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mallorys_cameraIggy was on the downstairs couch, scowling at the voice coming from his phone.
I was skipping out the front door on my way to the Hyde Park Community Garden.
“Good-morning-how-are-you,” I sing-songed.
“Wait,” said Iggy. “Wait. Did your kids ever smoke?”
“Uh—yeah,” I said.
“How did you deal with it?”
How did I deal with it? Well, I certainly wasn’t going to tell Iggy that at that time, I smoked, too! And so did Ben.
“I told them not to smoke in the house.”
Iggy frowned. “You told them not to smoke in the house?”
“Well, sure. Teenage boys, you know. Ya gotta pick and choose your battles carefully, and my battle was hard drugs.”
My battle was also very specifically with RTT. Since Ichabod occupied the role of the Golden Boy Who Could Do No Wrong, RTT was left with the role of Family Fuckup—a role he performed with characteristic brilliance. At 13, he smoked, he cut school, he stumbled home at 2 in the morning, dead drunk. He smoked cigarettes, too—though mostly, he used cigarettes as spliffs.
My business was going under; my marriage was falling apart; my son was self-destructing. Not separate phenomena, of course, cause and effect were clearly in evidence, but I didn’t know what to do about any of it. I was in a fugue state. My life was a kind of remote-controlled car.
“Why? What’s going on?” I prompted Iggy.
Iggy put me on speakerphone. He was talking to Christine, the kids’ mother. Iggy had smelled cigarette smoke and found a half-empty package of cigarettes in their older son Dante’s room.
I don’t know why Iggy thought I had anything valuable to add to this conversation.
“I mean, I can’t tell you what to do,” I said. “I can give you my observations about why he might be doing it—”
“He’s doing it because he has a sensation-seeking personality! If it’s new, if it’s shiny, if it’s destructive, Dante will do it!” Iggy hurled bitterly. “Have you ever smoked?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“That first 15 seconds when you inhale, it’s like crack! I know! I smoked for years.”
“Well, how did you stop smoking?”
“I stopped smoking because I knew it was a filthy habit, and I hated every moment of it while I was doing it.”
“That isn’t actually what I’m asking, Iggy,” I said. “I’m asking what sparked your decision to stop, the specific epiphany—”
“I stopped smoking because I knew it was a filthy habit!” he snapped again and stalked out of the room.
Leaving me in invisible phone communion with Christine.
Whom I barely knew.
Why had I been drafted to give parenting advice to someone I barely knew?
“I mean, obviously, I hardly know Dante at all,” I told the phone. “I’m not qualified to make any kinds of pronouncements on his personality at all. I will tell you when I look at him, I see a kid who is very, very bored. And a kid who is very, very lonely—that’s why he spends 12 hours a day on Steam: He’s playing those games with other kids. The other kids are the attraction.”
“That’s very, very true,” said Christine’s voice. “So now what do we do?”
How the fuck should I know? I thought crossly. Why are you asking me?
But what I said was, “I think if you could alleviate the boredom and the loneliness, you’d remove a lot of the—uh—incentives for bad behavior. But I don’t know how you do that. And I also don’t know what penalties you impose in the present circumstances. Grounding isn’t gonna work—Dante has essentially grounded himself: He never leaves the house.”
###
When you live in close quarters with other people you’re not particularly connected to, you’re always picking up stray strands of their narrative that you don’t quite know what to do with.
Like earlier this week, Iggy left his hair dye on the kitchen counter. Not even one of the hip hair dye brands. Clairol Nicen’easy Jet Black.
I hadn’t actually been wondering why Iggy, age 62, had no grey in his hair.
A combination of respect for Iggy’s privacy & not really caring very much.
But now I know anyway.
###
The other thing is I am quite certain Iggy has absolutely no interest in me whatsoever. Like I will make little joking observations, and he will either stonewall them or ignore them.
I’m not particularly bent out of shape by his disinterest. I never had any great urge to conscript Iggy into the friendship circle; Iggy interests me as a character in my immediate surroundings and so diary fodder, but not particularly as a person. I’ve known other New York hipsters. As a type, it doesn’t interest me.
But it does make it kind of weird when he invites me to render judgment on intimate aspects of his life.
I was skipping out the front door on my way to the Hyde Park Community Garden.
“Good-morning-how-are-you,” I sing-songed.
“Wait,” said Iggy. “Wait. Did your kids ever smoke?”
“Uh—yeah,” I said.
“How did you deal with it?”
How did I deal with it? Well, I certainly wasn’t going to tell Iggy that at that time, I smoked, too! And so did Ben.
“I told them not to smoke in the house.”
Iggy frowned. “You told them not to smoke in the house?”
“Well, sure. Teenage boys, you know. Ya gotta pick and choose your battles carefully, and my battle was hard drugs.”
My battle was also very specifically with RTT. Since Ichabod occupied the role of the Golden Boy Who Could Do No Wrong, RTT was left with the role of Family Fuckup—a role he performed with characteristic brilliance. At 13, he smoked, he cut school, he stumbled home at 2 in the morning, dead drunk. He smoked cigarettes, too—though mostly, he used cigarettes as spliffs.
My business was going under; my marriage was falling apart; my son was self-destructing. Not separate phenomena, of course, cause and effect were clearly in evidence, but I didn’t know what to do about any of it. I was in a fugue state. My life was a kind of remote-controlled car.
“Why? What’s going on?” I prompted Iggy.
Iggy put me on speakerphone. He was talking to Christine, the kids’ mother. Iggy had smelled cigarette smoke and found a half-empty package of cigarettes in their older son Dante’s room.
I don’t know why Iggy thought I had anything valuable to add to this conversation.
“I mean, I can’t tell you what to do,” I said. “I can give you my observations about why he might be doing it—”
“He’s doing it because he has a sensation-seeking personality! If it’s new, if it’s shiny, if it’s destructive, Dante will do it!” Iggy hurled bitterly. “Have you ever smoked?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“That first 15 seconds when you inhale, it’s like crack! I know! I smoked for years.”
“Well, how did you stop smoking?”
“I stopped smoking because I knew it was a filthy habit, and I hated every moment of it while I was doing it.”
“That isn’t actually what I’m asking, Iggy,” I said. “I’m asking what sparked your decision to stop, the specific epiphany—”
“I stopped smoking because I knew it was a filthy habit!” he snapped again and stalked out of the room.
Leaving me in invisible phone communion with Christine.
Whom I barely knew.
Why had I been drafted to give parenting advice to someone I barely knew?
“I mean, obviously, I hardly know Dante at all,” I told the phone. “I’m not qualified to make any kinds of pronouncements on his personality at all. I will tell you when I look at him, I see a kid who is very, very bored. And a kid who is very, very lonely—that’s why he spends 12 hours a day on Steam: He’s playing those games with other kids. The other kids are the attraction.”
“That’s very, very true,” said Christine’s voice. “So now what do we do?”
How the fuck should I know? I thought crossly. Why are you asking me?
But what I said was, “I think if you could alleviate the boredom and the loneliness, you’d remove a lot of the—uh—incentives for bad behavior. But I don’t know how you do that. And I also don’t know what penalties you impose in the present circumstances. Grounding isn’t gonna work—Dante has essentially grounded himself: He never leaves the house.”
###
When you live in close quarters with other people you’re not particularly connected to, you’re always picking up stray strands of their narrative that you don’t quite know what to do with.
Like earlier this week, Iggy left his hair dye on the kitchen counter. Not even one of the hip hair dye brands. Clairol Nicen’easy Jet Black.
I hadn’t actually been wondering why Iggy, age 62, had no grey in his hair.
A combination of respect for Iggy’s privacy & not really caring very much.
But now I know anyway.
###
The other thing is I am quite certain Iggy has absolutely no interest in me whatsoever. Like I will make little joking observations, and he will either stonewall them or ignore them.
I’m not particularly bent out of shape by his disinterest. I never had any great urge to conscript Iggy into the friendship circle; Iggy interests me as a character in my immediate surroundings and so diary fodder, but not particularly as a person. I’ve known other New York hipsters. As a type, it doesn’t interest me.
But it does make it kind of weird when he invites me to render judgment on intimate aspects of his life.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-28 06:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-07-28 12:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-07-29 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-07-29 10:33 pm (UTC)And his kids seem... damaged. Even for teenage boys, they're really out there. I think it's weird for them to have someone else living in the house that they have no connection with, and I can actually sympathize with that. I've even raised that issue with him a couple of times, and he's said, No, no, they're fine. But I can see that they're not fine.
I think he must be very depressed about his kids & that accounts for how uncommunicative & moody he is. He only comes up here to assume parenting duties every other week; he prefers being in NYC.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-29 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-07-29 10:40 pm (UTC)