Two by Two(29)

After London had taken a few bites, she smiled at me.

"Dinner is really good, Daddy."

"Thanks, sweetheart," I said, feeling my heart warm just a little.

My marriage with Vivian might be a little shaky at present and my  business going nowhere fast, but at least, I thought to myself, I was  learning how to cook.

It didn't make me feel any better.





CHAPTER 10





Moving Forward


When I was a kid, summers were the most glorious time of life. Because  my parents believed in hands-off, free-range parenting, I'd usually be  out the door before ten and wouldn't return until dinner. There were no  cell phones to keep track of me and whenever my mom called a neighbor to  ask where I was, the neighbor was often just as clueless as to her own  child's whereabouts. In fact, there was only one rule as far as I could  tell: I had to be home at half past five, since my parents liked to eat  dinner as a family.

I can't remember exactly how I used to spend those days. I have  recollections in snapshot form: building forts or playing king of the  hill on the high part of the jungle gym or chasing after a soccer ball  while attempting to score. I remember playing in the woods, too. Back  then, our home was surrounded by undeveloped land, and my friends and I  would have dirt-clod wars or play capture the flag; when we got BB guns,  we could spend hours shooting cans and occasionally shooting at each  other. I spent hours exploring on my bicycle, and whole weeks would pass  where I'd wake every morning with nothing scheduled at all.

Of course, there were kids in the neighborhood who didn't lead that sort  of carefree existence. They would head off to camp or participate in  summer leagues for various sports, but back then, kids like that were  the minority. These days, kids are scheduled from morning to night, and  London was no exception, because parents demanded it.

But how did it happen? And why? What changed the outlook of parents in  my generation? Peer pressure? Living vicariously through a child's  success? Résumé building for college? Or was it simply fear that if  their kids were allowed to discover the world on their own, nothing good  would come of it?

I don't know.

I am, however, of the opinion that something has been lost in the  process: the simple joy of waking in the morning and having nothing  whatsoever to do.





"What's the problem with the commercials?" Joey Taglieri asked,  repeating my question to him. It was Tuesday morning, tennis lesson  number two. Still angry at me from the night before, Vivian had left  that morning without speaking to me.

"The problem is they're boring," he said. "It's just me, talking to the  camera in an overstuffed office. Hell, I fall asleep watching them and  they cost me a fortune."

"How would you make them different?"

"When I was a kid, my family lived in Southern California for a few  years when my dad was still in the Marines. Hated it there, by the way.  So did my mom. As soon as he retired, my family moved back to New  Jersey. Both my parents were from there. You ever been to New Jersey?"

"I think I flew out of Newark a couple of times."

"That doesn't count. And don't believe all that crap you see on reality  TV about Jersey either. It's a great place. I'd raise my daughter there  if I could, but her mom's here and even if she's a coldhearted shrew,  she's pretty good as a mom. But anyway, back to Southern California.  There was this car dealer named Cal Worthington. Ever heard of him?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Old Cal Worthington had the greatest commercials of all time. Every  commercial would introduce him and his dog Spot-except that Spot was  anything but a dog. Spot might be monkey or a lion or elephant or  whatever. There was even a killer whale once. Old Cal had a snappy  little jingle that was impossible to forget, with a refrain that went,  Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal. Hell, I was eight years old and  didn't give a crap about cars and I wanted to go to the dealership just  to meet the guy and maybe see a few exotic animals. That's the kind of  commercial I want."

"You want elephants in your commercials? And killer whales?"         

     



 

"Of course not. But I do want something that people remember, something  that makes some injured guy in a Barcalounger sit up and say to himself,  ‘I gotta see that guy. I want him to represent me.'"

"The problem is that legal commercials are regulated by the bar."

"Don't you think I know that? I also know that North Carolina generally  falls on the advertising-is-free-speech side when it comes to  regulations. If you're in advertising, you should know that, too."

"I do," I said. "But there's a difference between coming across as a  professional and competent attorney that you can trust, and a low-class  ambulance chaser."

"That's exactly what I said to the idiots who made the commercial. And  still, they came back with something that's best described as let's put  the viewers into a coma. Have you even seen them?"

"Of course I have. And actually, they're not that bad."

"Yeah? What's the office phone number then?"

"Excuse me?'

"The office phone number. It's there on the screen the whole time. If the commercials were so great, what's the number?"

"I don't know."

"Bingo. And that's the problem."

"They probably remember your name."

"Yeah. And that's another problem. Taglieri isn't exactly the most  southern of names, you know, and that might turn some people off."

"There's not much you can do about your name."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my family name. I'm just noting  another problem I have with the commercials. There's too much of my name  and not enough of the phone number."

"Gotcha," I said. "What do you think about other forms of advertising? Like billboards, websites, Internet ads, radio ads?"

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't much thought about it. And I only have so much money to spend."

"That makes sense," I said, suspecting that any more questions would do  more harm than good. On the court, I watched London trying to volley  with another girl, but there was more chasing after tennis balls than  actual volleys.

"What does your wife do?" Joey asked into the silence.

"She works in PR," I said. "She just started a new job for one of the big developers around here."

"None of my wives worked. Of course, I work too much. Opposites attract  and all that. Did I mention that you should always have a prenup?"

"Yes."

"It allows for none of the financial torture that those of the fairer sex like to inflict."

"You sound jaded."

"On the contrary. I love women."

"Would you ever get married again?"

"Of course. I'm a big believer in marriage."

"Really?"

"What can I tell you? I'm a romantic."

"So what happened?"

"I tend to fall in love with the crazy ones, that's what happened."

I laughed. "I'm glad I don't have that problem."

"You think so? She's still a woman."

"And?"

I had the sense Joey was trying to read me. "Hey," he finally said, "as long as you're happy, then I'm happy for you."





On Wednesday night after dance class, London was predictably glum as she crawled into the car.

"Tonight, since Mom's away, how about we have pizza for dinner?"

"Pizza isn't good for you."

"As long as you don't eat it all the time, it's fine. When was the last time you had pizza?"

She thought about it. "I can't remember. When is Mommy getting home again?"

"She'll be home tomorrow, sweetie."

"Can we call her?"

"I don't know if she's busy, but I'll send a text okay?"

"Okay," she said. In the backseat, she seemed smaller than usual.

"How about we go out for pizza anyway, just you and me? And after that, we'll stop and get ice cream?"

Though she didn't say yes, she didn't say no either, and we ended up at a  place that made a decent thin-crust pizza. While we were waiting,  Vivian called using FaceTime, and after that, London's mood began to  lift. By the time we hit Dairy Queen she was chatting away happily. She  spent most of the ride home talking about her friend Bodhi and his dog  Noodle, and how he'd invited her over to his house so he could show her  his light saber.

My first thought was that my daughter was far too young to be shown any  boy's light saber; the next thought, which came an instant later, was  that it was likely one of the playdates that Marge had suggested I set  up, and that the light saber wasn't a metaphor but an actual play sword  inspired by the Star Wars movies.         

     



 

When we got home, London ran up the stairs to see Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles  and though I expected her to stay up there for a while, she appeared in  the living room a few minutes later.