Waiting for the Real Family

I had the 2 most important people in my life over for dinner the other night. My Fatty, the old pal cum new boyfriend and Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Between the mock fights both physical and verbose, Fatty thinks Ack and I could charge admission to this exhibition. We don't tend to perform this routine as much when we are alone. Extra ham, the only time I really choose pork products, is for the benefit of outside observers. In the end I'm left with the same level of exhaustion felt after babysitting 3 year olds for 6 hours. Spent. We've reached that marvellous point in our relationship where, stifling nothing, with gaping maws redolent of a Nightmare Before a Dentist, Ack and I invariably end up kicking the other out of our respective houses at least at one point during an evening. The other night was no exception.

We have an understanding.
Sleeve = a slurred "just leave"

Fatty and I met while Ack and I were still married. When I broke the news to him of my decision to severe ties, he was earnestly sorry and wondered if maybe I wasn't making a bad decision. He'd never seen two people as well suited for one another. He, like many of our supporters, looked at our marriage as the model of what works. What should be. Once he got to know me better, he began to understand my decision as the only one I could have made. I'm happy that once he got to know me better he fell in love with me.

Fatty and Ack have an extraordinary relationship. Neither feels jealous of the other; it's quite the opposite, really. Both have a great deal of respect for one another. Fatty is always aware of Ack's presence, which manifests itself as There will be no touching of the Comrade in Ack's company. At first I thought Fatty wasn't much for public displays of affection. He's definitely not Italian, yet even though his roots are firmly steeped in British soil, he ain't a prude nor a soccer hooligan either. He's simply respectful of a friend's feelings and two shared histories.

Ack started a new job, a brief tenure, on the movie Saw II. As if the first one wasn't bad enough, they had to make another. Apparently the movie is worth it for the last scene. Personally, I couldn't get past the acting in the first scene. It was reminiscent of the kind of over-Method acting habitually found in the safety of an exorbinantly priced actor's workshop. The theory being: If you pay through the nose you can overact until the shroud of Pacino appears.

Ack was talking to a few new work cronies about me and Fatty.

Cronie #1: Whoa. You're still friends with your ex-wife?
Ack: Sure. Really great friends.
Cronie #2: And you like this new guy she's seeing?
Ack: Yeah. I like him a lot. He's a keeper.

Ack had once said that Fatty felt like family to him. His real family.

Early in our marriage, Ack had confessed to a childhood fantasy. It turned out to be one I had secretly held as well. The possibility of being abandoned by our real families, dumped on the doorstep of misfits and yokels. We, as children, were sitting on our respective front stoops. Alone. Waiting patiently. Back straight for a while. Adjusting our crayon drawn haloes. The state of seeming loveable and good, the presentation of momentary perfection in a child. Homelife was rancid and felt like deep immersion into a totalitarian state. With heads resting on fists, weight forced onto elbows through to torned knees on size 6x pants, we daydreamed of the day when a faceless family would rush out of a car, probably a limosine, full of tears and love, begging for forgiveness for their unconscionable abandonment. Don't worry, they'd say. Everything's alright now. We're taking you home.

To Xanadu.
A rollerskating heaven.
With streamer barrettes
And Gene Kelly.

You can't do that.
It can't be done.
That is audacious.
Who do you think you are?

What did they do to us?

Fatty's No Touching Clause didn't bug me as much as the collective ganging up on the Comrade. Friends ganging up on me is fine, funny even. But as soon as the equation involves a lover, things get a bit complicated. I get super-sensitive.

Fatty: Why?
The Comrade: Because it makes me feel 13 again. Judged, knowing nothing, treated like a second class apocalyptic mongrel.

Fatty's very concerned about walking on eggshells around me. I am incredibly sensitive in very strange areas and equally desensitised in others.

This Matters:
Not being heard.
Being stopped with someone else allowed to speak before me, even though I interjected at the same time or earlier.
Not being defended.

The massive turning point in my last marriage happened during a family function. My side of the family. In a restaurant my darling father was talking about the then current Cecilia Zhang child abduction case where the missing girl was Chinese in descent. He was convinced that even though she was 9 years old, her dyed hair was evidence that she must have been a handful, therefore the mother had killed her.

Oh yes! He's very rational!

My sister-in-law, Anita, was pissed off because the mother was accused.

Anita and my father never saw eye to eye on most matters. She always felt judged by him. He has that affect on people. He accused the mother and not the collective parents because he, as a father, could never admit to doing anything wrong.

I was pissed off because of the dyed hair = punishable by death comment. Evidence of dyed hair was a dig at me. When I was young and unruly with blonde hair. I lost it.

Just as I was revving my engines for an eardrum piercing gutteral retort Ack, seated next to me, grabbed my leg, pushed hard on it and said quietly but with force, "Let... him... finish."

Well, well... et tu Brute?
Here endeth the union.

It's my soft spot.

Things That Don't Matter:
Everything else.

What did they do to us?


Fatty was kicked out of his house at 16. His parents sat on the same side of the breakfast nook, having had their fill of him. If he couldn't get his shit together, together they would kick his shit out. Though he wasn't the model child, he certainly wasn't a bad seed. It was designed to be a lesson to their first born child. Something he'd never forget. The lesson ended up registering as What's the point?

Ack was gifted with the ability to create visual art right from diapering. With heavy Eastern European accents the induced mantra heard throughout his development was, "Nice hobby, but what are you going to do with your life?" I am happy to report that Ack did it anyway. Fuck 'em. What do they know? And he's making a living at doing it.


With Fatty and I, Ack was lobbing up a huge apologetic preface to a positive statement about himself. "If there was something I could say about myself that was maybe good...."

The Comrade: You know, it's stupid that we have to apologise and grovel before saying anything good about ourselves to others.

We were on the topic of glass ceilings. Some of ours weren't even glass, though. Some of our ceilings were painted black. There was no beyond that we could see, that we could bring hammers upon. The Applier's name came up.

What if:
You were raised with no "no's"?
You were want for nothing?
You never understood a glass ceiling?
You were never discouraged to try anything?

This was how the Applier was raised. Even making an attempt at making out with his best friend's ex-wife, this young man fears nothing in asking people for anything. He subsequently receives unbelievable opportunities because he is fearless in asking.

Case in point:
Sharing a ski lift with a stranger in Colorado, the writer/director/producer Applier asked his previously unbeknownst to him seated companion what he did for a living.

Director of New Programming at HBO.

The Applier: I have some ideas.
Director of New Programming: Here's my card. I'll be free to talk in 3 weeks. Call my secretary for an appointment.

For every Applier there is in the world, there are scores more Dwights.

Dwight works in the Art Department with Ack. Originally from St. Kitt's, he's a gentle man. Over the weekend he had broken his hand but didn't go to the hospital to have it set. 12 hours can elapse; a skyscraper sized stack of forms can materialise in a hospital emergency's waiting room without one bandage being produced. With broken hand on a movie set, though favouring it, Dwight did not waver in any of his duties. He was ever the CAD master, though slower. He was prompt, early even, for morning call. He would ask for no help. Ack had to fight him to forcibly remove loaded dollies from his hands. Had Ack not been there, Dwight would have continued with no assistance. He could have done further damage to his bread and butter.

What did they do to him?


Ack has discovered a new paradigm. It's along the same lines as Ask and Ye shall receive, but a little more planned.

What if:
You laid out exactly what you wanted?
And asked for it by name?

Not for anyone else, just yourself. No altruism. Beyond world peace. Beyond the cure for AIDS (even though there is a cure, they're just withholding; the sick, greedy bastards). This is not a money/ fame issue. What do you want?

Ack has been keeping a journal for as long as he can remember. I have been writing since Ack and I had married. He had introduced Julia Cameron's Artist Way to me. It's a 12 week programme designed to bust creative blocks, allowing a person to freely create, or at least create more than one had previously allowed for him/ herself. The greatest tool I learned from that book was Morning Pages.

Give yourself about an hour in the morning to write, freehand, 3 pages of 3 ring binder paper. Train of thought stuff. Brain dump. It could capture dreams, general malaise, epic euphoria or nothing. The point is to never let the pen stop. Even if the only phrase that comes out is "I can't think of anything to write", something invariably will come out.

It is because of Ack that I write. It is because he bought that book for me.

Ack is still keeping his practice of Morning Pages. They're more condensed now. The book is smaller. His writing more legible. His thoughts more cohesive. Because this book is only designed for his eyes, he has gained more of a sense of ownership within it. He has begun an experiment. He is beginning to write out exactly what he wants. Audacious! For now it is relegated to the business realm. To his astonishment everything he is putting mind to paper on, he has received. He's not asking for trivial wealth or fame. He is asking for earnest specific requests like who he sees himself working with, the environment in which he optimally wants to work and the style and subject matter. And he's getting it.

I had begun asking too, weeks ago. For me I don't care about the matter of the World of Business. My concern is with the World of Goodness. Ack thought me foolish when I said to him that I am only allowing good and righteous people to share my life with. He thought my days would be lonely.

The Comrade: But there's you.
Ack: Yeah, but...
The Comrade: And everyone else that's in it.

And it may not be enough for some people. I do not have thousands of supporters. For me they're enough to fill a limosine that pulls up to the side of a curb. As all the occupant's eyes target a young girl sitting on a porch-step with holes in knees, holding a piece of paper with a multicoloured series of crayon circles over her head. Each are happy to report: It's time to go home.