9. You’re Not Staying
“Of course he can stay,” said Barry’s mom.
“Well, I really appreciate it. Just let me know how much we would need to send you on a monthly basis, considering, of course, that we’re by no means people with money…”
“I could never charge anything for him. I’m sure you would do the same for any of your son’s best friends, right?”
Dad would never do something like that. He would probably do it if it was something Mom had pressured him to do, but then he would have a guard on that boy as tight as a hooker’s jeans.
“Absolutely. What do you say we come over and bring a pizza, and we can have a nice dinner with you before we drop off Julio and leave?”
“That’d be wonderful. I have a nice bottle of wine waiting for the right occasion.”
“See you then.”
Of course, I didn’t know any of this conversation. I was waiting for Dad to come back with the definite, negative look on his face. I went upstairs to finish packing, with a lump on my throat. I sat on the floor and started throwing crap to one of the open boxes. This is so unfair! I hate moving. I hate it. We’ve moved so many times that I’ll feel strange when I grow up and stay for more than two years in any city. By then they might have a psychosis name for it, like “NWS, Nomad Worker Syndrom” or “UKSJFMTYS, Unable To Keep The Same Job For More Than Two Years Syndrome” or, here’s Dad.
“I know. I’m packing right now.”
“Thanks, Julio. Make sure you put everything we’re taking on that corner, and whatever you’re keeping here in the big brown suitcase.”
I looked at him without knowing which Greek God to give thanks to.
“You’re letting me stay?”
Dad sat down on one of the boxes and put his hand in my shoulder.
“Julio, I think this is going to be good for you. Your Mom is downstair crying, so don’t make a big deal out of it. Although it doesn’t look like it, she’ll probably get over it soon. It’s always hard for a mother to leave her only son out of the nest without knowing what’s going to happen to him. But it’s bound to happen. I think we’ve already done our job, so I’m sure you will behave like a responsible adult.”
I think I have a family of frogs on my mouth.
“Sure, Dad.”
Dad stood up and walked towards the door.
“Hey Dad.”
He turned around.
“Thanks!”
Dad grabbed the door knob, ready to close the deal.
“If you call me to tell me you have some girl pregnant, I will come, cut your balls, and send you off to Military School.”
Two hours later, Mom seemed in a better shape. I had my big brown briefcase in the trunk as we drove uptown to a middle class neighborhood filled with a government sponsored collection of box shaped co-ops, painted with the strangest combination of colors, like orange and grey, or lavender and green.
“This looks like the ghetto,” blurted my Mom.
Dad mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I wasn’t going to keep my hopes up, so I was expecting the worse; a big fight breaking right before dessert, my Mom saying I wasn’t ready, and my Dad assenting as he always did when Mom put some pressure on him.
We finally arrived to apartment 5-36. Barry’s Mom, Leticia, opened the door wearing a long velvet dress that looked more like a bathrobe.
“Welcome, Julio’s family,” she said in a sing-song voice.
My Dad looked at her for a little too long, surveying the character.
“Here’s the pizza.”
“Please come in.”
“I don’t think I want to,” whispered Mom.
We walked in to the apartment. I had been here a lot of times but knew my Mom and Dad were having a hard time understanding the décor.
“Barry’s Mom is a painter, Dad”
“Yes, yes. Well, I’m technically not a professional painter, as I haven’t sold my first piece yet, but I’m sure that’s about to happen any time now.”
“I see,” said Dad without having to say much more.
Barry’s sister came out with a guy ten years older than her in tow.
“Bye Mom, I will be here before one.”
Barry’s Mom choked.
“Honey, this is Julio’s family.”
Barry’s sister smiles, looking straight at me.
Mom gets close to my ear.
“You’re definitely not staying in this whorehouse.”
