We’re about to see Cast Away with Tom Hanks. Everyone’s excited, except Mom. As usual, she’s not all that excited. The dinner/movie thing isn’t really her scene, but she’s here for Dad.
My mom grew up with a tough family situation, and she’s content just to stay home, cook in her own kitchen, and have her husband and two children near her.
Dad’s on his second and probably final margarita of the evening—a drink with dinner is ingrained in New Orleans culture, but he never overdoes it. No way Mom would allow that. Dad is grinning over my anticipation. “They say Tom Hanks’s costar is a volleyball? Really?” I’m asking.
Lori says, “That’s what my friend says. She cried when he lost the volleyball.” That draws a snort from Dad. He’s laughing, covering his mouth to keep from spitting out his salad right there on the table.
“I saw that!” I say. “One point.”
Over the years, mostly when I was in high school, we’ve had a little family game: Wait until your opponents are chewing, then make them laugh. You get one point if any food had to be spit out, two points for any liquid out the nose. Lori is giggling. Mom is rolling her eyes.
“Please,” Mom says. “You’re a grown man, Robby. And I still can’t take you anywhere.”
That makes it even harder for Dad, whose face is turning red now as he tries to swallow that bite. Nothing makes you laugh like being told not to laugh. That’s why you should never take too big a bite around my family.
By the way, if he chokes, theoretically, that’s three points. As yet, nobody has ever choked. Just saying.
“So what do you plan to do with your life, Robby?” asks my mother, attempting to corral the scene into some semblance of adult conversation. “Will you try to take the test again?”
“I don’t think so, Mom. I’m really kind of into—”
“Not bartending again, I hope. You can’t make a career out of that.”
“Sure I can, Mom.”
At this point, I’m into the Rave party scene. I’ve tried a shot as a techno DJ and loved every second. When I’m into something, it’s ninety to nothing. If the water looks good, I don’t dip a toe. I dive in headfirst. At this point in my life—at pretty much every point in my life—I crave stimulation, and the crazy sensory overload of nightclubs gives me that. I’m the center of attention.
As for the test, well, a few months back I began a training course to become a stockbroker, urged on by my parents. I never was convinced this was my thing, but by all accounts I showed a lot of promise. I wore a coat and tie, came in every day, and had a slick trainer. I was preparing for what they call a Series 7 test. Supposedly nobody has ever failed a Series 7 after this particular trainer prepped them.
Mom and Dad were pretty pumped. The day of the test, they moved me into a shotgun double apartment, complete with a full set of furniture they bought for me and brought in. My parents are the best. They had a cake, congratulations banners, and were bursting with pride for their wonderful new stockbroker of a son—who had to come in and break it to them he’d failed that test.
I got a 68 out of 100, two points short of passing. Of course, Mom and Dad were crushed, but they still had high hopes—I had to grow up sometime, right? For them, that means a coat-and-tie fast-track job when the sun is out, instead of working in loud clubs until three in the morning.
My parents have specific hopes for me, but they’d do anything for us, for Lori and me. And we’d do anything for them.
The problem is, I’ve blown the test, and I don’t plan to tell them why. I had it nailed until that last section, and then, well, I blew it. Crashed in flames. What happened there? The guys giving the test just couldn’t figure it out. I knew, but nobody else was going to.
Mom and Dad pick up the bill at Galatoire’s, as usual. That’s another thing about these family nights—it’s always on Mom and Dad. As a teenager, I actually brought dates on these evenings with my parents, because it meant a movie, terrific food, and unsurpassed entertainment watching my family interact. My dates always adored my parents—everybody did.
We drive home together, to the home where I grew up, and then I say good night. Hugs all around. “I love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. You too, Lori.” I watch them in the rearview mirror as I drive away, and I realize I’m shifting into my alternate mode—there’s Family Robby, and then there’s Street Robby.
It’s now 10:00 p.m. I park about a block from my favorite hot spot, the Metropolitan, my club of choice. I make sure my stash is firmly in my right pocket. The left is for money. Before I climb out of the car, I crush and snort a couple OxyContin 40s. By the time I wipe the evidence clean from the case, the buzz kicks in. I’m ready for the night to begin.
This, of course, is what ruined the final portion of my stockbroker test. But for Street Robby, it’s a way of life.
I walk into the club with pounding subwoofers greeting my ears. Strobe lights flash quick images of familiar faces as I walk across the room.
“What’s up, Robby?”
“Hey man!”
“You’re lookin’ good, brother!”
The regulars all know me. Fist-bumps and handshakes are extended as I make my way toward the bar. I’m fully aware this is a shadow family, the flip side of my real one. Unlike my true and permanent family, the faces here come and go; relationships don’t go very deep. But it’s still my world.
As a functioning addict, I’m able to hang out with my parents, and they never
