Cry Uncle
Martin Foreman is a writer of fact, fiction and opinion.
He tries not to get the three confused.
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Cry Uncle
Martin Foreman is a writer of fact, fiction and opinion. He tries not to get the three confused. |
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Home Recent Publications Fiction HIV/AIDS Opinion Reviews Miscellanea    5 May 2003 |
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It’s three-thirty in the afternoon of my last day in Los Angeles. I’ve spent the day doing odd jobs around the house and the rest of the day is mine to do as I please. I've showered and dressed and am thinking of doing some last-minute shopping, seeing a film, having a meal and ending up in Micky’s or another bar in West Hollywood. Then out of the blue I hear myself suggest to Sandra that I take the boys out somewhere. “Sure,” she says. “Where to? A film?” The conversation already seems unreal. I can't believe I’m offering to spend my precious remaining hours with nearly-ten-year-old Chris and almost-seven-year-old Justice. And while the silver screen was high on my agenda half a minute ago, the thought of two hours in a cinema watching Eddie Murphy in Daddy Day Care or something equally inane is beginning to alarm me. Then, as I listen to myself say "Santa Monica Pier", it occurs to me that my subconscious began planning this outing several weeks ago. As far as Sandra knows, they haven’t been to Santa Monica, although it’s only half an hour’s drive away. Chris hasn’t heard of it and only when he's finished the last quarter of his Playstation basketball game does he ask what and where it is. Beside him Jay stares up with the usual blank look on his face. I say "funfair" but it's not a word either is familiar with. Still, they like the idea of going somewhere and within quarter of an hour Sandra has scrubbed them both and found them clean clothes. The sun is shining, the boys are belted up in the back seat and we're heading for Topanga Canyon. Ex-teacher that I am, I ask if they know what canyon means and then explain it to them. I tell them these are the Santa Monica Mountains even though, as mountains go, they're pretty low. Although I'm talking to both, only Chris replies, while Justice sits in silence, barely able to see out of the window. Every so often I address him directly and get a quiet, incomprehensible syllable in reply. The conversation is not only one way. Somehow Chris has got onto the subject of my age. He tells me he thinks I am only a little older than his eighteen-year-old cousin Tamika. I suggest he raises his estimate. He supposes I’m in my thirties. I push him upwards. He’s still far off target. I tell him I’m only slight younger than his grandmother. Although I think she looks younger than I do, Chris is amazed. To him she’s old, almost double my age. I suggest that’s something he doesn’t tell her. Okay, he says nonchalantly. “Maybe I look younger because I’m not married and don’t have children,” I tell him. “Having kids changes your life, makes you more responsible.” Do you have a girlfriend, he asks. I smile, remembering that last night he asked how his cousin - my ex - and I met and became "best friends". "Did you bump into each other and pick up each other's books?" he asked. No, I said, we met in a bar. Now I tell him that I used to have girlfriends, a long time ago. I give him their names and he informs me that Anne should be pronounced Annie. I say things are different in Britain and he accepts that excuse as he's accepted it before. We reach the ocean, turn left and before long we've parked in a lot off 2nd Street, Santa Monica. As we cross the streets to reach the park overlooking the beach, Justice automatically takes my hand and Chris takes his. On the other side we see the water, the sand and the funfair and their excitement moves up a gear. "Can we go down there? Can we go on the rides?" It's Chris's voice but Justice's eyes have lit up and when I say yes both of them skip off. I call them back before they go too far and Chris explains that when he's going somewhere, sometimes he walks, sometimes he pretends he's riding a horse and sometimes he pretends he's on a motorbike, and he demonstrates the action that goes with each. On the bridge over the Pacific Highway, Justice walks unconcerned but his older brother suddenly looks down and shields his eyes. He's afraid of heights, of falling over the railing which comes up to his chest and onto the concrete far below. Halfway over he takes my hand and only relaxes when we reach the ground. Can we go to the water, they ask - Justice, I realise, is beginning to talk to me, or rather, he's beginning to talk in my presence. Of course, I say. They're worried about sand in their shoes and I say we can stay on the decking. Then we reach the end of the decking and the water is tantalisingly near. So of course our shoes and socks come off and we are paddling in the water. I'm nervous, not that they will get swept away, but that one of them - Jay most likely - will fall and clothes will get wet and tears will flow and because we have no towel we'll have to get in the car and go straight home. The rest of the day continues as a day on the beach should continue. There are ice-creams and a chance to shoot hoops to win prizes. The price is outrageous ($2 a throw) but both boys acquit themselves well. Justice has begun to look me in the eye on occasion, sometimes smile and even say something to me. There's disappointment that most of the rides are closed but there are pictures of sharks and men fishing at the end of the pier and then there's the kite I buy. It features Spiderman and the Green Goblin and each of them takes turns to run along the sand holding it as it flies high in the sky. But the water is a greater attraction and they are soon chasing the outgoing waves and being chased by the waves that come in. At last I look at my watch and see it is time to go home. I keep calling them and they don't come. Then I practically shout Justice's name; he turns to look at me, a wave comes in, he loses his balance and falls, soaking his jeans. But there are no tears and as we walk back to the sidewalk, wipe the sand off our feet and shake it out of our socks and shoes, he seems to forget that his lower half is soaking wet. This time as we cross back over the bridge, I take Chris' hand at the beginning, telling him there's nothing to be frightened of as we gradually rise above the road. He says he's still scared, but this time he actually looks around and down at the shops and the cars passing below him. It feels to me like a little victory, the beginning of fear overcome. Back at the car, Jay takes off his jeans and socks and shoes and sits on a dry shirt of mine as I turn up the heating. On the freeway home Chris tells me that my - rented, compact - Suzuki is "hard". Hard, it seems, is the best possible praise, better than tight and much better than cool. Maybe it is just the car he's talking about, but I tell myself that the word applies just as much to the driver. Justice has fallen silent again, but when asked he says he's warm and he looks ok and within half an hour we have arrived home. Other friends have children but I'm not so close that I spend time alone with them. Christopher and Justice are family, who allow me to be uncle to the nephews I don't have. They give me the pleasure of giving them pleasure and seeing the world through the eyes of the boy I used to be. Uncle is all I want to be. Fatherhood has never attracted me, partly because I don't want my freedom restricted and partly because bringing children into the world is too much responsibility. The planet is already too crowded; the more people we give life to, the more everyone suffers. And I could never do enough for my child(ren). I would want to be the perfect parent, offering my son or daughter every opportunity, contributing where needed it, standing back where interference was unwelcome, enabling a perfectly balanced individual to emerge. I would want to give them the world and be unable to do so; if they were not always happy I would feel that I had failed. Every time I see a parent and child I silently criticise - one allows their offspring too much freedom, another too little; one gives them love but not education; another education but not love; and so on and so on. In my ideal world, most adults would want no more than to be uncles and aunts and only those few with the necessary skills and talent would want to and would be allowed to be parents - and in that ideal world there would be no need for aunts and uncles... And so as an uncle I was free to hand Chris and Jay back to their father and grandmother, to eat the meal that was waiting for me and to head back out into my carefree world. I ended up in Micky's, of course, where I watched a few cute college kids dance in tune with the music, their bodies and their youth. I left about one in the morning, bought a couple of Mrs Fields' cookies and drove back home listening to a programme on UFOs on KFI 640 AM. One of the presenters informed us that he knew of one or two alien abductions a week in New York; he did not indicate how this might pass unnoticed in a city whose skies are crowded with planes landing at three nearby airports, not to mention police, tv and private helicopters and several million individuals who occasionally look up at the night and day sky. Later in the programme he complained about the fraudsters and paranoids and conspiracy theorists that give UFOlogy a bad name.... |
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 Chris is the one in yellow Appeal to your conscience:   
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© Martin Foreman |