Family Portrait
They boarded the train in a cluster, hands on the kids' shoulders, the only five people who seemed to be enjoying the rush hour crowd. All smiling, they had the casual, bright-eyed look of the happy tourist, enamored of everything the locals consider obvious and mundane. The oldest boy said "Rutgers" as he grabbed an unclaimed piece of silver rail.
"Good one," said Dad, genuinely proud. "Okay, Mom's turn."
Mom was petite, questionably blonde, tanned, pretty, put together. A few commuters separated her from the rest of her family. She didn't like the game as much as Dad, but she didn't mind playing along.
"Syracuse. How 'bout that?"
"Hmm. Sounds fake," said the youngest one. He was maybe five and his voice squeaked like a little bird. He couldn't reach the rail so he was steadying himself with a handful of Dad's gym shorts.
Dad laughed. "No kiddo, it's a real school. Your turn."
Kiddo looked up and smiled a big bashful smile. "Ummmmm."
"All right. I'll help you," Dad said. "This one's easy. Just tell me where you live."
"Ummmmm."
"Oh, come on. Where did we drive in from yesterday?"
"TennesSEE!" Several startled commuters turned, wondering who had taught a parrot to name states.
"Right," said Dad. "Good job. Tennessee State. Michael's turn."
Michael was the middle kid, less straight-laced than his older brother, with shoulder-length frizzy hair and ratty skate shoes. "Geez," he smiled, "I always get the easy ones. University of...I don't know, Michigan."
"There you go," said Dad, unfailingly supportive. "Okay, my turn."
It got quiet as the family and a few strangers who were discreetly following the game awaited his response. Kiddo, still dangling from Dad's leg, looked up in anticipation. The train car swayed back and forth, humming along the tracks while Dad's wheels turned.
"Vassar!"
It wasn't Dad's mellifluous drawl, but the voice of a middle-aged businesswoman who was standing near him in a pale gray suit. "Class of '73," she explained, with a look somewhere between pride and embarrassment.
"Well, fine!" said Dad, his voice full of mock indignation. "Go ahead and steal my thunder!" Then he flashed a smile that seemed to sum up the whole tradition of slick Southern charm.
"Gotta love school spirit," he said. "I'm a Tulane man myself."
"My brother went there!" said the woman. "Such a shame about Katrina."
They shared a few elegiac words about The Big Easy before the train jerked to a stop beside a sunny, crowded platform and opened its doors.
"Oh, this is us," said Mom. "Come on, guys. Hurry." She and the older boys politely excused their way toward the doors.
"Okay, time to get off," said Dad, taking Kiddo's hand. "Very nice to meet you." He gave the woman another dose of Confederate gallantry as he squeezed by.
Kiddo, happily overwhelmed by the prospect of resuming their city tour, began to chatter rapidly in his birdlike falsetto.
"Are we there yet, Dad? Are we getting off the train? Dad, who's Katrina? Where did Mom go? Are we gonna see the real Red Sox?"
"Yep, we'll see them tonight," said Dad, smiling apologetically to the passengers around him. They threaded through the bodies and exited the train, Kiddo chirping the whole way, and met up with the rest of the family outside.
As the doors closed, Dad unfolded a map of the city and the five of them clustered together again, Mom saying something and pointing at the street, the older boys examining the 2D sprawl with Dad, and Kiddo looking plaintively at both his parents, his mouth talking and talking, offering up a string of eager questions.
"Good one," said Dad, genuinely proud. "Okay, Mom's turn."
Mom was petite, questionably blonde, tanned, pretty, put together. A few commuters separated her from the rest of her family. She didn't like the game as much as Dad, but she didn't mind playing along.
"Syracuse. How 'bout that?"
"Hmm. Sounds fake," said the youngest one. He was maybe five and his voice squeaked like a little bird. He couldn't reach the rail so he was steadying himself with a handful of Dad's gym shorts.
Dad laughed. "No kiddo, it's a real school. Your turn."
Kiddo looked up and smiled a big bashful smile. "Ummmmm."
"All right. I'll help you," Dad said. "This one's easy. Just tell me where you live."
"Ummmmm."
"Oh, come on. Where did we drive in from yesterday?"
"TennesSEE!" Several startled commuters turned, wondering who had taught a parrot to name states.
"Right," said Dad. "Good job. Tennessee State. Michael's turn."
Michael was the middle kid, less straight-laced than his older brother, with shoulder-length frizzy hair and ratty skate shoes. "Geez," he smiled, "I always get the easy ones. University of...I don't know, Michigan."
"There you go," said Dad, unfailingly supportive. "Okay, my turn."
It got quiet as the family and a few strangers who were discreetly following the game awaited his response. Kiddo, still dangling from Dad's leg, looked up in anticipation. The train car swayed back and forth, humming along the tracks while Dad's wheels turned.
"Vassar!"
It wasn't Dad's mellifluous drawl, but the voice of a middle-aged businesswoman who was standing near him in a pale gray suit. "Class of '73," she explained, with a look somewhere between pride and embarrassment.
"Well, fine!" said Dad, his voice full of mock indignation. "Go ahead and steal my thunder!" Then he flashed a smile that seemed to sum up the whole tradition of slick Southern charm.
"Gotta love school spirit," he said. "I'm a Tulane man myself."
"My brother went there!" said the woman. "Such a shame about Katrina."
They shared a few elegiac words about The Big Easy before the train jerked to a stop beside a sunny, crowded platform and opened its doors.
"Oh, this is us," said Mom. "Come on, guys. Hurry." She and the older boys politely excused their way toward the doors.
"Okay, time to get off," said Dad, taking Kiddo's hand. "Very nice to meet you." He gave the woman another dose of Confederate gallantry as he squeezed by.
Kiddo, happily overwhelmed by the prospect of resuming their city tour, began to chatter rapidly in his birdlike falsetto.
"Are we there yet, Dad? Are we getting off the train? Dad, who's Katrina? Where did Mom go? Are we gonna see the real Red Sox?"
"Yep, we'll see them tonight," said Dad, smiling apologetically to the passengers around him. They threaded through the bodies and exited the train, Kiddo chirping the whole way, and met up with the rest of the family outside.
As the doors closed, Dad unfolded a map of the city and the five of them clustered together again, Mom saying something and pointing at the street, the older boys examining the 2D sprawl with Dad, and Kiddo looking plaintively at both his parents, his mouth talking and talking, offering up a string of eager questions.
Labels: Nonfiction
posted by Isolato at 8:22 PM
2 Comments:
First of all, it was a really enjoyable read. The tone is very casual, an observative, almost knowing, viewer who has a wider perspective than the others on the train (a storyteller's perspective, perhaps). The voice seems to match the kind of playfulness of the game: "Mom was...questionably blonde". Yet the voice is also very kind of detached, as if the sole purpose of the narrator is to narrate this story to us, i.e. while probably a commuter himself, he will also never be a part of this that he is portraying to you: "She didn't like the game as much as Dad, but she didn't mind playing along" -- signifies a kind of omnipotence that distances the narrator from the actual 'scene of the crime', so to speak.
The dialogue is great, I know you have trouble with it usually. But it flows pretty naturally, and sounds realistic.
Using "Kiddo" instead of the son's name was clever. At first it seemed spontaneous and funny, the next time it was funny because you were continuing the joke and I got it and I liked it, but after that, it (for some reason) seemed forced, and served, less to be funny this time, and more to add a further distance between the subjects and the narrator/viewer (I suppose because it is an emphasis on him not having a name but "Kiddo", whereas a mention of it twice is perfect for pure comedic effect).
I like also that we're never really told what the game is -- the narrator, being omniscient, has every opportunity to sit and tell us about it, but he never does -- I'm glad of that small mystery. We must always be left wondering and making up a little something on our own, it's both gratifying (as the cliche goes) and also exciting to be able to fill in gaps in someone else's story, forcing me to engage with the work instead of letting the author do all the work for me (boring!).
I also really like the final image, esp. that you end with Kiddo. As he's the most fun, and most vivid character, the one we kind of attach ourselves to most, identify with most even, there's an added meaning to seeing him at the end, and in that way -- it makes you smile, because after reading him, you know exactly that that's what he'd be doing, and you're happy to be seeing him doing it just as you might've guessed.
And, as always, your word choices offer a very soft read, smooth and easy. It's not jazzy, yet it's also not simple. It's kind of matter-of-fact without being blunt, which creates a trust in the narrator. You imagine that he will not tell you a lie, will not paint a character in more pastel hues than they deserve, yet you also get the feeling he's fair and won't misrepresent someone if he can help it. I like this voice, it's reassuring, calming and easy to read. Or, as an unimaginative critic might say, "a wonderful read!" It's easy because it's smooth, as is all of your writing -- perhaps because it is so belabored upon. There is, as always, good and bad to your life's motto: "Delay is preferrable to error."
Dorian,
Once again, I LOVED it! I love your writing style. While I can not offer the writer's perspective that Tasha has done,(after all, I am just a simple "consumer" of the written word), but, as a consumer....... I immediately fell in love with Kiddo and the Vassar woman too.
Keep writing, your style is great.
Pam
Post a Comment
<< Home