Pink Slip Party (8 page)

“You really ought to get a smaller apartment,” he says. This has been his sole piece of advice since he saw the place four years ago.

“I’ll think about it, Dad,” I say. It’s impossible to explain to Dad the difficulty of finding a decent roach-free apartment outside the known Chicago move-in months of October and April.

After a small silence, Dad clears his throat and says, “Well, I’ll put your mom on the line.”

“Oh, hi honey,” she says, coming on to the line, sounding breathless. “I’ve got your favorites — cherry pie and strawberry cheesecake.”

This is the great thing about Mom. She’s like a walking Rolodex of all my favorite recipes.

“I’ve got pot roast and mashed potates — the kind you like with sour cream and cheese. Todd’s coming and he’s bringing a girlfriend, and I thought if you wanted to bring someone special you could.”

“Er, I don’t have anyone special right now.” Ron, I know, would come if I asked, but I think I would rather have someone punch me in the throat.

“Oh, well, Kyle is coming,” Mom says quickly. I can tell she’s worried that she may have brought up a sore subject. Mom is under the mistaken impression that I have a crush on Kyle. That I am pining for him. This is based on the fact that when I was three and he was seven, I said I wanted him to be my boyfriend. Explaining to Mom that you can’t be held accountable for things you did or said when you were three (like eating Play-Doh or announcing that you are the smartest person in the world) is an exercise in futility.

“I don’t want to micromanage your dating life. All I’m saying is that Kyle would be a
fool
not to want to date you. You’re perfect for each other. Not that I’m saying you
should
like Kyle.”

“Mom — Kyle doesn’t like me. I don’t like him, OK?”

“OK, OK. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Mom is always very concerned about being a bad mom — about falling into the trap so many of her friends do by pressuring their children and making them miserable. Mom feels like the best approach to getting what she wants is to let us believe we’ve chosen it for ourselves.

“Oh — and, honey — I’ve got some news, just so you’re prepared.”

“What news?”

“Well, I’ll tell you at dinner.”

“Mom — what news?” I persist. Now she’s got me curious. She’s being all secretive.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. And I’d rather tell everyone at once.”

“Mom…” I start, thinking I should test the waters about the loan.

“Yes, dear?”

“Well, it’s just, uh…” I’m having a hard time forming the words “I need money.” My tongue feels sticky. I suddenly am struck by the idea that it will be better to ask in person, when I can gauge her real-time reaction.

“Nothing, Mom. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

“OK, sweetie. See you in a bit.”

I suppose there’s a reason they call pride a sin. It gets in the way of you doing practical things like asking your parents for money.

*   *   *

I open the door to leave, and find Landlord Bob standing on my welcome mat.

I cringe because I doubt he is here to give me a birthday present.

“OKAYS,” he says. “TOMORROW YOU HAVE MY MONEY, YES?”

“I’m going to get it,” I say. Why is it that Bob is the one with the gambling problem, but I feel like the one being shaken down for money?

“OKAYS, BUT IF YOU DON’T HAVE IT TOMORROW, YOU’RE OUT, OKAYS?”

City of Chicago
Parking Enforcement Division
P.O. Box 88292
Chicago, IL 60680-1292

Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657

March 8, 2002

Dear Ms. McGregor,

We feel the need to tell you that your resume does not meet our qualifications for a parking enforcement officer. While we are sure that you would be “willfully indifferent to the pleas of civilians” who let their parking meters run out, there is more to being a parking authority officer than being “a trained monkey in polyester pants.”

At the City of Chicago, we pride ourselves on the fair and judicious enforcement of the law, and seek to hire only the best candidates for our positions.

Sincerely,
Marc Seiler
Human Resources Professional

5

T
he train ride to my parents’ house is long and I’m squashed between smart-looking commuters in pinstripes and black wool. I’m wearing the furry pink V-neck cashmere sweater and black skirt Mom gave me last Christmas, along with the silver earrings Dad gave me the year before, in an obvious brownnosing ploy. I put on my kitten-heeled knee-high boots just because they make me feel confident and capable, two traits I’m going to need when I plead my case to the Bank of Parental Control.

I almost look like one of the Employed, lacking only a brief-case and the tired look of someone who’s been sitting under fluorescent lights all day.

My parents’ stop takes forever to reach, and I read every single advertisement in the train car ten or twelve times — including the get-out-of-debt ones in Spanish.

As I step off the train at the Dempster stop, I notice everything but the adjacent bank is pitch black. Evanston, for all its fine houses, invests nothing in streetlights. It’s a good thing there aren’t too many violent crimes on the North Shore, or the city might be liable. I nearly trip over a large, gaping crack in the sidewalk which would have been illuminated had the streetlight above me been working. I wonder if I break my ankle, if Mom could get Dad to spring for a doctor’s visit.

I get to Mom and Dad’s house around ten after seven, but Todd has already been there for fifteen minutes. Kyle is also there, as well as Todd’s new girlfriend, Deena, who has herself half-draped over Todd’s shoulder.

Kyle is sitting on the couch drinking Harp from a bottle and looking immensely pleased with himself. This is probably because he is.

“Happy Birthday, Jane,” Kyle says from the couch.

“Thanks,” I say, but I am distracted by Deena, who is wearing too much make-up and not enough sweater. It clings to her, leaving nothing to the imagination, and I can tell Mom is uncomfortable because she avoids looking at the corner of the room where the girlfriend is sitting. Dad, however, seems to like the girlfriend quite a lot and keeps asking her if she wants anything to drink when she already has a glass of water in her hand.

Kyle, I notice, is taking in the scene with some amusement. I almost think he hangs out with Todd and my nuclear family for the sheer entertainment value.

“Jane!” cries Mom, distracting me as she throws her arms around my shoulders. “Happy, Happy Birthday!” she shouts, taking a silver cone hat from nowhere and placing it atop my head. The elastic strap snaps against my chin and stings. Kyle hides a smile under his hand.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. I suspect I look like a total dork. Now would probably not be the best time to ask for money. I want to go for the “I’m responsible and will pay you back” look, not the “I’ve got the fiscal IQ of a four-year-old and can’t handle my own checking account” look.

Dad still hasn’t looked up. I fear he is in a trance, unable to stop staring at Todd’s girlfriend’s tight-fitting sweater. Todd waves at me and says, almost grudgingly, “Happy Birthday.”

I am sure he is thinking that people without jobs should not be allowed to celebrate birthdays. Either that, or he is still disappointed in my lackluster job search.

It is the latter, because not two minutes pass before he blurts out this fact.

“Jane’s not even trying to find a job,” he says. I cannot tell if he’s trying to scare me straight, or if he’s succumbed to his youthful impulse to tattle.

“I am so trying,” I say.

This, however, rouses Dad out of his tight-sweater stupor.

“Jane! You know you can’t expect someone to just hand you a job.” Dad sounds like a parrot on Todd’s shoulder. “And that apartment!” he declares.

I snort, and I don’t think he appreciates this.

“I just don’t know when you’re going to accept the fact you’re living beyond your means. I mean Todd tells us you could be getting by just fine in a smaller apartment. I don’t know why you insist on living there.”

I send Todd a McGregor Look of Death, a skill that I’ve inherited from my mother, who has the ability to drop a charging rhino in its tracks at a hundred paces with one severe look. I wish Todd a sudden onset of laryngitis. He’s mucking up my plot to ask for a loan. If he gets Dad in a frenzy about my apartment, there’s no way I can make a case for rent money.

“I am not moving,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. I refuse to be the first one to shout this time.

“Well, it’s your life, if you want to throw it away,” Dad grumbles, peering at me over his reading glasses. I am possessed by the desire to poke him in the eyes, Three Stooges style, but I doubt that would win me a loan.

“Dad…” I say, my voice close to shouting level.

“I mean, it’s just such a waste. Girl of your brains,” he says. He’s speaking as if I’m fifteen and pregnant. Not as if I’m twenty-eight — er, twenty-nine — now, and living in a bigger-than-average apartment. I find myself wishing I was there now.

“I don’t see that my apartment is anyone’s business,” I feel the need to say. Dad, I can tell, will be hopeless. I can’t ask him for a loan. I’m going to have to start working on Mom.

“We’re just trying to help,” Dad sighs. He throws up his hands.

“Yeah, Jane, we
care,
” Todd says. His gift, I see, noticing his empty hands, is an intervention.

“Dinner’s ready,” chimes Mom happily from the kitchen.

The spread on the dining-room table is impressive. There’s a giant pot roast in the middle that looks like it came straight from a grocery-store circular. Half a dozen plates of vegetables and side dishes — including two casseroles and a giant plate of creamy mashed potatoes. A huge, homemade white rose and tulip topiary centerpiece. Martha Stewart couldn’t have done better.

I wonder why I don’t invite myself over to my parents more often. My stomach, shrunken on a strict ketchup-and-mustard sandwich diet, rumbles and I realize it’s been days — if not weeks — since I last ingested animal protein or green vegetables. It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t started falling out.

Mom insists Dad say grace, which is ironic because since I was nine, Dad has made a regular habit of falling asleep during Sunday service. This does not stop him, however, from confidently addressing the Lord.

“Lord, bless this grub,” Dad says with bowed head and his usual eloquence. “Now let’s eat.”

I load up on everything, and I feel like a sailor who’s been out to sea and forced to eat a diet of dried fish and crackers. I inhale my food.

Deena, Todd’s girlfriend, picks at hers, and keeps sending furtive glances at the mashed potatoes, as if worried that they might leap off the plate and attach themselves to her hips when she isn’t looking. I have a second helping of them, and she looks at me as if I’m about to bungee jump off the top of the Sears Tower.

“Don’t choke,” whispers Kyle, who has been strategically placed next to me (no doubt by Matchmaking Mom), so that I might not be able to enjoy a single moment of my own birthday.

“Thanks for the tip,” I mumble, mouth full.

Mom waits until we have dessert in front of us, the cherry pie and the cheesecake, before dropping the bomb.

“I have news,” Mom says, glancing around the table. She’s nervous, I can tell, because she’s licking her lips.

Dad does not stop eating. Few things, short of a gunshot or the announcement of the NBA draft, can interrupt his shoveling of food into his esophagus. He is even worse than I am. He eats at such an alarming rate that I think he bypasses his tongue and teeth altogether. While Dad is attempting to eat a whole piece of pie in one bite, the rest of us look at Mom expectantly. She takes a deep breath and presses her hands into her lap.

“I have been thinking about a change,” she said. “And, well, you know I’ve always been interested in cooking.” She pauses and takes a shaky breath. Dad doesn’t even stop chewing.

“Oh, I’ll just come out and say it.”

We’re all (except Dad) waiting.

“I got a job,” Mom squeals, clapping her hands together.

The table sits in stunned silence, until Dad drops his fork on his plate. The stainless steel makes a high-pitched plunking sound on Mom’s good china.

“What?” Dad says, shocked as the rest of us.

“I got a job,” Mom repeats, this time more softly. She looks as if she’s losing her nerve.

Kyle rallies first.

“Hey — that’s great, Mrs. M. Really great.”

Mom gives Kyle a grateful look.

Meanwhile, the rest of the table is too stunned to say anything.

My mom never had a job, not while I was alive. Todd told me that she’d tried going to cooking school to be a pastry chef before I was born, but Dad complained about having to watch Todd in the afternoons (after pre-school), and how he made enough money for Mom to stay home, and why did she want to cook for perfect strangers when the people who would appreciate her cooking the most would be forced to eat frozen TV dinners and be neglected while she was off at some fancy cooking school? Besides, Dad was not a big believer in education. He thought people who went to school to learn how to decorate their living rooms or paint were people too dumb to figure out how to do it themselves. He also subscribed to the theory that most of the professors at the community colleges were scam artists, out to make a quick buck.

Mom eventually did drop out of the pastry classes when it was clear she was pregnant with me, and she said the morning sickness combined with the smell of dough was too much to take all at once. She had me nine months later, and settled into the habits of a resigned housewife. She never did give up her interest in cooking and baking, and was always threatening to open up her own catering business or go back to cooking school. Dad had not expressly forbidden it, but he has been known to make sexist remarks on occasion, like “my wife’s place is doing my laundry.” Mom always said he was kidding, but I was never sure.