A Supposedly Staggering Infinite Work of Heartbreaking Illumination I'll Never Read

Daddy Please Don't

For You, The Stars
Chapter Eight: Installment 1

Maybe I was overthinking this, I thought. I took a break from messing around with Lotus 1-2-3 and wandered back to the repro room to make a private phone call. First I let Mike show me the cover and liner notes of an album from some new rap group called the Boo-Yaa Tribe. The guys on the back cover looked Samoan. Mike promised to play me the best jams from the record after he taped it for his car.

I hit 9 and dialed Cecilia’s number at her sister’s house. When she picked up, before she could say anything I said, “Let’s get married.”

“Shut up,” she said.

“No, I’m serious,” I said. “Think about it.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I love you,” I said.

“So?”

“And you know you love me. We should do it. Plus, you know, if it doesn’t work out, we’ll just get divorced. That’s what most people do.”

“I don’t want to get married if I’m going to end up getting divorced,” she said. “I only want to do that once.”

I thought that over. That was actually the way I felt most of the time, but it felt so sexy to be talking about marriage, like the kind of reckless bad decision young people in love were supposed to make.

“Anyway,” she said. “I’m not going to live past 30.”

“Now you’re the one talking crazy,” I said.

“I don’t want to get ugly,” she said.

“You’re so lame,” I said.

“Let’s talk about this some other time. When is your brother getting into town.”

“Saturday, I think,” I said. “Does your sister know we’re all coming up this weekend.”

“I’ll remind her,” she said.

My brother Robert was three years younger than me and still had two years of college left. He went to one of those gloomy schools in New England where kids threw themselves into ravines every winter.

He was driving across the country with his roommate, Kyle, a kid from Anaheim. They were in LA this week and they were driving up the coast on Friday. I wanted to give Rob the total Bay Area experience.

We were sitting around the living room of the Gomer place, hearing the details of their cross country adventure. They’d finally gotten to Disneyland, where Kyle’s parents were members of some club, so they got to have dinner in some secret restaurant behind an unmarked blue door. They knew the special knock or something. Apparently it was the only place in the park that serves alcohol.

Rob’s friend Kyle seemed like a gangly ball of neuroses. He was tall and bony and appeared to be uncomfortable in his own skin. I kept trying to pass him the bong but after one hit he said he felt a little strange and declined to take any more.

Rob was telling me about their tradition of “chilly-b’s,” basically bonghits using ice water. We debated the pros and cons of cooling off the hot smoke versus using warm moist air to soothe the breathing passages.

“Tomorrow we’re going up to Cecilia’s place—well really her sister’s place—in Marin for dinner and a hot tub. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Rob.

Kyle mumbled something noncommital.

Saturday night I felt like the coolest guy in the world. Cecilia’s sister and brother-in-law were great hosts. We had a nice dinner. They rolled a joint. It was a beautiful night. They fired up the hot tub and Rob and I and Laurie and Todd and Cecilia all got in. Kyle said he didn’t want to get in the water.

I was kind of sympathetic. I could still remember only a year or so ago thinking of the stereotype of Californians, soaking in tubs naked together. It seemed so undignified. I was raised to be more physically modest. I was shy about being seen naked. I wasn’t that proud of my body, but somehow when the time came, it didn’t seem like that big a deal.

Plus as long as you didn’t stare directly, you got to check out topless women in a relaxed not-really-sexual context. In a way I was showing off Cecilia to Rob. Look at my hot blonde girlfriend. Isn’t your brother kicking ass out here in California. But here sister was pretty nice looking too, so I also just wanted him to bask in the sensory overload. He seemed to like it just fine, but Kyle acted more and more uncomfortable, standing around in his bathrobe and then going back inside to pout.

“What’s his problem?” I asked Rob.

“He’s just shy,” he said.

But he was the one from California. LA, even. If I hadn’t known better I’d have assumed he went to orgies in high school.

“This is the life,” I said, “huh?”

“I’ll say,” said Rob.

Then we didn’t talk for a while. We just soaked there with the stars coming out.