October 9, 2002

Today is the day to not screw up and mis-date your entries and have to re-load them.

22

"Surprise!" George said, with a forced smile. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

George's mother, Mrs. Barry Foreman, forced a smile in return. "George! Honey, it's George!" she called back forcefully.

"It's who?" responded Barry's disembodied voice.

"George! Our son! He just...popped in!"

"Esther, that's very funny. Now get back here."

"Honey..."

George would be baffled, had he been particularly affectionate towards his parents. Sure, he loved them, but he wasn't incredibly devoted to them in an emotional sense. He simply assumed that they were thrilled when their world-famous and filthy-rich son came home, and when they weren't, he didn't even think to be concerned.

George, instead of calling his parents ahead as he had done with Professor Geflen, had decided to eschew the formalities and simply shown up at their door. He had assumed that they spent their waking days praying for such a moment. He didn't know why they had suitcases at the front door.

"Oh, sweetie, we were just about to leave for a cruise," said his mother.

"To Alaska! We're going to see whales!" said his father excitedly.

"When are you going to leave?"

"Well, honey, we were planning on leaving tonight. If that's all right."

"What? I show up all the way from Washington DC and you just want to leave?"

George was more annoyed than let down. He was prepared to handle his parents with a hook, unlike the awkwardness he experienced with Geflen. He was going to play the Good Son. It was a new role for him. He looked at it as a kind of unusual experiment.

"Well, honey, these tickets aren't refundable."

"Does the cruise leave tonight?"

"No, it leaves tomorrow, but we have to fly to California, and then drive-"

George waved a hand dismissively, while his parents both winced internally. They were not at the age yet where they could be treated like children. "I'll take care of it. You'll get there on time. Don't worry about it. What's for dinner?"
Barry, normally a pleasant, calm man, got agitated. "Now, George, you just can't expect-"

Esther cut her husband off. Even though they were sweet people, George did pick up his habit of interrupting people from his parents. "Now, honey, we're lucky enough to have George come visit us, and-"

She stopped for a moment and saw a look of urgency in her son's face.

"What is it, George? Is something wrong? You're not…dying, are you?"

"No," said George. "Don't be ridiculous. Can't I just have dinner with my parents? And stay the night?"

"You're going to stay the night?"

"Yes," said George, pushing past his parents to his bedroom. "I'd like to shower first, if you don't mind, and then I'll be ready for dinner."

His parents exchanged looks and talked in whispers in the kitchen as Esther rooted through the freezer for steaks.

George walked to his childhood room and was satisfied to find it exactly as he had left it (which was from several Thanksgivings ago.) That is, it was completely bare, except for black curtains hanging on the windows (in order to facilitate better sleeping late) and a bed that took up the entire room. That was all he wanted, growing up; the biggest bed possible. His parents had offered him toys, projects, classes, even money, but he simply said that he wanted the biggest bed available. When his mother showed him a California King, he called her 'stupid' in the middle of the mattress store.

George took the money from his Pushcart Prize (he was then thirteen) and found himself a specialty mattress store that sold to theme hotels and brothels, with items from the traditional heart-shaped and waterbed to ones that were decorated in jungle motifs, complete with climbing vines, and spinning beds that went up to 10 miles per hour.

George easily found the bed he was looking for. It filled the four corners of his room. He either threw his clothing and paraphernalia on top of it, or into the dark hole of his closet.

George now took a shower, congratulating himself on the way he was handling his parents. He would ask them why they had been writing so much, and figure out, where he had left off with Geflen, just what the hell was going on. If he played his cards right, he could even ask about his brother and sister, and avoid seeing them.

George exited the shower in a ratty brick-colored terrycloth robe that had been three sizes too small for him since the day he received it, in eighth grade. On the kitchen table were steaks, baked potatoes with at least six kinds of toppings, steamed broccoli, Mrs. Foreman's fresh-baked buns (these she had been making for the trip, to settle the seasick stomach, but now they were going to George), wine and cinnamon apples.

"This is it?" George asked as he sat down to help himself, robe falling open most unflatteringly.

The Foremans had never believed in striking their children, but as George got older, they seriously began reconsidering.