Laid-Off Dad

You think you know somebody.

This morning, I was listening to an episode of "This American Life" called "How to Rest in Peace," about people coping with the murder of a parent. I don't normally seek out subject matter like that for my morning commute, but now that it starts at 5:45, it's not like I'm all that conscious, anyway.

This story, however, jolted me out of my doldrums. But not for the reason you might think.

It begins with two houses in Westchester, neighbors whose kids were the same age and spent lots of afternoon time playdating. Our protagonist is Jason, who was 6 when he and his mom drove to the neighbor's to pick up his sister. In a horrible case of Wrong Place, Wrong Time, the neighbor's house was being robbed when they arrived. One thing led to another, the situation veered terribly south, and Jason's mom ended up shot through the head.

The rest of the story is about how Jason has processed, or tried to process, that day. Because in the 30 years since it happened, he's never cried. And he's coming to realize that his life's path has been shaped by his subconscious need to provoke an emotional reaction in himself.

A story like this is alarming enough if you have young children, and you wonder how they would react to seeing you lying headless on the bedroom floor. But as the story progressed, and I pieced together bits of Jason's life, I suddenly realized that Jason is the owner of my local cafe, where I'm currently typing this.

I wouldn't say we're friends. We haven't gone out to bend elbows or anything. But I interact with him several days a week, and our chats have risen above small talk. He knows my kids, and I've met his wife and daughter. We've discussed the neighborhood, family life, his work as a location scout on "The Sopranos." He's pleasant and soft-spoken, generous, and judging by the crowds at his restaurant, a smart businessman.

And I never knew. Not that I would, since it's hard to slip a story like that into normal conversation.

Me: "Good morning! How are you today?"
Jason: "Not bad. My kid said 'Dada.' The pastry delivery's late. And I'm still trying to reconcile the random course of events that culminated in my mother's murder."

I'm not sure why I'm writing this now. I guess I'm realizing that it's way too easy to forget that each of us is a story, and that the many people who serve as extras in the movies of our lives are stars of their own. It's also made me reflect on the various degrees of pain that my friends and family have endured over the last few years, and how grateful I am for the lattice of love and friendship that has helped cushion the blows.

If you have the chance, you should listen to and/or read about Jason's story. But please don't come to the restaurant, because if too many people realize how great it is, I'll never get in there again.

Merry Friday!

For basically ever, we've been a family of Routine when it comes to Christmas frivolity. Embarrassingly so. Like a border collie who reacts to some primal imperative and spends hours running around in the same circle. For all the years before I was married, and even a few afterward, we seldom diverted from the following Yuletide schedule:

• Attend Christmas Eve church service. Endure tacky skit enacted by Self-Proclaimed Super-Cool Reverend Who Can Speak To Today's Youth. Sing "Silent Night" with lit candles raised overhead. Enjoy the beauty of the scene while playing out pyromaniacal scenarios in my head.
• Drive home past all the houses with the tackiest Christmas decorations. Including the one that took us miles out of our way but was totally worth it, because the lawn and roof were chock-a-block with life-size figurines. The neighbors must have felt they were sleeping next to the Golden Nugget.
• Arrive home for cheese fondue, using Nixon-Era fondue set, complete with avocado-green pot and decrepit, color-coded forks.
• Awake before parents. Harass parents Noriega-style until they get the hell up.
• Open stockings and one--ONE--present from beneath the tree.
• Eat breakfast. Sneak seconds of Mom's sour-cream coffee cake.
• Open gifts one at a time, while Mom chronicles Who Gave Whom What for purposes of thank-you notes.
• Take family picture among wrapping detritus. Strive for Candid Joy Shot by stuffing wrapping paper down siblings' pajama pants.

And so this was, for decades. It was easy to take for granted; everyone in my immediate family lived within an hour of each other, and we were flexible enough to accommodate in-law obligations.

Traditions have eroded over the past few years, though, and this year they're mostly gone. My brother has moved to the West Coast. My sister is about to move and living in boxes. Mom has bronchitis. And my kids are with Mama. All of this bodes for a very low-key Dec. 25 at the parents' place tomorrow. For me, it's not even like we're celebrating Christ's birthday (which it isn't, anyway). It's more like what's left of the family is getting together because we all have the day off.

The season is still special, though. And now that family traditions are no longer a given, I know I want more than ever to relive them. Perhaps one day, all the people I love will spend Christmas under the same roof, stabbing each other with fondue forks. As for this year, which will be known in the LOD annals as the Year of Flux, I'm content to eat coffee cake with the skeleton crew. And think of all my loved ones who are scattered all across the country and who, I'm grateful to say, know who they are.

Another foray into literary gorgeousness

OK, so the first thing I need to address is that no, I am not dead. Nor am I trapped beneath something heavy. I have, however, recently had a few epiphanies about how I might make more time to post to the blog. You know how one day you look around your home and decide you want to rearrange everything? It's sort of like that, only instead of furniture, it's my daily routine. One of the first things I'm going to do, for example, is switch out cable TV for Internet access. This will (a) let me trade in a passive media outlet for a more interactive one, and (b) allow Robert to spend time playing Tank Wars, or Blow Up That Shit, or whatever the hell online video game he's discovered.

But, to more important things. Have you seen the new Kirtsy book? It came out a few weeks ago, and it's sort of stunning. It makes blogging look ... legitimate. Like a real form of media, with talent and revenue and everything. Sort of says a lot of what has happened to blogging since I began six years ago, when we parentbloggers were just a bunch of sleep-deprived grumps bitching about diaper rash. Not like now. No, sir.

It was edited by Laura Mayes, who had the good sense to include one of my pieces in it, and who has a smile you can read by. She's the one Kirtsy editrix I've met, and rumor has it that the other three will attend our big NYC Kirtsypalooza tomorrow night from 6-9pm at Meet, in SoHo. I hope you'll come out and drink with us, pick up one of these books, and then go out an buy a coffee table to put it on.