countertop while Bob made himself an espresso. With his back to me, he said, “You’re not about to tell me you’re gay, are you? You and that Callahan?”
It was not the first time Bob had alluded to this possibility, and I suppose it wasn’t so far-fetched from the outside looking in. Cal and I spent virtually every moment together, and kids at our school called us fags all the time. I didn’t care. It was Bob’s tone that hurt me. He sounded like he was already against whatever I was going to say, and how was a kid supposed to have a heart-to-heart with his dad if his dad came to the table with such a bad attitude?
“No,” I sighed.
I was looking at the piece of art on the wall behind Bob’s head. It was a painting of three jockeys on horses, all racing toward a finish line. The two horses in the lead were neck and neck and were both painted dark gray, the same color as everything else in the dungeon kitchen. The horse on the far left of the canvas, a couple of lengths back, was red. I wondered why the artist had chosen to paint that horse red, especially because it was losing. It was the only splash of color in the whole room.
“Go on, then,” Bob said.
I hunched over the counter and mumbled, “It’s about Berkeley.”
“What about Berkeley?”
I can’t remember what I said after that. Something about how I was thinking of deferring for a year so that I could move to New York and get a job and live in the real world before I spent four more years in school. I tried to make it sound like I wanted to get some life experience, and for a brief moment it seemed to be working.
“What kind of job?” Bob asked.
Graduation was still a few months off, but Cal already had a lot set up in New York. We were going to crash with Terry’s brother Bill until we could afford an apartment, and Bill had promised us jobs at a bakery he ran in Williamsburg. In the meantime, Cal had been working part-time for a local landscaping company and had saved up enough money to buy a plane ticket.
Ingrid told me she’d buy me a plane ticket too. Her exact words were, “Follow your dreams, Joey, or you’ll end up a bitter old asshole like your father.”
“Well, what then?” Bob asked.
My stomach was a washing machine on spin. I couldn’t think of any good lies, and I kept hearing Cal’s voice in my head. When I’d told him on the phone that I was going to have the talk with Bob, he’d read me an inspirational quote about how a person’s success and happiness in life was directly proportional to the amount of uncomfortable conversations he or she was willing to have.
“You can do it,” Cal assured me. “He’s not the boss of you. Not once you turn eighteen, anyway. Just tell him.”
“Joseph,” Bob said.
“It’s like this. Cal got us jobs at this bakery, and we’re going to—”
“Cal?” Bob shouted. “I should’ve known this had something to do with Cal. Forget it. Cal can work in a bakery all he wants. You’re going to Berkeley.”
“But Dad, we—”
“The answer is no. You’re not going anywhere with Cal.”
I hated the way he said Cal’s name, as if Cal were a rapist or a pedophile.
“You’re going to college, Joe.”
“You won’t even let me explain. We want to start a band. For real.”
“You think that’s going to convince me?”
“Please. Just listen.” Tears blurred my vision and I wanted to punch something, but I tamped all my feelings down like trash in a compactor and stared at my hands while I spoke. “Just give me a year. That’s all I’m asking. If nothing happens, I’ll come back and go to Berkeley.”
“You want a year to gallivant around New York like a bum, playing guitar and letting that kid mooch off you? On my dime? Not a chance. And why would you want to live like that? Don’t you know how lucky you are? You get to go to school and study whatever the hell you want. And you’ll have a career waiting for you when you’re done. That’s the deal. Otherwise, come June, you’re on your own. And in a million years you couldn’t make it on your own in New York City.”
I heard Cal’s voice in my head: You don’t need his stupid support. You’re going to be