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Keith the Plumber doesn’t like me. He suspects me of sabotaging my kitchen drains.
It is true that I pour coffee grounds down them sometimes. What the fuck else am I supposed to do with coffee grounds? They’re biodegradable, right?
The drainage problems began during the spate of -10 degree weather we had here a few weeks back. I figured the damn pipes had frozen and burst.
I told that to Keith.
He just glared at me. “Drainage pipes don’t burst. Damn kitchen pipes were packed with what looked like cork!”
Okay, okay! Mea culpa. In my own defense may I say this is my first experience with country living and a pipe system that antedates the Spanish American War.
Reaming out the pipes didn’t fix the drainage problem.
Keith the Plumber had to be summoned back again.
Oh, he was angry! “What did you do to them pipes, woman?”
Yes, he called me “woman.” Reminded me of a joke my old pal Jim Breece used to tell whose punchline was, “Lend a car to a woman and they’ll run all the fluids out of it.”
Can’t remember the rest of that joke, but boy, did I love that punchline.
Turns out I am innocent on all accounts because I was right about the pipes bursting!
Repairing the damn pipes has turned into a multi-phase construction project. Tractors ravage my Currier & Ives living room view. And I’ve been washing my dishes in the bathtub for at least two weeks now.
###
Tuesday night I get a call from _____ _____ who is RTT’s guidance counselor and general champion at ___ _____.
_____ _______ is an incredibly nice guy, and really ought to be the star of his own TV series about an idealistic young teacher who loves his students but is thrown repeatedly against the wall by the school administration – the twist being in this case, that the school administration is a bunch of old hippies, far more uptight than an equivalent small town America school administration who only want to keep sex ed and Darwinism out of the classroom.
Still, _____ _____ only calls when RTT is in deep shit. Tuesday night was no exception.
“So sorry to have to tell you this – Robin has been suspended for two days.“
There’d been an incident in the morning: a poster in the main hall had been set on fire; RTT and wingman Justin had been discovered pointing at it and laughing.
There’d been a second incident in the afternoon: RTT had left school in the middle of the day – again – without permission.
The arson incident was by far the more serious of the two. “Should I be looking around for small animal corpses and checking his mattress for signs of bedwetting?” I asked _____ nervously.
He laughed. “No, no – it was only one corner of the poster, just a little smoke. Listen, when Robin gets over this phase, he’s going to do great things with his life. Robin’s a change agent.”
O-kay.
It was the second incident he’d been busted for.
I could understand why: About three weeks ago, a 15 year old girl student at ___ _____ left ___ _____ without permission in the middle of the day. A week later they found her shacked up with some 35 year old in Enfield – she’d met him on the Commons the day she left school without permission. The Commons is a notorious hangout for teenage runaways and schizophrenics off their meds, Ithaca’s number one destination for anyone looking to score inferior dope from strangers. It’s also half a block away from ___ _____. One more Enfield incident and ___ _____ would find its charter yanked.
So I call Ben to tell him the bad news. We set up a big sit-down for the next morning.
After that I confront Robin. He’s overjoyed – two days off from school!
“Setting fire to a poster?”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Then who did?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Actually, that’s an irrelevant question. If you know who did it and you won’t tell, you’re an accessory under the law which makes you just as guilty. Who did it? I won’t tell the school.”
“None of your business.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I ask.
“You don’t trust me, I don’t trust you.”
Next morning B comes over. Keith the plumber has taken over the house so we gather in the Robintorium where Robin is acting like a three year old, refusing to get dressed, wrapping the blankets over his head and glowering.
“I hate ___ _____,” he tells us. “I’m not learning anything!”
“You’ve hated every school you’ve ever gone to,” his father points out mildly.
“I hated the International School, but at least I learned something there!”
“Right. And you managed to get yourself kicked out of the International School.”
“You don’t have many options left at this point,” I said. “It’s ___ _____ or Dryden.”
“Fine. I’ll go to Dryden.”
“Why do you do this?” I said. “This whole cut off your nose to spite your face thing? Because we both know you’d hate Dryden. Do you think it’s going to hurt me when you make self-destructive choices? Because I’ve gotta tell you – I’m over that –“
And I am.
Not Ben though.
Thus when things got ugly, I raised my eyebrows, shook my head and left the room, while Ben stayed on for the whole exciting 2 hour session of histrionics, manipulation, and emotional vituperation. Robin, the actual person who fucked up, has an amazing ability to spin the wheel 180 degrees so that in any confrontation you have with him, he’s the injured party.
I don’t know whether it’s mental health or exhaustion, but I’m just not going to play that game anymore. I did the best – am doing the best – I can, with very limited support or resources. I’ve kept it all together. A lot of people in my situation would not have been able to. Robin’s 16 years old; it’s time for him to accept some accountability for his own behavior.
But of course his father can be guilt-tripped indefinitely – and rightfully so: his father abandoned him without any explanation for two whole weeks, a disappearance which meant I could no longer protect Robin from his father’s history long history of lies and erratic behavior.
At one point Ben staggered out of Robin’s room, and stood weeping in the living room where I sat typing away on the latest AZ Lawyer Boy project – a formal analysis of Jackie Spier’s ill advised Do Not Track registry.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Every time I see you, I should tell you how sorry I am for everything I did to you for all those years –“
So, here it was finally – the Big Apology. My own histrionics had been ineffective in accomplishing what our out-of-control son could do effortlessly, it seemed. Robin’s gift to me…
I picked up Ben’s hand, kissed it absently. Really, the best way for a consumer to avoid being tracked by targeted advertising was a technological fix at the browser level. “It’s okay, I forgive you,” I said. “Don’t you think a Do Not Track registry would be a logistical nightmare?”
Reader, I meant it. All I’d ever wanted was to be asked.
It is true that I pour coffee grounds down them sometimes. What the fuck else am I supposed to do with coffee grounds? They’re biodegradable, right?
The drainage problems began during the spate of -10 degree weather we had here a few weeks back. I figured the damn pipes had frozen and burst.
I told that to Keith.
He just glared at me. “Drainage pipes don’t burst. Damn kitchen pipes were packed with what looked like cork!”
Okay, okay! Mea culpa. In my own defense may I say this is my first experience with country living and a pipe system that antedates the Spanish American War.
Reaming out the pipes didn’t fix the drainage problem.
Keith the Plumber had to be summoned back again.
Oh, he was angry! “What did you do to them pipes, woman?”
Yes, he called me “woman.” Reminded me of a joke my old pal Jim Breece used to tell whose punchline was, “Lend a car to a woman and they’ll run all the fluids out of it.”
Can’t remember the rest of that joke, but boy, did I love that punchline.
Turns out I am innocent on all accounts because I was right about the pipes bursting!
Repairing the damn pipes has turned into a multi-phase construction project. Tractors ravage my Currier & Ives living room view. And I’ve been washing my dishes in the bathtub for at least two weeks now.
Tuesday night I get a call from _____ _____ who is RTT’s guidance counselor and general champion at ___ _____.
_____ _______ is an incredibly nice guy, and really ought to be the star of his own TV series about an idealistic young teacher who loves his students but is thrown repeatedly against the wall by the school administration – the twist being in this case, that the school administration is a bunch of old hippies, far more uptight than an equivalent small town America school administration who only want to keep sex ed and Darwinism out of the classroom.
Still, _____ _____ only calls when RTT is in deep shit. Tuesday night was no exception.
“So sorry to have to tell you this – Robin has been suspended for two days.“
There’d been an incident in the morning: a poster in the main hall had been set on fire; RTT and wingman Justin had been discovered pointing at it and laughing.
There’d been a second incident in the afternoon: RTT had left school in the middle of the day – again – without permission.
The arson incident was by far the more serious of the two. “Should I be looking around for small animal corpses and checking his mattress for signs of bedwetting?” I asked _____ nervously.
He laughed. “No, no – it was only one corner of the poster, just a little smoke. Listen, when Robin gets over this phase, he’s going to do great things with his life. Robin’s a change agent.”
O-kay.
It was the second incident he’d been busted for.
I could understand why: About three weeks ago, a 15 year old girl student at ___ _____ left ___ _____ without permission in the middle of the day. A week later they found her shacked up with some 35 year old in Enfield – she’d met him on the Commons the day she left school without permission. The Commons is a notorious hangout for teenage runaways and schizophrenics off their meds, Ithaca’s number one destination for anyone looking to score inferior dope from strangers. It’s also half a block away from ___ _____. One more Enfield incident and ___ _____ would find its charter yanked.
So I call Ben to tell him the bad news. We set up a big sit-down for the next morning.
After that I confront Robin. He’s overjoyed – two days off from school!
“Setting fire to a poster?”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Then who did?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Actually, that’s an irrelevant question. If you know who did it and you won’t tell, you’re an accessory under the law which makes you just as guilty. Who did it? I won’t tell the school.”
“None of your business.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I ask.
“You don’t trust me, I don’t trust you.”
Next morning B comes over. Keith the plumber has taken over the house so we gather in the Robintorium where Robin is acting like a three year old, refusing to get dressed, wrapping the blankets over his head and glowering.
“I hate ___ _____,” he tells us. “I’m not learning anything!”
“You’ve hated every school you’ve ever gone to,” his father points out mildly.
“I hated the International School, but at least I learned something there!”
“Right. And you managed to get yourself kicked out of the International School.”
“You don’t have many options left at this point,” I said. “It’s ___ _____ or Dryden.”
“Fine. I’ll go to Dryden.”
“Why do you do this?” I said. “This whole cut off your nose to spite your face thing? Because we both know you’d hate Dryden. Do you think it’s going to hurt me when you make self-destructive choices? Because I’ve gotta tell you – I’m over that –“
And I am.
Not Ben though.
Thus when things got ugly, I raised my eyebrows, shook my head and left the room, while Ben stayed on for the whole exciting 2 hour session of histrionics, manipulation, and emotional vituperation. Robin, the actual person who fucked up, has an amazing ability to spin the wheel 180 degrees so that in any confrontation you have with him, he’s the injured party.
I don’t know whether it’s mental health or exhaustion, but I’m just not going to play that game anymore. I did the best – am doing the best – I can, with very limited support or resources. I’ve kept it all together. A lot of people in my situation would not have been able to. Robin’s 16 years old; it’s time for him to accept some accountability for his own behavior.
But of course his father can be guilt-tripped indefinitely – and rightfully so: his father abandoned him without any explanation for two whole weeks, a disappearance which meant I could no longer protect Robin from his father’s history long history of lies and erratic behavior.
At one point Ben staggered out of Robin’s room, and stood weeping in the living room where I sat typing away on the latest AZ Lawyer Boy project – a formal analysis of Jackie Spier’s ill advised Do Not Track registry.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Every time I see you, I should tell you how sorry I am for everything I did to you for all those years –“
So, here it was finally – the Big Apology. My own histrionics had been ineffective in accomplishing what our out-of-control son could do effortlessly, it seemed. Robin’s gift to me…
I picked up Ben’s hand, kissed it absently. Really, the best way for a consumer to avoid being tracked by targeted advertising was a technological fix at the browser level. “It’s okay, I forgive you,” I said. “Don’t you think a Do Not Track registry would be a logistical nightmare?”
Reader, I meant it. All I’d ever wanted was to be asked.
