3.
"He's out there again. Doing it."
By the time I reached the living room window, Kendra was looking at God again. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd made eye contact with my kid since she was baptized in the church of nomadic devices.
"How'd you notice him?"
"I saw him."
"Show me. You mention looking away from the bright glowing void, but I've yet to see such a miracle. Seriously. I'll give you a quarter to stop looking at the phone."
"It's not a phone."
"Pad."
"It's not a pad."
"Pod."
"It's not a pod."
"Whatever it is, it's not putting you through college, come the day. You do intend on going to college right? Or are you destined to live at home forever and ever and ever?"
Sigh. The put-upon variety. My kid, proudly bearing the torch of teens everywhere since some TV or movie teen somewhere at sometime perfected that sound of profound perturbation.
He was out there. Mr. Roth. Mr. Roth washed his car everyday. Even in the rain. Even in the snow. It was called Pal-Tanteric Syndrome. The details sound made up, but I've been informed it's quite real.
In everyman's terms, Roth suffered a trauma. His way around or through the trauma was to relive key moments of the traumatic day in the hopes he could avoid the trauma or chip away at it a little at a time.
A bachelor since birth, the death of a wife or a girlfriend seemed ruled out. We'd seen visitors stop at Roth's, but I imagined them interacting with him like interlopers interrupting the machinations of a great detective at work. Lots of Roth holding up a finger to shoosh as he followed clues only his uniquely lit mind could follow.
Maybe he woke up at the same time everyday. Showered the same duration. Ate the same measured out amount of prepared breakfast cereal. Had the same bowel movement and cleaned up afterwards with the exact same amount of wipes.
"It's so weird," said Kendra. "I wish he didn't do that."
"Wish in one hand, crap in the other."
"Gross." She swooped her finger across the screen. Grunted. Sighed. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
"You have a finger in your nose."
"Do I?"
"Ok. Now you have a finger in each nostril. Double gross."
"My theory, K-Dog, and it's a strong one, is your generation is developing extra sensory perceptions. You actually don't need to look up from your God to know what's going on around you. Someone somewhere at sometime realized we're due for an alien invasion and our only hope is an army of teens stacked tall with extrasensory perceptions. Steve Jobs or someone so tapped in with the galactic zeitgeist predicted the looming apocalypse. All that social media is simply building up abilities you'll call on when the squid people show up."
"Whatever."
She spun on heel and walked out of the living room. I kept debating on moving furniture ever so slightly in hopes of causing slight collisions. She might drop the device and break it. I know my girl though. She's part ballerina. Even if she collided and started to go down she'd recover and loop-de-loo like a champ, probably snare the falling electronics from an appointment with the floor with Kevin-like flair.
Roth was around my dad's age. The same solid muscular shape and slowly sinking neck so it was only a matter of time before the chin dimple rested directly atop the shoulders. As if sensing my thoughts leaning towards his former master, Baxter trotted into the living room and hopped up onto the couch, front paws resting on the couch cushions, tail wagging, tongue dangling.
We watched Roth spray suds off his car and begin the four-towel dry down. Everyday, the four-towel dry down. Roth would wind up each used up towel and drape it over his shoulder. At two towels, I went to the kitchen and Baxter followed, supervising as I washed snot off my fingers.
