He Didn't See Me Slip

Every reiteration of the idea that there is no drama in modern life, there is only dramatization, that there is no tragedy, there is only unexplained misfortune, debases us. It denies what we know to be true. In denying what we know, we are as a nation which cannot remember its dreams – like an unhappy person who cannot remember his dreams and so denies that he does dream, and denies that there are such things as dreams.

We are destroying ourselves by accepting our unhappiness.

David Mamet, A Tradition of Theater as Art, in Writing in Restaurants.

The cheap tin bell on the door to Elsie’s Subs jangled as my father and I walked in.

“So do you like it?” My father asked.

“Yeah, no. It’s nice. It’s got pep,” I answered.

On the walls of the restaurant were airbrushed cardboard signs, some detailing the history of the sub shop since the 1940’s, others advertising sandwiches named after various local celebrities.

“I haven’t had a good sub in….” I said.

“Your mother doesn’t like this for me. It’s the salt.”

At the back of the sub shop was a small Formica and chrome counter covered in cling-wrapped slices of pound cake and a metal rack that held bags of chips. Behind the counter stood a thin, gray haired man in a dirty “Elsie’s” apron and tee shirt.

“Hey,” I said to the counter man. He gave me a nod and put down his copy of the New York Post.

“Let me get a half roast beef, lettuce, onions, Swiss, salt and pepper, vinegar and oil.”

“And you?” he asked my father.

“Half Italian, everything but mayo.”

“Hot peppers?”

“That would be a part of everything, would it not?”

“Yeah, okay. Yes, sir.”

I grabbed two bottles of cream soda from a refrigerator next to the counter. “You’re going to want one, right?”

My father nodded. He placed a ten dollar bill on the counter. “I have a coupon,” he told the counter man. He went through his pockets and pulled out a rumpled quad of paper. He placed this on the counter, atop of the ten dollar bill.

Sitting at the table, we pulled our sandwiches from plastic wraps and took our first few bites in silence.

“Napkin?”

“Yes. See the game?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t get back from the gym until after 9:30.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

In front of the restaurant’s picture window were two stools and a red counter. Next to a local real estate booklet on the counter was a tin ashtray with one cigarette butt in it. I inhaled through my nose, seeking the odor of smoke.

“It was good, though?” I asked.

“They won.”

“Not bad,” I said. I went back to my sandwich. The vinegar had seeped into the bread.

“Work is good?” My father asked. He looked at the wall behind my head.

I inhaled again and shrugged. “Good enough. How’s the bench?”

My father nodded as I answered. He looked around at the cardboard signs. “There was a conference in the City this week.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Shannon Pratt was there.”

“Really,” I said. “I told you I used him in the amicus I filed, right?”

“Personally?”

“No, I mean, I used his work.”

We ate.

“I finished that gambling book, if you want it,” I said.

My father shook his head. “I’m still reading that book on the Alamo.”

I nodded. In the back, the counter man had tuned his radio to a local financial station. “Davy Crockett and whatnot?”

My father nodded. I thought about a time, when I was a young child.

“The reason that I asked you to come to dinner tonight is that I haven’t seen you in a while,” my father said.

“I know. Work’s been crazy. Ben has me working on three new trials.” My father and I were in New Hampshire. We were at a cabin by a lake. I didn’t remember the lake’s name.

“I wanted to talk to you about work.”

I took a sip of my cream soda. I looked at my father. We were by a lake, I knew, and we had decided to go fishing off of a dock.

“Okay,” I said, “shoot.” We were at the dock, and we were going to the edge to cast. We were using lures. I was walking to the edge.

“Do you think that you will do this for the long term, or is this just something fun you’ll put aside?”

“Work?” I asked. The dock was rotten. I fell through the dock and let go of my rod.

“Yes. Do you think you’ll eventually switch to something more worthwhile?”

“More worthwhile.” After I fell through, I tried to see in the gray-green water. I had slipped back beneath another part of the dock.

“Well,” I said, “what makes what I do not worthwhile?”

“You aren’t contributing. What you do is not contributing to the world. It’s destructive.”

“It’s destructive. Destructive,” I said. “It’s home-wrecking, yes. I’m a regular home-wrecker, aren’t I? I don’t choose whether these people get divorced, you know. I don’t make that choice.”

“No, you just make money off of that choice.”

“And someone should! I make it as easy as possible. I’m not making it contentious or traumatic.” I reached up, desperately needing the surface. I gulped in water and felt my chest heave in an attempt to regurgitate it.”

“It’s a sin.”

“Technically, so is charging interest rates. Are we going to have to close down the banks? Dad, I don’t choose whether they sin. I just make sure they get a fair trial. I don’t even think any of my clients are Catholic right now. Shall I convert them for you?”

My father picked up his sandwich. He took a bite and chewed slowly.

“Dad?” He didn’t respond. I clawed at the dock, tearing at my knuckles, until I found its edge. I kicked through the water towards it.

“Dad?” I said. “You know…. Come on. You know what I do is good work.”

I bumped my shoulder on the dock and gasped as my head slipped to the surface.

“It’s good work, Dad.” My father pulled me by my armpits from the water. I rested, face down, on the wooden slats. They were gray and as I coughed out the pond water, my father told me that he didn’t see me slip.

Comments

[Kathleen]

navigating the gray-green water of parental relationships is never easy going - whether fictionalized or not. to most 'rents, we're never good enough.

[Courtney]

A good divorce lawyer is like a good therapist: worth their weight in gold. Each can give a helping hand to someone in time of need - or wield awesomely destructive power. Each can make an enormous difference to a powerless child - for good or bad. Each hears the dirty secrets, the innermost fears, the ugly truths. One works with emotions, and one works with documents, but they both work with people in distress. Like clothes, it's not always what you wear, it's how you wear it.

Being an oldest child sucks. We get all the expectations, the need to perform not just well, but admirably. We're mature, sensible, blah, blah, blah. ;)

[Melissa]

Sometimes parents just suck. (oh that was trite, kill me now)

[j-a]

pretty amusing...can't believe you fell through the dock! reminds me of a conversation i had with my dad once - after having urged me to go through my law degree, he asked me whether i was going to join the ranks of the professional liars by becoming a lawyer.

[helicopter tours hawaii]

I was amazed by these stuffs. Lovely!