Future Plans
Ray made a lot of noise coming in the front door, jamming his key in,
walking heavily and unsteadily down the hall. At the kitchen table, he
straddled a chair backwards and looked at me. I was reading a newspaper.
It was 2 a.m. We kind of glared at each other, then Ray got up, tipped
over the glass change jug on the hutch, came back to the table with a
quarter, and held it up to me as a challenge.
"Let's get down to it," he said.
"Ray, you're a stupid bastard," I said. "Didn't I tell you already? I
turned Muslim."
"Pah!" he barked out, laughing until he coughed, then laughing again
after he'd caught his breath.
"Here," he said, filling a glass of water. "You drink this, I'll still
beat you."
"You can't drink someone who's drinking water under the table," I said. Ray closed his eyes and shook his head; He knew, but didn't care.
I think it disappointed Ray that his stepson wasn't good at quarters.
One of the many ways I disappointed him. On the other hand, he was no
great shakes as a stepfather. But at least he was gone all day working
construction and gone most nights drinking.
Mom came to the doorway wearing a see-through nightgown, eyes raw.
She
smelled like a sleeping, older woman.
"Christ, Ray," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "Give the kid a
break."
"He's a Muslim now you know."
"It's that Malcolm X. He read the autobiography."
"Malcolm X?" Ray said, sarcastically and significantly, making an
ambiguous point.
I shrugged and pointed at Mom.
"What?"
"Drink."
"No way, big boy. I'm off to bed."
"Drink," I said.
She sat next to Ray. I figured having both of them drunk was safer
than if it was just Ray.
Mom drank the shot of Budweiser that Ray put in front of her.
"Shots?" she said. "We'll be here all night."
She lit a cigarette and looked at me. The quarter warbled in the
glass.
"Drink," she said.
I took a gulp of water and tried to smile.
"How's the job-hunt?" Mom said. "How's the college plans? How's the Muslim
imagine he's going to survive in the real world?"
I shrugged.
"The fry cook Muslim," Ray said and laughed until he coughed again.
You can't just become a Muslim, honey," Mom said. "You were born a
Methodist."
"I can convert," I said.
I had been unable to find a mosque anywhere
in South Jersey, but I knew they were around somewhere. I liked the idea
of One God, and the idea of discipline.
"One night of drinking won't hurt you," Ray said, holding up a can and
draining it. Mom rolled a joint at the table. The quarters game fell into
disrepair. Ray turned on a Steely Dan CD, his old reliable, Ain't Never
Gonna Do It Without My Fez On. He held his hand out and Mom took it.
They
danced around. I saw Mom eyeing the half-rolled joint every time they
swung around.
I picked it up and finished rolling it.
"Pot's against Muslim law, too, I guess," Ray said after he sat down.
"And music, and dancing."
" Not all Muslims are terrorists, you know," Ray said. I couldn't tell
if he was softening, or digging.
"Oooh, put on some Cat Stevens," Mom said, laughing as she lit up the
joint.
When it came around to me, I took a hit too.
"So," Ray said, squaring his elbows on the table, leaning forward
seriously. "What do you want to do with your life?" His face had become a
blank block.
I thought about saying pilgrimage to Mecca, but I was already too
high. The words would have sounded phony and impure.
"I'd like to just, like, lead a good honorable life," I said.
Ray leaned back. He held his Budweiser in one hand, the joint in the
other.
"Not much money in that," he said.
This time they both laughed until they coughed. After a while I
laughed too.
Jamey Gallagher has had writing published places. You can check out some of those places at his website, jrnll.com Besides writing, he leads a dual life as a father in South Jersey, and a graduate student at St. Joseph's, in Philly.