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by Mark Suder Massey | 05 Nov 2007, 1:03
In case you haven't heard of it, the downtown Science Center is the doomed destination of countless field trips from suburban schools all around Boston. Ask me where I'd rather be going and I'd say anywhere. Ask me who I'd rather be with and I'd say anyone. Sometimes, when something's going to suck, you can just tell.
"Gorilla sandwiches?" I mumbled. "But all the other kids are gonna be eating Happy Meals."
"Peanut butter sandwiches," my dad said. "Bananas weren't on sale this week."
"I guess jelly is never on sale, then."
"Jelly is a luxury at any price."
Through the window of the white pickup the early morning sun lit up the copper hairs in my dad's day-old stubble. U2's Joshua Tree was playing at low volume. We were driving on the 505 toward downtown, windows cracked, the late autumn air chilling my neck.
Suddenly the traffic came to a standstill. "Jesus," my dad hissed, pumping the brakes and jerking the wheel. "Five minutes late and rush hour makes you pay for it threefold."
I was breathing through my mouth, nauseous. In the distance I heard a helicopter but couldn't see it. After two songs ended the traffic picked up.
My dad massaged his jaw. "Wish I had time to shave."
As he reached to turn up the volume I said, "Can we listen to Power 105 instead?"
He brought his hand back, not touching the volume. "I can't stand all that DJ banter."
"But this tape is like, three years old!"
"U2 is great driving music," my dad said. "And that's a special kind of music."
"Whatever. I like rap."
"Think of this as a road trip, Denny. You gotta have road music for a road trip."
I crossed my arms. "You're just saying that because you didn't wanna pay for me to take the bus with all the other kids."
He clenched his jaw. "You're going to have just as good of a field trip as they are."
"B.S.," I said. "I'm gonna look like a retard."
Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, my dad said, "Son, that bus trip was a rip off. They're charging twenty five dollars just to pile sixty of you kids in a bus and buy you Happy Meals come lunch time."
"So. I like Happy Meals."
"Well, you're getting a peanut butter sandwich," he said, raising his voice. "Twenty five dollars is enough for the co-pay for you and your sister to see the doctor. So what would you rather do, see a doctor when you get sick, or have a Happy Meal now?"
I looked out my window, silent. A U-haul truck with a venus flytrap painted on its side was driving even with us. After a while I wrapped my arms around myself, teeth chattering.
My dad looked over at me. "What's wrong, son?"
I reached to roll up my window. "It's cold."
"Well, lean into me, then. We'll be there soon enough and running the heater'll just burn extra gas."
Biting my cheeks, I slouched down and leaned away from him.
"Shit," my dad hissed, driving past the parking garage on Roosevelt Street. A neon sign read LOT FULL.
Once traffic cleared he backed up onto the one-way street, gunning the engine across three lanes of traffic and slamming the brakes at a red light. "Why don't they have these field trips on a weekend, when all the damn lawyers and students aren't hogging the parking lots? Only parasites work downtown."
I didn't say anything.
My dad closed his eyes for several seconds, then let out his breath. "What time does your, your thing start?"
"9:30." It was already 9:42.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw my dad working his jaw. "The only other lot I know of is on Claremont, eight blocks from here."
I didn't say anything.
"Great," he said through his teeth. "Looks like we're parking at a meter." He pointed at the change tray. "Count that."
Three minutes later we'd circled the block and pulled into an empty spot along the north side of the Science Center. My dad slammed the door so hard it rocked the truck. I got out slowly, the change cupped in my hands.
"How much do we have?" he said, back taut, squinting at the blue parking meter.
"Five dollars and eighty five cents."
"That should last us..." he looked up and to the left. "'Til about three thirty something. Field trip's over at four, right?"
I nodded.
"Then we'll just have to leave a little early."
I looked at a retired couple in matching tweed jackets ambling toward us. "Maybe we could, uh, ask them for a quarter or two..."
My dad's eyes flared. "Never ask for handouts. Begging is the ultimate humiliation."
"I mean, it's not like anybody has to know we asked for a few nickels or dime—"
"Son, you would know."
"Who cares. I don't want to leave early. It's bad enough walking in fifteen minutes late and not being on the bus with—"
My dad's hand flew out, clenching my tricep so fiercely that I spilled half of the change. "Barlows don't ask for money."
My dad and I walked up to the crowd of fourth graders. There were about sixty kids and four adult chaperones, all of them with their backs to us. Two of the chaperones were teachers, but two were parent volunteers.
As my dad and I came to a stop behind the crowd, Mrs. Rossi, my fourth grade teacher, turned around.
Mrs. Rossi raised her eyebrows at my dad. "Hi!" she said, her face an anxious smile. "Are you Dennis's father?"
"Yes," he said, sticking his hand out. "John Barlow."
She shook his hand, then gestured at the other three chaperones. "I didn't realize there was a, ahh, third parent volunteer. Did you sign the—"
"I just had to drive Denny here," my dad said too loudly.
"Oh."
She held my dad's gaze, then looked away. My dad cleared his throat. Suddenly the crowd grew quiet, rippling as every kid turned to stare at my dad and I.
"I'm not here officially or anything," my dad said gruffly. "I can wait in the lobby if that—"
Some of the kids started snickering.
"No. No!" Mrs. Rossi said. "I'm sure that won't be necessary. We'd be thrilled to have a third parent volunteer. Even if it's not, you know, official."
The second exhibit was a documentary entitled The Fragile Biosphere. Everyone was gathered in a small theatre with black walls and teal seats.
I was standing with my dad and the chaperones along the far wall, while the rest of the kids were sitting in the seats closest to the movie screen.
"Yeah," Mr. Vandermeer whispered to my dad. "I keep telling Vernon he's meant to be a quarterback. A natural leader."
My dad grunted.
Dressed in a beige wool suit with an immaculate Van Dyke beard, Mr. Vandermeer was one of the official parent volunteers. He was Vernon's father and at least fifteen years older than my dad. Smiling ruefully, Mr. Vandermeer looked at his son. Vernon was sitting in the front row in a cluster of ten or twelve kids, all giggling and not paying attention to the documentary. I didn't know if Vernon was a natural leader, but I did know he was bossy, wore Guess jeans, and won his current girlfriend by giving her a gold necklace.
For the first time I noticed that my dad's jeans were generic, badly wrinkled and had paint stains on the knees.
"I played ball in college," Mr. Vandermeer said. "God, feels like a lifetime ago but I still miss it. You?"
My dad crossed his arms. "Didn't go to college."
"In high school, then?"
"Yeah," my dad shrugged. "Running back. Didn't get much game time, though. I was too wiry in my teens."
Mr. Vandermeer chuckled. "You still are, and I mean that as a compliment. Then again, you have the advantage of youth."
"I know plenty of guys younger than me who got weight problems," my dad said stiffly.
"Fair enough," Mr. Vandermeer nodded. "All I'm saying is, the pounds are a little more, ah, persistent when you're my age. You're what, about thirty?"
"Twenty eight."
Mr. Vandermeer smiled at me, then winked at my dad. "You started young."
"But I mean it," my dad said, frowning. "I make a point of staying in shape. Jogging, calisthenics. I teach aikido three nights a week. Well, used to teach..."
"Aikido? Is that like, Karate?"
"It's a martial art, yeah, but it's a non-striking art form. Blocks, holds, throws. The philosophy is to redirect your opponent's energy."
"That's uh—yeah, I can see how that's, uh..." Mr. Vandermeer nodded, raising one eyebrow. "It's just, I prefer football. It's aggressive, all-American. Gets the competitive juices flowing. I don't see what's wrong with a little striking—in the name of sport, of course."
"I guess you gotta ask yourself if you want to study self-defense or self-offense."
"Touché. So, aside from instructing Aikido, what do you do?"
"I work nights over at Hewlett-Packard. Line supervisor."
"Factory work." Mr. Vandermeer bunched up his lip. "That's admirable. I always say it's good to start at the bottom, learn a business from the ground up."
My dad grunted.
Mr. Vandermeer grinned with half his mouth. "Gone to sleep yet?"
My dad shrugged. "Got about an hour while Denny was getting ready. Where do you work, Mr. Vandermeer?"
"Call me Steve," Mr. Vandermeer said, stroking his goatee. "I'm the vice president of communications for First Boston bank."
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