فصل 2-بخش دوم

Day 122

5:15 p.m. I was quietly eating my lettuce head and ketchup at the dinner table with Norvel, Marjorie, Michael, and Meredith, when the mint jelly came around with the lamb and I immediately passed it on. Seeing this, Norvel abruptly stood up and addressed me, “Matthew, you are a young and imma-tur American, and you will appreciate that duuu-ring your stay in Australia, with us in this household, you will learn that mint jelly goes with lamb.” “I’ve had mint jelly,” I said. “I don’t really like it. And besides, I’m not eating meat anyway.”

A couple of weeks later, at the end of another extended family Saturday barbecue (no burgers this time), Marjorie called to me in the kitchen where I was washing up the dishes. “Matthew! Come here,” she shouted. “Matthew! Come here.” As I entered the living room, I saw the whole family—aunts, uncles, and cousins, all eighteen of them—standing in a line up against the wall. At the very end of the line was Meredith, bashfully looking down, a couple of fingers tickling her brow. Everyone was awaiting my arrival. “What’s up?” I asked. Michael was on the opposite side of the room standing in a corner, nervously twiddling those fifty keys. Then Marjorie, who’d been sipping her wine all day, giddily said to me and everyone in the room, “Matthew, Meredith’s about to leave, why don’t you give her a kiss goodbye…on the lippies!” Everyone ooh’d and ahh’d and giggled with mischief. Meredith kept her head down, five fingers now at her cheek. Michael held his clenched fists at his side and began to pace.

“I already said goodbye to Meredith, Marjorie. I gave her a hug, too,” I said.

Not to be denied, Marjorie swooned, “No, no, Matthew, go on now, give her a kiss…on the lippies.”

“What?” I said, then glanced to the end of the line at Meredith, who raised her chin just high enough to catch my eye, then quickly lowered it again.

I tried to understand what was happening. Had Meredith, over the past few months, mistaken my warmhearted humor and goodwill as romantic advances, and in doing so, formed a crush on me? Or had Marjorie just had a few too many and decided to try to pull off a tasteless prank to humiliate me, Meredith, and especially Michael? I didn’t know, but either or both ways, handling it this way was wrong.

“My big brother” Michael was now pacing with more disgraced spite, twirling those fifty keys even faster.

Everyone else started goading me, “Yeah, do it, Matthew! Do it!”

How am I going to alleviate this situation? I thought, then took a deep breath and walked over to Meredith and calmly said to her, “Meredith, did I already give you a hug goodbye?” Meredith, too embarrassed to look up, said nothing.

I then put two fatherly hands on her shoulders and waited until she finally raised her eyes to me.

The room had started to sober up.

“I already gave you a hug goodbye, didn’t I, Meredith?”

She slowly started nodding yes.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said under her breath.

Then I turned to Marjorie and sternly spoke my mind. “Marjorie, don’t ever do that to me again. It is not fair. It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to Meredith, it’s not fair to your son Michael.” Then I walked out of the room and back to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

Damn cultural differences.

Day 148

I was down to 140 pounds, and my nose was constantly running.

For the last month, every night after dinner, I’d go back to my restroom, run a hot bath, listen to one of my three cassettes on my Walkman, write another fifteen-page letter to myself, and jack off to Lord Byron.

Every night.

I was now on my sixth job. I’d been a bank teller, a boat mechanic, a photo processor, a barrister’s assistant, a construction worker, and an assistant golf pro.

I was sitting at the dinner table again, head down, eating my head of lettuce with ketchup, biding time until 5:45 when I could head back to the bathroom for my evening ritual, when, out of nowhere Norvel said, “Matthew, Marjorie and I have decided that for the duur-ation of your stay here in Australia with us, you’ll refer to us as Mum and Pop.” Now, this one caught me off guard. I was speechless for a few moments as I considered how to respond.

“Thank you, Norvel,” I said. “Thank you for…thinking of me in that way, but…I have a mom and a dad…and they’re still alive.”*3

Norvel quickly snapped back, “As I said, Marjorie and I have decided that for the duur-ation of your stay in Australia with us, in this household, you will refer to us as Mum and Pop.” I said nothing and instead returned to finish the last of my ketchup-covered lettuce. When I was done, I politely cleared everyone’s plate, took them to the kitchen, and washed them, then stopped at the dinner table to clearly address everyone before I headed back to the privacy of my evening protocol. “Good night, Nor-vel; good night, Mar-jor-ie; good night, Michael; good night, Meredith.” For the first time in 148 days, my head, heart, and spirit immediately agreed on something: No. There is no way I’m calling anybody other than my own mom and dad “Mum and Pop.” That is not negotiable. This is not a cultural difference, and if it is, then I’m not sorry, I’m just different.

Alone in this foreign country, on my own in this uncomfortable world, I took responsibility for who I was and what I believed in. I made a judgment, and I chose. I did not need reassurance, and the clarity gave me identity. I was not going to lose my anchor, both on principle and in order to survive.

The next morning, my alarm clock was the sound of a shrieking woman from the other end of the house. It was 6:00 a.m.

“He! Won’t! Call! Me! Mummmmm!!!! He! Won’t! Call! Me! Mummmm!!!!”

I jumped out of bed and ran to find Marjorie, bawling her eyes out, puddles of tears on the table, shrieking to the heavens.

I put my arm around her. “C’mon, Marjorie, it’s not personal. How would you feel if your son, Michael, called someone else Mum and Pop?”

We had a good cry together, for different reasons.

That’s when I decided that maybe it was time for me to find another family to live with for the duur-ation of my stay.

That afternoon there was a tornado. There wasn’t a car on the street. It was raining sideways, 45 mph winds, the sky was deep pink and yellow. I went on my daily run anyway, all the way to the house of the president of the local Rotary Club, Harris Stewart.

He answered the door. “Mate, what are you bloody hell doing? What’s goin on?”

“I’m just out for a run, Harris, want to see you about something.”

“Well, get your ass inside, we’re under a tornado warning, and you’re out for a jog?”

I stepped in and toweled off.

“What’s up, mate?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “Listen, man, if it’s possible, I was wondering if there’s another family in the Rotary Club that could take me in?”

“Everything all right over at the Dooleys’?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” I said, not wanting to be a tattletale. “I just want to experience…another family if I can.”

“For a family to take you in, it means feeding another mouth, Matthew,” he said, “and the economy hasn’t been so good around here for a while, but…I’ll see what I can do.” God bless Harris Stewart.

He reached out to Connor Harrington, my friend who managed the bank I’d worked at as a teller. Connor and his wife agreed to take me in. God bless Connor Harrington. That Thursday, at the weekly Rotary meeting, Harris Stewart declared, over the microphone, to the entire room, that, “Our exchange student, Matthew, has been happily living with the Dooleys for the past six months—thank you, Norvel.” Big applause. “And he is now going to be moving in with the Harringtons—thank you, Connor.” More applause.

The meeting adjourned, there were glad hands all around.

It was all wrapped up, no drama. Norvel Dooley was right there in the meeting, sitting next to me during Harris’s announcement. Now he was shaking hands in agreement, singing my praises to the rest of the Rotary members, fully aware of, and in accordance with, the new plan. “I’ll be by to pick you up this coming Tuesday at 6:30 p.m.,” Connor said to me in front of Norvel. “Fair dinkum,*4 Connor, we’ll see you then,” Norvel replied. Great, all set.

Norvel and I rode home together—he said nothing to me.

That night I said “good night” to Norvel and Marjorie before bed, they said “good night” back, nothing more. The next morning, I woke up, had breakfast, went to work, came home, had dinner, and said “good night” again before bed. Nothing.

Saturday came—there was no family over for a goodbye party, no what are we gonna do on your last days here…nothing.

Sunday—nothing.

Monday—nothing.

Tuesday morning—nothing.

I came home from work early, my two suitcases having been packed since last Thursday night, and triple-checked that I had everything ready to go.

Five days had passed with not one word of acknowledgment of my leaving when we sat down at the dinner table to have our final 5:00 p.m. supper together—me, Norvel, Marjorie, Michael, and Meredith. I chomped on my lettuce head with ketchup. They ate in silence.

At 5:30 I got up from the table and went to wash the dishes. Nothing.

When I was done, I walked back to my room to quadruple-check that I had everything packed. Connor was going to be here in less than thirty minutes. He couldn’t come soon enough. I paced my bedroom floor, checking my watch every thirty seconds.

Then I heard a knock on my door.

I opened it.

And there in the doorway stood Norvel Dooley, hands on his hips, legs slightly apart, in a sturdy squared-up stance.

“Hey, Norvel. What’s up?”

Without flinching, he said, “Matthew, Marjorie and I have decided that you will be staying with us for the duur-ation of your stay in Australia, in this household, with us. Unpack your bags.” In the twilight of my Twilight Zone, shocked, I rallied and took the high road once again.

“Uhh…thank you, Norvel, for offering your home to me for the rest of my stay here in Australia,” I said, trying to remain calm. “But I have a full year here in your country, in Warnervale, and I want to experience as much as possible, and…livin with a different family will be another experience for me.” He raised his chin and settled his heels into the floor. “Matthew, unpack your bags. Marjorie and I have decided that you’ll be staying with us for the duur-ation of your stay here in Australia,” he repeated.

I lost it. I reared back and sent a vicious left hook through the bedroom door so forceful that my fist came out the other side. I pulled my arm out, bloody and pierced from shards of plywood. I was shaking, full of rage, confused again. Norvel started to shake as well, his eyes bulging in shock.

“Norvel,” I growled, “you get your fat fucking ass out of my way or I am going to beat you to the ground and drag you across your gravel driveway for so long that you are gonna be pullin rocks outta your back until the day you fucking DIE!” He started twitching, his mouth began to tremble and drop open, then he began to back up.

I stood there, staring him down, fists clenched, with a bloody arm, about to piss my pants I was so livid.

That’s when he turned around and ran off down the hallway.

I removed the splinters from my arm and washed it in the bathroom sink. I soaked a towel with cold water and wiped my arm and face. I paced the room trying to bring my heart rate down and figure out what the fuck had just gone down, when I heard the sound of a car horn. I looked at my watch. It was 6:30.

I rolled my bags down the hallway, past Norvel’s office, across the living room, through the kitchen, and out the garage to the driveway. There was Connor Harrington in his Land Cruiser. Norvel was there, too, along with Marjorie, Michael, and Meredith—everybody—hugging and carrying on like they were sending their last son off to join the army overseas. Marjorie wept on her walker. Michael was crying like a baby as he gave me a bear hug. Meredith sobbed and tickled her cheeks as I kissed her on the forehead. Even Norvel dried a tear. They loaded my suitcases in the back of the Land Cruiser and Connor and I drove away. In the rearview mirror the Dooleys were lined up at the top of the driveway, standing in the very place where I had stood when I first arrived, arms around each other, shedding tears and waving goodbye until I was out of sight.

Day 326

It was a Saturday night, and my last in Australia. The next day I’d be boarding a plane home. I’d been there one day short of a calendar year. Now livin*5 with the Stewarts for the last few months, I’d stayed with a family called the Travers for the two before that, and the Harringtons the one prior. All of them were outstanding people and also best of friends with one another. Tonight, they were all gathered at Harris’s house for my farewell party. We were doing what we always did on Saturday nights—Harris played guitar while we all took turns reading Woody Allen’s Side Effects out loud, laughing our asses off, drinking port wine until three in the morning.

It was just past midnight when Connor Harrington blurted out of nowhere, “Hey, Macka (his Aussie nickname for me), how in the bloody hell did you live with the Dooleys for that long?” Partially stunned, I asked, “What do you mean?”

The room started to giggle.

“I mean they’re out of their bloody minds!” he hooted.

The whole room broke out into belly laughs, a cacophony of hysteria.

My mouth dropped, I looked around at each one of them, dumbfounded. They were curled over with laughter, thought it was hilarious. Finally I cried out, “You motherfuckers! You KNEW all along! You KNEW they were crazy! And you let me stay there!? I almost lost my mind!” They laughed even harder. Then I began to laugh, and soon we were all rolling on the floor.

It was a big Australian prank.

In fact the time at the Dooleys was torturous. A livin mental hell. A true red light at the time. All my visions of grandeur were a mirage.

But a “handshake deal” never gave me the option of returning home, so I endured. Only later did I come to realize that the suffering and loneliness I experienced would be one of the most important sacrifices of my life.

Before my trip to Australia I was never an introspective man. On that trip I was forced to look inside myself for the first time to make sense of what was going on around me.

The life I had left back home in Texas was summertime year-round. “Most handsome,” straight A’s, dating the best-looking girl at my school (and across town), a truck that was paid for, and I. Had. No. Curfew.

Australia, the land of sunny beaches, bikinis, and surfboards I never saw, gave me the ability to respect winter. I was on my own, for a full year. I was in the bathtub every night before sundown jacking off to Lord Byron and Rattle and Hum. Telling myself daily, I’m okay, I’m good. You got this McConaughey, it’s just cultural differences. I was a vegetarian, down to 130 pounds, abstinent, planning to become a monk and free Nelson Mandela.

Yeah, I was forced into a winter. Forced to look inside myself because I didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t have anything else. I’d lost my crutches. No mom and dad, no friends, no girlfriend, no straight A’s, no phone, no truck, no “Most Handsome.” And I had a curfew.

It was a year that shaped who I am today.

A year when I found myself because I was forced to.

A year that also planted the seeds of a notion that continues to guide me: Life’s hard. Shit happens to us. We make shit happen. To me, it was inevitable that I was staying the entire year because I’d shaken on it. I’d made a voluntary obligation with myself that there was “no goin back.” So I got relative. I denied the reality that the Dooleys were off their rocker. It was a crisis. I just didn’t give the crisis credit. I treaded water until I crossed the finish line. I persisted. I upheld my father’s integrity.

And while I was going crazy, I kept telling myself that there was a lesson I was put there to learn, that there was a silver lining in all of it, that I needed to go through hell to get to the other side, and I did. We cannot fully appreciate the light without the shadows. We have to be thrown off balance to find our footing. It’s better to jump than fall. And here I am.

Greenlight.

P.S. The Dooleys’ son Rhys was also in the exchange program, and he came over to live at my house with my parents while I was with his. What kind of time did he have?

My parents took him to NASA, to Six Flags, and to Florida for the summer, where he threw parties every weekend. Clearly taking advantage of his accent, he took an ex-girlfriend of mine on dates in my truck, and I was told that his seed found purchase in the private parts of two particular swooning American girls. The liquor cabinet was drained. He had the time of his fucking life.

the monster

The future is the monster

not the boogeyman under the bed.

The past is just something we’re trying to outrun tomorrow.

The monster is the future.

The unknown.

The boundaries not yet crossed.

The challenge not yet met.

The potential not yet realized.

The dragon not yet tamed.

On a one-way collision course with no turning back,

the future, the monster,

is always waiting for us and

always sees us a-comin.

so we should lift our heads,

look it in the eye,

and watch it heed.

Back home in Texas, I was nineteen years old, had a year in Australia under my belt, and was now drinking age. On the way home from buying dog food and paper towels at Walmart one night, Dad and I stopped by a neon-lit pool hall in a strip mall on the southwest side of Houston.

We had a few beers, I met a few of his friends, mostly kept to my yes and no sirs, but had enough confidence and experience to chime in to some of the tall tale telling. A couple hours later we paid the tab at the bar and started to leave. As I stepped out of the entrance door, my dad behind me, the big-bicepped bouncer who was standing just outside stepped in front of my dad and said, “You pay your bill?” Without slowing his pace, Dad said, “Sure did, pal,” and continued walking. That’s when the man at the door did something that my mind’s eye can still see in slow motion today. In an attempt to slow my dad’s passage, he put his hand on my dad’s chest. Another man’s hand on my dad. Before Dad could correct this wannabe muscleman with his own hands, I did with mine.

The next thing I remember: I was on top of this bouncer who was now splayed across a table fifteen feet back inside the bar. I pounded down on him with vicious right fists until the drunken jeers of a good bar fight slowly turned to murmurs. The fight was over. It had been over, but not for me. Then I felt myself being pulled off the man and held back. I continued to kick and spit at the doorman on the floor until I heard a strong, calming voice in my ear, “That’s enough, son, that’s enough.” That night was my rite of passage. Dad let me in. It was the night I became his boy, a man in his eyes. The night we became friends. The night he called every one of his buddies who knew me and said, “The youngest one’s gonna be okay, boys, you shoulda seen him take this big ol’ boy out last night at the bar, just decked him…We gotta keep an eye on him, though, he’s got a berserker switch, he’s a little bit crazy.” From that night on I could go to the bar with him, my brother Mike, and all the men I’d been calling Mr. all my life. It was a primitive initiation into my father’s regard, but finally, instead of only hearing about the stories from last night the next day, I could be a part of them.

Greenlight.

Sometimes we find our frequency by holding on to a moral bottom line in the midst of chaos. Sometimes we find it by breaking the rules and running the red light to get home.