Call Me Charlie

Issue 267

May 06, 2025

THURSDAY:

We arrive at my parents’ house in Jersey. Pastel eggs and glittery “Happy Spring!” signs are scattered on every inch of available shelf space through the entire downstairs. My favorite is three bunnies riding in a carrot car.

FRIDAY:

In the morning, Sam says to my dad, “So what’s the plan for today, Chaz?”

“Well first I need to take a shower,” Dad says. “Then I’ll probably have something to eat, and then, I don’t know, I’ll see where the day goes.”

This is retirement. The night before we arrived at 8:30pm and Dad greeted us on the front porch step. He stayed up with us until 10:30 PM and didn’t doze on the couch once. For my whole life he woke up at 3:00 AM and spent the day driving and on his feet. When he got home at 3:00 PM he made a gin and tonic, ate dinner, and went to bed by seven.

But last night, for the first time, my dad not only stayed up late, he played with my kids. The three of them tossed back and forth a colorful soft cube. When my dad snatched it out of the air and said, “It’s mine!” George tried to grab it back from him while Layla collapsed on the ottoman in fits of laughter.

SATURDAY:

The biggest argument I have is with my sister and dad about high school sports.

Alexis and my dad say Varsity sports are about winning.

I say the most important thing is how you conduct yourself on the field as a person, as a player, and as a teammate.

They tell me those things matter, but winning is the first priority.

I disagree.

My dad says, “I guess that’s why you’re not a coach anymore.”

SUNDAY:

I see my older brother, Jim. We have not seen or spoken to each other in six years.

There was no big argument or conflict. We just stopped communicating.

Since then, we’ve both gotten married and become parents.

He walks through my parents’ front door holding his 8-month-old daughter on his hip. He says, “Hello, Charlie.”

I say, “Hello, brother,” and we hug.

It’s not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar. His baby is cute.

I tell Alexis I went to a Cheryl Strayed writing retreat.

“Who’s that?”

“She wrote Wild.”

“Omg I hated that book,” Alexis says. It was Alexis who first introduced me to Cheryl Strayed. She read the book when we were in college. “She was an idiot. She packed way too many things… I hated that book.”

We pose for a family photo in the backyard. The last time we all took a picture together was the last time I saw Jim, at my wedding, six years ago.

My younger sister, Stephanie, sets up her camera on a ladder and can’t figure out the timer.

“We’re not ready yet,” she tells us. “Just talk amongst yourselves. Be normal.”

We all stand close to each other. The parents hold the little kids, who all seem to be, on some level, losing it.

We are ready for the picture. Stephanie announces ten seconds, then runs to join us on the end.

We all do our best to get Jim’s baby to look at the camera, but there’s no person standing there to get her attention so our attempts are futile. The camera flashes.

My brother-in-law bolts away from the group and inside the house. He’s done, he says.

I laugh. Good one, Gary. But Gary doesn’t come back. We all stand there, waiting and wondering what’s happening. His 3-year-old screams, “Daddy!” But there is still no sign of him. Alexis smiles and casually calls his name.

“What is happening,” I say loud enough for Alexis to hear, but low enough to avoid confrontation.

Gary finally emerges from the house minutes later, while we all have been standing on the grass, holding our kids, promising them we’ll be done soon.

“I hate to take pictures! You know this!”

He says this smiling and laughing but it doesn’t feel funny.

We take one more picture, and afterwards someone thanks Gary.

I tell Alexis we’re going to start homeschooling at the end of the year.

“What curriculum are you going to use?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well you need to use a curriculum to teach them how to read.”

“Okay.”

“And it needs to be phonics-based.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to teach them how to read together. They need to learn together…”

She goes on, the all-knowing middle school Teacher of the Year. I am only half-listening, as I imagine my kids reading in a few years, better and more advanced than her own 3-year-old daughter, and sending her a video of them reading with the caption, “Suck a dick, Alexis.”

—

Happy Easter!

Charlie