just spent four days in therapy up at the rehab center in the middle of nowhere where we finally sent my stepson - me, my wife, and a bunch of other parents whose lives have been wrecked by having a kid on drugs. Sometimes we saw the kids, but mostly it was just the rest of us.
Basically, I spent four days being told I was right, but there was little joy in knowing. Sometimes, they used my exact words. To my stepson: there is a price to pay for being you. The law of gravity applies equally to everyone. And to my wife: there is no moment of change. Change is gradual and painful. But the kicker was surreal, my late mantra, word for word: at this point, the only thing you can provide is the trash bag in which to put his shit before placing it outside the front door.
My wife used to keep a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do with my stepson. No physical intimidation whatsoever. Then came words I wasn’t allowed, a list to which the kid was free to add, just in case I ever actually offended him. Shit stain, no, sleaze bag, no, skanky weasel, no. I finally settled on calling him a lizard. Mister Lizard. You’re like a reptile, I told him, complete with the cold blood. This was fine for a while, until my wife sat me down and told me that I was no longer allowed to call him a reptile, as it was hurting his feelings. What feelings, I wanted to know. So you can only imagine my surprise when we all had to sit still for two hours for a fascinating lecture about the limbic system entitled Your Lizard Brain.
Now my wife has me up on a pedestal, but it won’t last. One thing is for sure, the kid is on ice through the winter - unless he runs away, of course, which he’s already done once (he got as far as the gas station). In the first two weeks he also pilfered a cellphone, pierced his own ear (he borrowed a heroin user’s stud to keep it open), shoplifted cough syrup to get high with his new runaway best friend, and stuffed the toilets in his dorm to flood the halls. And that’s what they know about. My first question when I sat down with the councilor was: does anybody ever get kicked out of here? The short answer was: not at these prices.
He is free to leave at any time, which is a rule of thumb – and his only means of transport. And now that he’s 18, he’s downright scary. Even he doesn’t expect anybody to stop and give him a ride. I gave him money for a haircut about 3 times over the last couple of months. He swears he still has every penny, tucked away in a little box somewhere. If that were true, he could have flown to Miami. Where do you keep this box, I asked him, up your nose?
My wife says there’s no room for cynicism, which at this point is all I got. It’s the closest thing to a bright side I can find, and you know me, I’m an optimist. And if you think cynicism precludes optimism, you’re wrong. This is not a point I can expect my wife to concede. Sometimes, being correct means being lonely, which is more pitiable than it sounds, and which appears to be the price for being me.
Good luck with your party. At least you don’t have to worry about the food. There’s hot pepper in the sauce and I put fresh breadcrumbs on the artichokes, with capers I got on Lipari. And the eggplant we did on the press, so the grill marks are perfect, which I know is how you like it.
