“Are you kidding me? That was the highlight of my day.”
“Good night, Jet.”
“’Night, Maura.”
As I’m dozing, he startles me awake by asking, “So, who are you more like, your mom or your dad?”
It takes a while for me to process his question, think about it, and formulate an answer, but he waits.
Finally, I answer, “Neither. Maybe I was hatched.”
“So your parents are more like your brother than you?”
“I wouldn’t say that. When they were younger, they were more like him, I guess. Which is why they can afford to travel all over the place now that they’re retired. But the older they get, the more free-spirited they become.”
“Like you.”
I laugh at how he could come to that conclusion after all these weeks. “I’m hardly free-spirited. I’m just aimless, with my useless background education.”
“Lots of people I went to school with got Film Studies degrees.”
“Probably because it makes sense in California. In Kansas City, it’s worthless.”
“Can’t be worthless or it wouldn’t be offered. You didn’t think it was worthless when you chose it. So, what changed?”
“Nothing. I knew perfectly well it was a frivolous field of study. But it was interesting and fun—and easy. I graduated with a 4.0.”
“Well, I’m impressed.”
“You shouldn’t be. Anyway, that’s a lie. I did get all A’s in my major classes, but not so much in those general classes they force you to take. World history and applied math killed me. Don’t ever ask me to balance a checkbook.”
“I won’t.”
I adjust my head on the pillow, noticing it smells faintly like pineapples and Lysol. “I had every intention of making a career out of film critique. I envisioned myself writing movie reviews for Entertainment Weekly or whatever. But… I dunno.”
I stop, then think, What the hell? It seems he’s actually listening to me, not figuring out the whole time I’m talking what he’s going to say next or what advice he’s going to give me, so it’s safe to tell him, “The longer I stayed in KC to save up money to move where that career is possible, the more it seemed like a crazy long shot, a silly kid’s fantasy.”
“Hm.”
“Now, whatever ‘skills’ or training I once had are rusty, at best, or obsolete, at worst. I’m out of touch with the latest technology they use to make films; I have no clue how the entertainment industry works; I wouldn’t even know where to begin to find a job doing what I went to school to learn. It’s overwhelming and hopeless. So, I help people find jobs.”
“Which is important.”
“I guess.”
“It is! It’s hard for some people to find work. What you do is so much more important than what I do.”
“Our respective salaries would suggest otherwise.”
“Pay rates in this country don’t make any sense, and you know it. You help people figure out what they want to do with their lives, support their families, and feel good about themselves. I toss a ball around a field once a week, sixteen—or so—weeks out of the year.”
“Okay, but I could have done what I do without spending all that money going to school to get a degree.”
“I’m not using my degree, either.”
“But you probably will someday. You plan to.”
“And hey,” he says, ignoring my valid point, “you do use your degree. When we watch movies, you show me stuff all the time that I never would have noticed by myself.”
“Rae hates that. She tells me to shut up.”
“Well, I like it. I think it’s cool.”
“It’s not making me any money.”
“So? Does it make you happy?”
I consider it. “Yeah. It does.”
“There you go, then. That’s all that matters. Anything can make you money. Money is boring. Happiness rocks.”
“Happiness does rock,” I confirm with an audible smile.
His voice is sleepy when he adds, “You make me happy.”
I blink into the darkness, realizing that’s the nicest thing I can ever remember anyone saying to me. Before too much time passes and he thinks I don’t appreciate the sentiment, I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, “You make me happy, too.”
Sixteen
Playing Hosts
I don’t honor my brother’s wishes to get an autograph from every single player. Nor do I carry him around on my cell phone so he can experience the Pro Bowl with me. I do, however, email him and Rae a report at some point every day, when I get a minute. Because putting it in writing is a decent way to convince myself it’s happening. I want to brag a tiny bit. After all, I’m in Hawaii, surrounded by the likes of Michael Lewis and Pete Jay. Pete Jay! (Yes, his forehead is as stunning in person as it is on camera.)
The main objective of the trip, for me, is relaxation, but it’s as much work as reward for Jet. Every day is tightly scheduled for him, and not surprisingly, he keeps apologizing about how hectic the itinerary is. There’s absolutely nothing for him to apologize about, though, because I’m in heaven. It’s eighty degrees in late January. This is a much better use of my vacation time than staying with my parents and Greg and Deirdre at Mom and Dad’s timeshare in Florida for a week in the summer.
Watching Jet have such a great time with players who try to take his head off during the regular season is its own special form of entertainment, too. Most of the guys, Jet included, are overgrown kids. Some of them take themselves too seriously, always wearing their sunglasses and headphones, followed by entourages, too cool to mingle with everyone at the social functions. But they’re in the minority and are the butt of everyone else’s jokes. Knowing many of the big names think those guys are ridiculous is a relief and has destroyed my assumptions of the men who have the most right to act like big shots. The majority of them are polite to a fault (three-time Super Bowl champion Pete Jay
