Untitled, Chapter Six

Clark opened the door. It was his parents.

"Hey Clark," Monica walked up to him and gave Clark a hug. "How ya doing?"

"Hey mom, hey dad."

The meal had not been cooked and Andre and Hannah were undoubtedly going to be fashionably late.

"You early are guys, the place is a mess."

"Oh, pish-posh," Ivan said. "The place is fine... a fine mess!"

Ivan laughed a laugh almost as if he were trying to keep it a secret.

"No, no Clark it's quite alright," said Monica. "As long as you keep the contraband hidden we're happy to be here."

"All joking aside," Ivan added, "We're glad you invited us. It's always a pleasure to see you."

"Thanks," Clark said.

"But if the food's shitty, we're storming out."

"Alright, Ivan that's enough," Monica said. "You'll have to excuse your father. He's preparing for that roast of Hank Montgomery for his 50th birthday."

"Sorry Clark," Ivan said, "I've been in roast mode all week."

Ivan and Monica helped themselves to a seat on the couch. Ivan had thick gray hair combed to the side. His face had a reddish ruddy complexion. It gave off an impression that if one pressed a finger against it, that spot would cave in and slowly rise back to form like an inflatable raft. Ivan had put on a little weight, most visibly around his belly. He wore a red sweater (one size too small) over a pinstriped pink collared shirt.

Monica was physically smaller but her presence matched up to Ivan's size. Ivan's sloped, hunchbacked posture was counteracted by her confident, stoic one. Ivan's white hair was complemented by Monica's full red hair, the tips softly brushing against her shoulders when she turned her head. Monica spoke with more confidence than Ivan, looking you straight in the eye.

For Clark, watching them interact together was a pleasant escape from whatever conflict, be it external or internal, floated around him (and them). It was like watching two jigsaw puzzle pieces find their match.

Carly and Elden went out from their room to greet the Henrys and watched TV alongside Clark's parents (a gossip entertainment news show) . They were all waiting for Hannah, Dre and Hannah's niece to arrive for dinner while Clark cooked in the kitchen. He courteously declined any offers for assistance.

After inviting his parents for dinner earlier this week, Clark had planned an elaborately prepared meal. Between then and now, however, the time needed for "elaborate" dwindled into time needed for "Chinese takeout". Clark tried anyways. He baked a ham, made stuffing (from a box), mashed potatoes (instant), creamed spinach (canned) and macaroni salad (sour cream-based)

Hannah and her niece made assorted cookies and brought them over for dinner. Ivan thought the cookies were magnificent. Everyone agreed.

Dinner was pleasant, an updating of everyone's life as well as arbitrary opinions of current events. Hannah's niece, a 13-year old girl who looked to Hannah and Dre, sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" which Hannah had been practicing with her for her junior high talent show.

At around 9:30, Dre left to drop off Hannah and her niece. One glass of wine later, Elden and Carly excused themselves to their room. Clark, Monica and Ivan moved to the living room to finish the Golden State Warriors game.

"So," Ivan said, breaking the ice, "work's good?"

"Yeah, not bad," Clark replied.

"It's funny, even though we work in the same building I barely see you. This is the most I've seen you since the fall started."

"At least you get to run into him," Monica said. "We know you're busy Clark, it's just nice to see you. Twice in one week is a lot."

"It's great to see you guys too," Clark said. "I hope dinner was okay."

"It was great," Ivan replied. "Everything was good. My favorite were the cookies."

"The ham was great," Monica said with a wink.

"Yeah, it's your recipe," Clark said.

"Well duhhhh," Monica joked. "Nana Ellie's secret recipe continues its generation-spanning success."

At the exact same moment, Baron Davis shot a 3-pointer that cut Portland's lead to four. Clark got out of his chair and pumped his fist.

"How are the Warriors doing this year," Ivan asked.

"It's still preseason," Clark answered. "That's when optimism is still around. Everyone's tied for first place."

"Do you remember us taking you to that one game," Monica asked.

"Oh yeah," Clark recalled. "I was 12 and we were actually good."

"We?"

"The Warriors dear," Ivan answered.

"Yeah," Clark continued. "The Warriors. We actually won that game."

"You wore your jersey," Monica said. "And I remember all of us booing but I don't remember why."

"Mullin fouled out on a phantom charge call," Clark said. "I remember like it was yesterday."

"Mullin was cute," Monica said. "I remember Mullin."

"They've been sucking lately, " Ivan said. "I haven't paid attention though, really."

"They still suck, I guess," Clark mumbled but with a hidden electricity. "It's just part of the deal when you root for a team like that."

"What do you mean," Ivan queried.

"Like, it's just part of the culture to be a Warriors fan. We haven't made the playoffs since '94 and the last time they won a world title I wasn't even born yet. It's like rooting for Wile E. Coyote."

"Wile E. never gets The Roadrunner, right?" Ivan asked. "You're talking about him right? Not some new band or new Marxist rebel?"

"Yeah, that's the coyote," Clark answered. "That's the guy. He comes up with these ideas and they seem plausible and realistic -- at least in the world of cartoons -- but either the Roadrunner is too good or we fuck it up because that's what we do. I mean, the guy can probably look for easier prey. I can move on to rooting for another team or choosing favorite players or even just watch basketball as a neutral party. But I don't and he doesn't. You go in knowing that the odds aren't necessarily with you, that the past is more of an indication of what will happen because let's face it, as much as we learn from the past it's not really a lack of imagination that hurts us but the execution.

So I come back every year to root for this godawful team and every year I remain optimistic and every stupid year I end up rolling my eyes halfway through the season. It's this blind hope that someday we can make it, and I will not be one of those bandwagon douches that come out of the woodwork, I will be there from the insufferable and intolerable days to see us finally get the Roadrunner and it will feel better than just latching on, because the suffering is what makes everything afterward satisfying."

The third quarter had started. Monica picked up her cup of coffee, her hand slightly jerking and shaky. It was not blatantly noticeable. It was a shake one would have after a hangover from heavy drinking. Clark pretended like he didn't notice, but he couldn't discard the image from his mind. He tried watching the game. All he saw was ten men in a rectangular stage throwing the ball around.

"So how's fine Gregory," Ivan asked. "He wasn't here."

"It's actually Gregorio," Clark answered. "He couldn't make it, it was his cousin's birthday."

"I told your mom about Greg at work," I van said. "He was very polite. You've got that in you too, Clark. This genetic politeness."

"Shit dad," Clark answered. "I'm sure you guys raised me to be, too."

"Thanks dear," Monica replied. "We tried. But your father's right about the politeness of the Filipinos. At least the ones we met and know."

"I think you've told me that before," Clark said. "That book you gave me, the one by Teodor Agoncillo about the History of the Philippines, he says the same thing. It's nice to hear, but there are nice Irish and Portugese and Sudanese people, right? I mean if cultures don't want to be pigeonholed with negative stereotypes, why should we characterize ethnicities with positive stereotypes? And Agoncillo says that they're polite to a fault, which is so weird because the history books don't usually preface their book of facts with sociological reportings and pigeonholing an entire culture. It's like people will become predisposed to that demeanor after being told that over and over again. Filipinos are lazy, Filipinos are kind-hearted but also take advantage of their people's kind-heartedness, etc. etc."

"I guess you're right," Ivan said. But why can't a compliment just be a compliment?"

"Sorry dad," Clark said. "Thing is, I got confronted by a not-so-polite Filipino guy last night because I was in a rush and thought I lost my wallet. I didn't lose any sleep over it, but are we supposed to praise him for defying a stereotype? He was just another punk human being to me."

"Well you know, not every pinoy is polite, you know that," Monica said. "But it's the general cutlure, the values of a certain group. The genes and hereditary traits and the environment those things were nurtured by. When someone says Filipinos are warm-hearted people I'm not saying this guy and that guy are, I'm saying the ones I've encountered are for the most part really nice and generous with what they have. I'm sorry if it sounds rude or is a generalization and we should be more sensitive."

"But yeah," Ivan said. "All Irish guys are drunks. So Clark where's your scotch at buddy?"

Monica rolled her eyes. Clark smiled, stood up and went to the cabinet. The vision of his mom's shaky hand still played on loop in his mind. The sight of her tremoring hand was like expecting company you wish had never made it. He didn't want to open that thought into his mind yet, he wasn't prepared. Instead he took a swig of scotch before pouring a glass for himself and his dad. It was more hospitable than asking if they got checked yet.

"I think you guys get my point," Clark said with glasses in hand. "No need to drag it out."

Monica and Ivan both nodded their heads in agreement.

"Plus," he continued. "Looks like they're making a run."

Clark pointed to the television. The Warriors were up by 3 in meaningless game.

"That game we watched over a decade ago felt like another lifetime," Ivan said. "You were still a mushroom head."

"Yeah and you guys had a glass of wine every night with our neighbors, Art and Vanna."

"What was the name of their son," Monica asked. "Oh yeah, David."

"Davey Daugherty," Clark confirmed.

Ivan and Monica both laughed.

"We'd hang out while you guys were talking," Clark said.

"We were afraid," Monica added. "It seems stupid now."

Ivan continued where she left off.

"You see Art and Vanna were worried that he was gay and I guess through ignorance we were frightened you'd be gay too because you hung out with him."

Clark laughed.

"Not that we would be let down Clark," Monica interrupted. "We'd help you become the best homosexual you could ever be."

"Thanks mom. For the record I'm not gay."

"We know," Ivan said. "This is place is too messy for a queer-eye or what have you."

Clark finished his scotch before his dad.

"Whatever happened to them anyways," Clark asked.

"We lost touch, unfortunately," Monica said. "When they moved it was like they suddenly became the past."

"It felt like yesterday," said Ivan. "But at the same time it felt like a lifetime ago. I wouldn't be surprised to see David Daugherty at the Castro."

Ivan let out and embarrassed laugh and continued.

"When you don't see old friends, they become that-- old friends. Characters in anecdotes."

"That's sad," mused Clark. "They're no longer real. They're just footnotes in your own personal history."

Clark imagined Juan Lopez today, trying to remember what it was like to have a son. He imagined his parents funeral, which enhanced this moment between all three of them so that they won't become forgotten ghosts, so that they will always be more than worm food. He imagined Sandra before she died, waiting for him and unaware of his marriage proposal. She was already a person he would talk about in the past tense. She was already folklore and mythology for those that met him but never knew her. If he was drunker he'd give his parents a hug and tell them he loved them. Instead, he told them about Greg's aunt and how he was thinking of going with them to the Philippines.

"That's wonderful," Monica exclaimed. "We could give you the address of that convent, Our Lady of The Angels of Mercy"

Ivan smiled a smile Clark forgot that he could pull off.

"Then," Ivan said. "You can hit up those girlie brothel places."

"Ivan! Enough of that talk please."

She slapped Ivan's shoulder.

"Sorry, mother. Clark's of age and he's single and they're willing. Augustin at work says it's an experience worth investing in."

Clark poured himself another glass. He looked at the carpet, paid attention to the stains and the dried-out patches.

"Maybe it's not logical for me to go, you know."

"What do you mean, Clark," Monica asked.

"I don't know," Clark continued. "Isn't wrong for me to go anytime soon? I mean the lease ends on this house in January and I can't possibly afford it. Carly and Elden (he said with a wink) will more likely need their privacy and their own place."

"If you need tickets and accomodations," Ivan interrupted, "We can help you out, Clark."

"See," Clark re-interrupted, "That's the think. I really appreciate that offer but I couldn't in my right mind accept it."

"Clark," Monica said. "We're your parents. As long as we're here and as much as we can, we'll help you."

"That's our job, son," added Ivan. "It's one we enjoy. It's the only reason I watched Baywatch, to figure out the father-son dynamic between Mitch and Hobie."

Monica rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she said with sarcasm, "that explains the box of Kleenex next to you when you watched it and how you never watched your taped copies with me."

Ivan shrugged his shoulders.

"It tugs at my heartstrings," Ivan answered, "what can I say?"

Clark went to get another drink. He asked if they wanted another. His parents declined.

The chemistry between his parents were obvious, their repoire was like watching seasoned vaudeville stars; the way their facial expressions reacted to each other's rapid-fire responses, the way tame vulgarity played off with sincerity. It was as if they were each other's life force, giving and takingas much from each other equally. Whenever one inhaled, the other exhaled. He still couldn't accept their money. They've been giving him everything he's ever had, he thought.

Sitting back on the couch, the Warriors were down by a 2 with a little over a minute left. Clark was checking for symptoms. Maybe it was an aberration. Maybe his mind was tricking him. The game ended. The Warriors lost.

"You guys have done more than enough for me," Clark said.

"We can do more," answered Monica. "Don't concern yourself."

"Maybe the best action might be not to," Clark said. "For the last five months it's like people feel the need to help me or delicately walk around me. I think maybe if Sandra was still here and I brought up a solo trip to the Philippines then you guys would be polite and tell me what I'm thinking right now: money, responsibility, priority, growing up, maturing."

"Clark, as your father, I personally feel like you need to get away from here for a little while. I wish we can go with you but we can't right now."

"I understand that. I have money saved up. I love you guys and I know you know that. But please stop pitying me I can't take being some sort of charity case."

"That's not how we see it," Monica said. Her voice was softer than usual. "We just want to make sure our son's alright."

"I want to make sure you guys are alright too. I'm grown enough that you don' thave to treat my situation as a burden stacked upon the individual burdens you guys are facing."

Ivan's eyes welled up. He composed himself before responding.

"We don't want you to feel burdened, we don't see it's a burden. We are proud to call you son. It's normal for us to worry about you.

If you go with people that you now the country and care for your safety, then we'll be waiting for you when you get back. We have no problem helping you out in any circumstance, as long as we can."

"And not just with this trip," Monica interupted, "anything at all. It's our job, not yours, to worry."

"And my job is to be a responsible adult so you won't have to worry anymore," answered Clark. "I don't feel like I'm living up to my bargain."

Monica sat next to Clark and gave him a hug.

"Bullshit," she told him. "I think you'll realize this when you have kids of your own."

"You know," Clark said, "all I hear or ever heard has been about parents getting divorced, single parents, abusive parents, crackhead moms, deadbeat dads, alcoholics, anorexics, closeted dads, frigid moms, control freaks, you know all of that."

Ivan and Monica looked at each other, puzzled.

"So which one are we," asked Monica.

"You guys are, I guess, the adoptive parents? But beyond that, you are parents who have put too much faith in me or are too worried about rocking the boat. You are nicer than you need to be and when I say need to be, I mean that you are nice to me regardless of me living up to my end of the bargain when I know and you guys both know that this isn't what you expected from a son you adopted, to be this fucking aimless loafer."

"Holy shit, Clark," Monica interrupted. "You have no idea how proud we are of you, no matter how often we nagged you about school or voiced our concern about your future. You blessed us just as much, if not more, than we blessed you. We had a child, someone both of us planned to have, to raise right and to keep us grounded. Our world was different before you. Our concerns are normal, and we don't think you're a bad seed and we don't have any regrets at all."

"It's part of parenting," Ivan said. "Worrying is part of parenting, making sure our son is on the right track. But at the same time, we have to let you make your own decisions and we haven't thought twice about what you could've done or anything."

Although Clark was warmed by those words, he was aware that this was following good parenting protocol: re-assure worried child, hide any and all symptoms of Huntington's, etc. etc.

"Thanks guys. I know. I mean it's hard to show my appreciation and criticize at the same time. I feel like maybe everyone with their own parent-child conflicts have their built-in issues associated with that problem. Once we pinpoint them, then are we able to approach them in a diagnosable manner. Well, what's my excuse for being this meandering buffoon with no definitive plans or goals in a sea of people who at least had dreams and aspirations (whether or not they followed them)? My one goal is dead. Do you know how selfish I feel thinking 'oh, if my parents did this, this and this then maybe I'd be some prick entrepenuer or maybe I'd write a screenplay in my offtime or I'd be over Sandra."

Monica started crying, muffled and shaky. He leaned over to his mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek and held her hand.

"I mean, you guys did excellent. I was in little league, in martial arts classes, you gave me opportunities that other kids only dream of. You've given me freedom and structure that other kids would appreciate and cherish. I should be more driven, more successful, less feeling like something's missing, less feeling like maybe tyrannical parents would be better or dumbshit parents who didn't give a damn about me -- at least I'd have a reason to not give a fuck."

Ivan held Monica's hand and placed his other hand on Clark's knee.

"So you're looking at yourself and wondering why you are who you are and how we fit into that, right," Ivan asked.

"Yeah, I guess os."

"Well, we think the same thing," Ivan said. Sometimes, I think we should've tested for Huntington's. Sometimes I think maybe we should've gotten you a brother or sister but our budget was always so that we were able to give you everything."

Monica sat there, nodding. Ivan continued.

"I was 24 once. I remember it, that's when you were born, two years before we met you. I had just met your mother at a Huntington's support group in Sunnyvale."

Clark had heard this story before, but wanted to hear it again. Ivan never told stories as re-runs, he always added new wrinkles.

"We chatted a bit, me and your mother and I was nervous asking her out. I felt it was inappropriate but at the same time your grandfather was dying and I just stopped giving a damn about everything, so I said 'Let it ride'."

"And I said yes," Monica siad. "Because I was pretty much lowering my standards as it was."

She winked at Clark.

"The thing was," Ivan continued, "i was lost too. I'm not you, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to say that I can directly relate to your situation but I felt a way similar to yours. I mean it was a different time back then. You guys can download pornography at the drop of a dime. I had to go to a theater or rent a tape. But anyways, earlier that year I moved to LA to become an actor."

"Really," Clark asked.

"Bet you didn't know that," Ivan said. "I was three years removed from getting an accounting degree, but between graduating and working I'd do community theater when I had the time."

Clark recalled seeing an old tape of his dad doing Neil Simon's Chapter Two back in the day.

"After work usually," said Ivan. "My buddy Nicholas Marzouk...you remember Nicky right, Mon? He was at our wedding."

"The fat guy hitting on my sister right?"

"Yeah," Ivan said with a laugh. "Nicky moved to LA, pursued a career as a filmmaker, was in an episode of The Price is Right, won a toaster or something. His sister would tell me stories about how he hung out with Debra Winger or how he was backstage at a Chaka Khan show. You know, living the life."

"Is he still in the business," Clark asked.

"I wish I knew," said Ivan. "So yeah, me and Nick we're castmates at the Hayward Community Center's rendition of Oliver Twist and all of a sudden he got a SAG membership and was dating Van Halen's makeup artist and here I am, working a 9-to-5 job and picking girls up at bars (Ivan looked at Monica)...unsuccessfully.

So yeah, I'm just this gy that's daydreaming and sleepwalking. I finally have a acar, I was single, I've got money, a steady job and then BAM, my dad's dying of Huntington's, I get passed over a promotion from weasel-faced guy and suddenly I'm lost, unable to even see anything beyond my nose. So impulsively, I call Nicky and ask if I can stay at his place for awhile.I mean at this point in my life I just saw days as calendars turning their pages until the pages flip faster and faster, like in the movies. I decided to take control. I didn't tell your grandparents, didn't tell anyone. I quit my job and drove down there with just the money in my pocket and tunes on the radio."

"Knowing your tight jeans back then," Monica interrupted. "I'm sure those pockets probably required a Swiss Army knife to unload that pocket change."

"Oh yeah, laugh now sweetie. But those pants had you hypnotized. They were like a magic lamp and you couldn't help but want to rub it and see the genie."

"You know what," Clark interrupted, "let's stick to the story."

Monica and Ivan laughed.

"Yeah, okay," Ivan continued. "So I call up Nicky and tell him I just got in and he was very hospitable and gracious. He helped me get my headshot and audition tape and I even got a haircut I always wanted. I was set to be the next DeNiro, I believed that."

"What happened?"

"What happened was I got no callbacks, got extra work, no lines so no Screen Actors Guild, worked as a waiter with other hack dreamers and basically sat around drinking beer and watching Easy Rider every freaking night. I'd go to parties but really felt no drive. I thought about my dad and my mom and about how I couldn't face them without being this successful actor. I got a role on a TV show about people who work as furniture movers but it was never picked up.

But eventually I was running out of money and I went back north with my tail between my legs. My parents were disappointed of course, how I left without saying anything. Grandpa Carl was different when I arrived, he was sicker. He had lost his motor skills. But I don't regret a single second there. If I didn't do what I did and fiddle with Hollywood and its style I don't think I would have ever settled down with substance, with real life and with your mother.

It started out being fun and exciting, but when that last door closed shut in front of me from an audition, I felt like I was going in circles. I felt like I felt up north but with different scenery.

Those uninitiated into the real world or voluntarily avoid it are the ones that allow themselves to treat life like a theory instead of actually living life. It's not like you're running away. It's never just either stickin it out or running away from your problems. Decisions are never made when you make those decisions, they might be confirmed.. Things that happened before seem more precious or pivotal because you now have the context to decipher what it all meant.

So Clark, go to the Philippines. Get gonorrhea, they have medication now."

"Oh Jesus Ivan, we're back to this huh," Monica said while rolling her eyes. "Your motivational speaking career will do great -- 'Gonorrhea: A Hospital Visit You Won't Regret'... listen Clark, with or without Greg's relatives or if it's the Philippines or not, just go. Take a break. Napa Valley's good this weekend, but go somewhere where you can forget for a little while, re-energize yourself. Go to Vegas, go to Hawaii. The Philippines would be nice, but if you feel uncomfortable going there for any reason at all, just go somewhere else where you've never been."

"Be young," Ivan added, "be stupid, be happy."

Monica playfully slapped Ivan's wrist.

"Ivan, please shut the you-know-what up. Seriously Clark, you can be free and responsible at the same time. Mind your father, he's acting senile when it's I who has..."

She stopped takling, as if the world was on pause. If the TV wasn't on, then the three people in that room would've thought so. All three of them knew the ending to that sentence

It's I who has the disease.

"It's OK," Clark said. "It's amazing how it happened so late."

"We just found out two days ago," Monica said. "I was getting symptoms since last month and so we got tested. We didn't know how we should tell you. I'm sorry Clark."

"Don't be sorry mom," Clark said in a very rushed tone. "It happens. Don't treat me like a kid when it comes to this. I've been prepared since I was three years old."

Clark looked at his mom. He felt as if he was talking to a living ghost.

"We had to prepare ourselves too," Ivan said. "You just lost the love of your life, It's not easy to deal with that and then hear your mother's got Huntington's. We feel like we should treat this situation with kid's gloves, sorry Clark."

"You don't have to," Clark said.

"Yeah," Monica replied, "we don't have tobut you're being hard on yourself as it is and we don't want you to do that. We need you to know that we're okay. We raised a son we're not ashamed to love, who's blessed us with his presence. I'm just going to enjoy the time I have left with you, with your father, with each other."

"I can't go," Clark said. "I don't want to leave. Why are you pushing me to leave? Time is fucking emptying through a sieve as we speak. I have the rest of my life to take a break or evaluate my life from a distance. The last time I did that, I came home to a corpse, mom. I came home to a corpse, dad."

He could hear his voice rise, his face animate (sprinkled with torment and disappointment and sadness), the whine in his tone. For some reason, amongst other people, his fuse was not as short. With his parents, he was not as composed or polite. It was as if they were the only people that allowed him to act this way.

"Oh Clark," Monica said. "We'd love to see you anytime we can. Inevitably, I've always known that I was going to get checked and tested. The whole thing with Sandra, the convulsions, I couldn't be afraid anymore. My whole life, and I think I speak for your father too, who dodged the bullet, but my whole life we've lived like we were desperately trying to outrace death. So we got tested. We just had to prepare to tell the ones we love. We were already prepared for ourselves.

"I'll be okay. I know I will. I just hope and pray you will be."

They had a group hug. Clark held on tight. He felt like he was 8 years old. holding on, scared of leaving.

"If you don't go with Greg's relatives," Monica continued. "Just go anyways, you need it. You deserve it. When I'm unable to communicate with you or your father. Don't let that be the last memory. That's my one selfish request."

Clark held on tight to his parents. They loosened their grip before he did.

"Of course, mom."

The rest of the night, they talked about nothing important. At around midnight, his parents decided they should leave. He walked them to his car, watched their car leave until it was specks of light, went back to his house, took a swig of scotch, cried his eyes out and picked up The Anti-Failure Plan.