By noon I was not only angry but afraid. His mom finally acknowledged my texts and gave me the address of his apartment. I banged on the door for ten minutes in ever-increasing volume and panic of my own. I was texting, calling, and FaceTiming all at the same time. Nothing.
“Motherfucker,” I said out loud. I hammered the door this time. Ready to bust it down or call 911. My son pulled the door open confused at a bit pissy. “You scared the fuck out of me. Were you trying to give me a heart attack?”
He was alive!
I sat on his couch, my mother’s couch, and waited for him to smoke a cigarette on the porch and put on some clothes. “What do you want to eat,” I asked. We ended up having a somewhat comical somewhat terrifying lunch at some steak and burger place near the Carnival of Sport, he was excited. I left the “what the fuck” conversation for later. I was happy to have him with me, where I could feed him and set him back on the enlightened path. LOL.
And then we attended his new church, some place called Sheels.
A sporting goods destination store, with a ferris wheel inside and outside. All fun all the time. We made our way straight for the gun area. There was so much he wanted to show me. Shotguns. The rare gun room. And then he got engrossed in the pistols in the display case and started chatting up the associate. He would brandish the various pistols with some pride, as if he had recently discovered each new shiny weapon. I hung with him for about ten minutes (okay five) and said, “I’m going to walk around some. Take your time. No hurry.” He was visibly disappointed for a beat and then handed the current pistol back to the salesman and pointed at another.
The massive store was a zoo, or an amusement park built to honor the Yeti-enthusiast. There was even a Candy Warehouse section, larger than some grocery stores. The music was pumping over the PA. Lights flashing. Ads and salespeople beckoning from every shadow. I sat across the atrium and watched my son dancing at the gun counter, holding each baby with joy and attention, then moving on to another delight. I was not delighted.
He began texting me when he ran out of enthusiasm or a variety of pistols to hold. He was broke, as usual. “I thought we could spend some quality time together,” he texted. “Come look at the sword section. I know you like swords.” In fairness, he was trying to engage me in his reverie. I was in no mood. I was struggling with evidence from the last twenty-four hours and the state of disrepair and paraphernalia at his apartment. I didn’t want to shop. It was the last thing I wanted to do.
“I’m not worthy of owning a sword at the moment,” I texted back.
“What do you mean?”
I wasn’t in a frame of mind to explain training, honor, and discipline to him. “This is not my jam, dude. You know that. I’m happy. I’m listening to music in my AirPods. Enjoy yourself. I’m sitting over by the outdoor furniture section.
His texting went dark and I no longer had an eye on his. He probably went out for a cigarette. After thirty more minutes, I texted him. “I’m going back to the car to wait. You remember where I parked, yes?”
“Affirmative.”
I was not tracking time, but I had moved through two complete albums in stasis, in my car, when it began pouring rain.
“I’m ready to go now,” I texted.
“Okay. I’ll be right out.”
As the songs ticked on, with no sign of my son, I could feel my temperature rising. This was too much. The music played on. No son.
“Dude, what the actual fuck?”
“Sorry,” he texted back. “I got distracted. I’m coming.”
A few more songs ticked off. The rain let up and my son’s forlorn and disappointed figure appeared through the foggy windshield, crossing the parking lot from the back of the store.
“I went the wrong way, sorry,” he said, flopping in the car.
“For another twenty fucking minutes?”
“I had to walk all the way around the back of the building, this place is massive.”
“I’ve been patiently waiting for you to finish up for over two hours. Now, we get to drive back to the Galleria in rush hour traffic, how fun.”
“Sorry.”
“No, sorry ain’t going to cut it. You’re trying to piss me off. Congratulations! You’ve done it.”
“No man, not my…”
“Let’s just be quiet. Let me be mad.”
I had the hotel for another two nights, but I was no longer able to see straight. I was not going to go down with my son. My acceptance of his misalignment was over. Now, I was exiting the scene. He’s got his own higher power, I thought.
The traffic was bullshit. It took us forty-five minutes to travel 15 miles back to the hotel. As we got closer, I unloaded.
“I’m done. I’m going to give you back to your mom. I’ve been protecting you from her over these last few days. I’m done. I’m going back to Austin. We’re going to stop at the hotel and get your things. I’ll take you back to your apartment, and you can deal with the board for your next moves.”
I could see the red in his face as he staired into the parking lot of a freeway ahead. Inside the hotel, I changed my plan. “Here’s sixty dollars, should pay for an Uber. I’m done with driving in rush hour traffic. I’m done with Dallas.”
“Thanks,” he said, pulling his backpack on and accepting the money. And he was gone.
I texted his mom. “I’m out. I can’t do this anymore. I’m coming home tomorrow, and he’s going to have to figure this out without me.”
The flooding of texts began to come in. “He says he’s walking back to the apartment.” He even sent her a photo of himself in his black ski mask and hoodie. The gangsta is walking through hell’s kitchen all the way back to hell’s apartment. It was a stellar fuck you. A “worry about me and my safety for the next few hours.” It was about six when he left the hotel, dusk, and muggy from the rain. He stopped sharing the disturbing photographs. “My phone is dying,” was his last text.
At nine-fifteen, he texted, “Proof of life. I’m back in hell.”
the one and the zero: > next | index
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