he’s bigger than me.
“I’m sorry about all this, Dad.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Mom won’t like it.”
This may be the understatement of the century. Jake’s mother, Doris Perez (B.A., Wesleyan College; M.A., Yale University; Ph.D, Columbia University), will probably have to be coaxed in off a high ledge when she hears this news.
“Let’s face it,” I say. “Your mother will kill us when she finds out.”
“Think so?”
“Jake. Have you and your mother met? Do you know how she feels about matters pertaining to formal education?”
“I have some idea.”
“Well, then, I suggest we live it up in the little bit of time we have left. A last meal before we’re executed.” I point across the street. “Is that diner any good?”
“It’s all right.”
“Want to get a burger or something?”
“Burger’d be good.”
We cross Broadway, and I wait until we reach the other side before saying, “By the way, I got fired today.” Jake stops walking. “You’re kidding me!”
“No, it’s true. Quite a day, huh?”
“Dad. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t eat out.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just got a seven thousand dollar refund from the school. We can have burgers and fries, if you like. Shit, you can even go nuts and order a milk shake. For once we’re rolling in it, pally.”
It’s a typical Greek diner, with autographed glossy photos of soap opera actors nobody ever heard of grinning down on the brisk afternoon trade. Jake and I take a booth near the window. We order identically medium-rare cheeseburger platters with Cokes. People tend to eat poorly on the days they get bad news, I’ve noticed. I once sat in the kitchen of a woman whose husband had just been killed by a falling air conditioner (DEATH FROM THE SKY, read the front-page headline for my exclusive story), and in the course of a half-hour interview she chewed her way through an economy-sized bag of Cheetos and a box of Mallomars. She had not been happily married, but of course that particular detail never made it into print. (Unwritten tabloid rules: all widows grieve, and all guys who get killed by falling air conditioners were wonderful husbands.)
I watch my son eat. He doesn’t wolf his food the way I do. He takes a bite of his burger and sets it back down on the plate, while I hang on to mine as if I’m afraid somebody might swipe it. He has a neat puddle of ketchup beside his fries, while I’ve Jackson Pollocked the stuff all over my fries. I’m glad to see that one of us has a touch of class.
He chews and swallows. “Why did they fire you?”
“They didn’t. One guy did. The day city editor.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t really matter. We weren’t getting along.”
“How long have you been there?”
I need a moment to think about it. “Twenty-eight years.” A shiver goes through me. “Almost twenty-nine. Would have been twenty-nine next month.”
If I’d been a cop or a fireman, I’d be long retired, with a pension. As it is, I’m an ex-tabloid newspaperman, and I’m screwed. Jake knows it, too.
“God, I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’ll get another job.”
“Where?”
“Jake, you let me figure that out. Come on, eat up. We’ve got the whole day to figure things out. The whole weekend, actually, with your mother away.”
I look out the window and see cars pulling up at the school, and kids piling into them. “Kind of early to be getting out of school, isn’t it?”
“Friday dismissal,” Jake says. “We always get out early on Fridays.”
Somehow I never knew that. “Why?”
He shrugs. “So the rich kids’ parents can get a head start on the way to their country homes and beat the traffic, I guess.”
Jake has never had a country home. His mother lives on West Eighty-first Street, and my place is on West Ninety-third. Our joke is that during the hot weather he likes to stay with me, because it’s a little cooler up north.
Suddenly two kids are standing at our booth, one tall and thin, the other short and chubby. Both carry book bags on their backs, and they’re breathing hard, as if they’d run a long way to get here.
“Jake,” the short one says, “what happened in Plymouth’s office?”
“I’m out,” Jake says flatly.
The two of them look at each other, eyes wide. “Man,” the other boy says, “that sucks.”
“I’ll be all right,” Jake says.
The tall one turns to me. “Are you Jake’s father?”
I nod, but don’t offer my hand. Somehow it doesn’t seem like the right time for a handshake, and this is something these boys understand.
The tall one shakes his head in wonder. “Your son’s essay rocked,” he says. “Did you read it?”
“I sure did.”
“Great shit,” the short one says. “Really, really great shit.” He thinks he’s being bold, saying “shit” to an adult. This is the kind of kid whose idea of rebellion is wearing a baseball cap backward, or going to Colgate University instead of Yale, the way his father and grandfather and great-grandfather did.
Jake is smiling at them, the falsest smile I’ve ever seen him wear, but they don’t know that. “You guys really liked my essay?”
“Oh, dude, it was awesome.”
“Funny how neither of you mentioned that when Edmondson asked for comments.”
Their faces fall. The tall one swallows, and his Adam’s apple looks like a Ping-Pong ball lodged in his throat.
Jake laughs. “I’m just busting your chops,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”
The boys seem relieved. The short one asks, “What are you gonna do, man? I mean, where are you gonna go?”
Jake shrugs. “Ask my father.”
They turn their gaze to me. I take a sip of my Coke. “I have no idea,” I say as cheerfully as I can. “Maybe I’ll put him
