Out of place, out of time

Clear skies without a cloud in sight, the sun bearing down but there’s still a cool breeze, kids darting about, climbing up ladders, sliding down tunnels, and parents rushing to soothe their crying, injured offspring.

At some point in my life, this moment in front of my eyes may have been my dream. Not, right now.

I’m standing next to my brother, trying to chat about our parents, work, life, but only in the short bursts between when his kids bounce around yelling for our attention.

“I think they’re doing okay,” I say, in response to a question about ‘Mom and Dad,’ “Mom has been going—”

“Uncle Dan!”

My eyes reflexively flip upwards to the sound of the voice. My older nephew is standing on a panel of a cardboard box at the top of a small astroturf hill.

“Watch!”

He slides down, like it’s a sled or a snowboard. He’s a bit of a natural snowboarder, unlike his uncle, who’s destined to always be on the cusp of “getting it.”

I congratulate him for his efforts and tell him to go faster. He giggles and dashes back up the hill. And then I try to continue my thought but I’m not even sure what I was talking about.

My attention is always split between multiple things: what’s in front of me, what’s in my head, what else is going on around us. There are a lot of kids, and a lot of parents. I wonder if they’re discussing what’s for dinner, how to plan for the week with work, and whether they’ll be able to see their friend on that one random night. It suddenly dawns on me, that I don’t think there’s a single person within a five-year radius of me. I’m not even sure if 10 years. That includes my brother.

I’m living the suburban dream, and I haven’t even gotten married or had any kids.

“It’s like you’ve retired,” my brother laughs at me.

I groan. “Please don’t tell me that again.”

I don’t know if I believe in retirement, in the way that it somehow signals an “end” from mindless work and the chance to relax and pursue whatever your true dreams are. It’s probably part millennial-privilege from someone who hasn’t had to grow up with the mentality of doing anything, even potentially jobs that ostensibly have no meaning, just to put food on the table. Instead, my generation believes anything can be obtained if you make the right sacrifices, if you make the right effort, if we just think creatively enough about it. And if you can change the world, any world, why wouldn’t you reject a job that is nothing more than a paycheck?

It’s a belief that without any balance to it becomes a negative characteristic, and my “I want to do new things, be social, and new experiences” quality is starting to feel like an anachronism—something out of place and out of time, and perhaps in more ways than one.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve moved back. I’m finally starting to piece together my parents’ routines, while also laying the foundation for building a few of my own—building some sense of my own life, and not just putting it on hold, or temporary retirement. I schedule a haircut, which is weirdly liberating. It’s establishing the small, mundane things of life that make you feel like you’re building a home. When I was on the road in Europe, it was brushing my teeth, or when I’d wear my retainer. Or even when I’d clip my nails. Now, it’s knowing I have an appointment to chop off my increasingly shaggy hair. You know, boring adult shit.

Most of my schedule revolves around my mom. She goes on a walk almost everyday, a route that spans a loop around a hill in a neighborhood park. Sometimes she makes one round, sometimes two. On occasion, I ask to tag along, and walk with her. Sometimes I run ahead and try to lap her later. But I always ask.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” she’ll say randomly throughout the day, at no seemingly predetermined time.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No, I walk very slowly.”

“But what if I want to come?”

If she recognizes this as part lie, she doesn’t seem to mind. “Then come.”

It’s good for my mom get outside, and good to get some exercise. And what better additional positive association than additional time with her son?

One Tuesday, I notice that she’s mostly disappeared. She goes to these Bible study classes at her church, and already has someone to take her. I could offer to take her, but if the ultimate goal is to help her maintain her independence as much as possible, I have to restrain myself. Which means that this one quiet Tuesday, it’s lunchtime, and it’s just me and my dad.

I scour the kitchen, and take stock of what I could scrape together for a meal. There’s enough to make some pasta, but I really want to get out of the house, need to, even if just to grab lunch. My dad is, as usual, sitting on his couch, and I walk over to him and gently touch his shoulder.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, as he slowly turns his head to make eye contact, “how do you feel about eating Panda Express for lunch?”

It kills me a little to say those words, and I die a second time when he nods and says, “Sure!”

Panda Express, is a hyper-Americanized, fast-food Chinese takeout joint. Think ‘Orange Chicken,’ its signature dish: chicken pieces, deep-fried, and coated in this sweet and sour sauce. Honestly, it tastes pretty good, and I don’t find the concept offensive like some other Asian Americans do. I just don’t treat it as Chinese food.

My dad loves Panda Express, or “Pandas,” as he affectionately calls it. It’s hard to hate the restaurant that my dad often wanted to go to years ago. In fact, he went so much that the cashiers recognized him and often gave him extra portions or egg rolls just because. I briefly daydreamed a sequence once that I’ve since dubbed “A Pandas Affair,” which involved my dad flirting with the cashier just to get more orange chicken. To be clear, my dad would never do this. Unless there’s even more to my family that nobody knows about. Which there isn’t. I think.

I think I recognize one of the cashiers when I step inside. I didn’t bring my dad, mostly because when we used to go years back he’d always stand right up close to the next person in line, as if he’s impatient and everyone in front of him is holding him back from Pandas heaven. Then I’d have to apologize on his behalf, and then he’d be upset that I was apologizing at all. It’s much easier to control all this when we’re eating at home.

“Wow!” my dad exclaims when I pop the containers and set them on the dinner table.

“How do you like it?” I ask after he eats a few bites. Despite having bought a multitude of things, he reaches for the things he’s always ordered: half fried rice, half chow mein, broccoli beef, and orange chicken.

“Delicious,” he says. I don’t know if he really means ‘delicious.’ He says it about most things. Especially whatever I’ve cooked, before he’s even eaten it.

We don’t say much else. We never talked much when we ate at Pandas. That doesn’t seemed to have changed. I do want to spend more time with my dad, but it always seems to take a significant amount of effort.

Later in the week, my mom asks a family friend to come clean the house. My dad doesn’t want to be around while she’s cleaning for some unexplainable reason, and apparently likes to go to the local library. I ask to tag along, one, as a way to get out of the house and do some work, and two, I’m curious what my dad actually does at the library.

On entry, I immediately realize, once again, how out of place I am. There are other retired folks who are reading magazines and newspapers. My dad is one of them, who’s picked up a book about Franklin Roosevelt. A flood of kids swarms inside probably because they just got off of school. And then there’s...me; I’m trying to make some money on the side and writing technology whitepapers about how data analytics can transform your entire organization.

Eventually, my dad taps me on the shoulder and I remove the headphones from my ear.

“Is it okay if we go home now?”

The question strikes me as odd.

I used to be the one to ask the question, because my dad was in charge. Now, it’s like we’ve swapped places. I’m the parent; he’s the kid. He’s the one that belongs here, and I do not.

I think there’s a part of me that desperately wants to build something with my dad. Almost as if he’s my son, he’s about to go off to college and I never going to see him again. Sitting with him or just being around, or buying him food, just isn’t enough for me.

The closest motivation I can pinpoint for this mentality, is that I think this is the last chance I have with my dad. In one recent moment, I tried to support my dad by holding his arm while walking around. One arm clearly didn’t work, and he read that as me pulling him in the wrong direction, so this time I tried using both arms. I was overly tender, gripping his shoulders the way maybe a much younger son would do with his much younger father. This worked. He responded by wrapped one arm around my waist.

Finally, I remember thinking to myself.

I think I’ve been earnestly digging for more moments like these. What I don’t realize, is that these are the exception, and not the rule, and I think I actually learned the wrong lesson from this moment. Sometimes the more you try to force something, the less you actually get of it. Intangible concepts like ‘connection,’ come in many forms, and the more you demand it, the more you tunnel in on only the form you’re looking for, and it ends up passing you by because it didn’t look like how you imagined. Irony, at its finest.

This becomes concrete one Sunday morning. I’ve picked up my dad from my mom’s church and dropped him off at home. I quickly slip out of my shoes, grab my laptop, and head back for the garage to make a business consulting appointment. I swing by my dad’s couch to say ‘bye.’ It seems wrong, to just leave without saying anything to him.

"I'll be back later today,” I announce from the hallway.

“Please leave the other car keys here.”

"What other car?" I play dumb. I know he means my car.

“The other one outside.” He doesn't reference that it’s mine. Maybe he doesn’t know.

"I did." Which is true. My keys are sitting in my room, though not in a place where he can easily get to them.

“In case your mom comes home and I need to pick her up.”

This is where I make my first mistake. I don’t understand why he’s mentioning this since I didn’t ask, so I play into it. “She already has a ride.”

“You didn't hear what I said,” my dad’s voice begins to go unstable. “You answered one thing and I'm asking another.”

I walk over to him and plant my knees on the ground so we’re the same height. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

“I asked you to leave the other car key here.”

“I did. It's in my room.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

“I did.”

“Forget it,” he turns his head away from me. “I don't have anything against you.”

One mistake, begets another. The correct answer here, would have been to say “oh good, goodbye then.” And call it a day. But I don’t.

Instead, something in me wants to engage my dad. Maybe it’s because everything else we do feels out of place. Maybe I’m tired of feeling out of place. And out of time.

“I didn’t say that you did,” are the words that come out of my mouth.

“You were loud with me. You don't need to be so loud.”

I have a second chance. The correct choice, is to say “sorry,” without actually changing my volume. But instead, that thing that wants to engage takes the wheel and pushes the pedal to the metal.

“Dad. When I speak louder it's because I want to make sure you can hear me.”

I desperately want him to understand. Want him to understand me. To understand how hard I’m trying.

He does not.

“My hearing is not as bad as you think it is, you know.”

My breathing stops.

Landmine. I’ve hit one. Something in my head goes boom, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be put back together. My next moments are deliberate, every movement evaluated before I take any action. I rise to my feet, stiffen my legs and march towards the garage. I snatch the closest pair of shoes to my feet and start lace my left foot, when I hear a voice behind me. Whoever my dad is at his core, the unfiltered qualities that make up his character, decides to reveal itself and takes hold of his very being.

“Hey,” he growls, “why do you have to make everything such a big deal?” And then, he suddenly switches to Chinese, which my dad only seems to use in his most primal state, when he’s most emotional, and usually angry. When every other form of social convention has failed him. “Ugh, so annoying.”

There are languages that are explicit and direct. Chinese, is not one of them. Chinese is an implicit language, and right now I don’t know what he’s implying. What’s the subject of his sentence? What exactly, is annoying? Me, the situation, something else, or all/none of the above? That last option is why I hate multiple choice questions.

I flunk the test. I don’t choose an option. I don’t respond. I don’t. I can’t. My dad is flammable and I am a walking spark. To touch him is to set fire to the world, and me in it. And so I inhale as deep a breath as possible and set my mind to the immediate goal at hand: get out of the house.

My hands tremble as I tie my laces together. One, under the other. Tighten. Make a loop, wrap it around the other, and tighten. Repeat for the other foot. Close the garage door, but very gently. Do not slam it, which takes every ounce of determination and willpower.

I jump in the car and leave the war zone behind. My mind wanders in bursts that I’m not sure they’re complete thoughts. Bad son? Bad parent? You don’t run from your kids. But do you run from your parents? Apologize? Who should? For what?

Suddenly, the storm within my mind wanes, and I start constructing coherent plans for the future and considering that my core approach to this situation is wrong. Maybe no amount of sacrifice or effort or creativity will get my dad to understand me. Maybe I’m not meant to win. Maybe the world is supposed to refuse to change.

My brother comes over for dinner later. He’s brought pizza with him, which satisfies both his kids, and mine. Or at least, my pseudo adopted kids.

I’m still figuratively bleeding from the day’s earlier confrontation, and it takes a bit more effort to play the many variations of the “let’s attack Dan” game that my nephews love and that I always indulge in. I think my brother senses that something’s wrong, and eventually he lets his kids watch videos on an iPad so the two of us can talk.

“I’m sorry. That’s really hard,” he says after I explain what happened.

We go into strategic planning mode, discussing whether we need to hire a caretaker, if we do then when, how long it may take to find someone. Everything comes down to timing, and it’s frustrating to land on what we know is the right thing to do, but not knowing when is the right time to do it, and knowing that the right thing at the wrong time is ultimately the wrong thing.

“I think taking care of dad is going to take a strain on you,” he suggests.

“I wish I could deflect things the way you do.”

“Yeah, but I’m also not living here,” he chuckles. “It’s easier for someone else to take care of dad because they’re not emotionally attached, you know?”

This triggers a thought in my head that I immediately shoot down. Could I choose to detach a bit from my dad? Wouldn’t that be giving up, though? I tell my brother this, and he reminds me that he’s maybe the closest ally I’ll ever have.

“You have to worry about yourself too.”

Eventually I buckle under the pressure and ask if we can talk about this another time. I’m way past decision fatigue and can’t even think straight.

“I think you need to set some end goals,” he throws one last statement in. “You can’t stay here forever.”

A couple of years back, instead of opting for a one month international backpacking trip, I chose to come take care of my parents just to see what it would be like. My brother told me he was disappointed; not because that wouldn’t be a noble thing to do, but because he knew that at the time, it’s not what I really wanted to do.

Like then, he’s right again now. I know he is. This will end. All of this. The question is whether or not I actually want it to.