I gave myself a good, hard look in the mirror. They were my family. My parents. I had to make it through dinner. Just dinner and then I could excuse myself from dessert, telling them I wasn’t feeling well. I loved my family. I really did.
It’s too bad I had to keep reminding myself of that fact.
I meandered back out to dinner where my parents finishing their plates. I sat down and took a few bites, trying to stomach the food as my mind began to whirl. My father talked aimlessly about the current state of the San Diego real estate market. He asked me questions about my new projects, about how much the homes I built went for and what kind of profit I made from them. He asked me if I’d thought about renting them instead of selling them, bringing in a guaranteed monthly profit I could rely on to expand even more.
And that segued into a conversation with my mother that almost blew my head through the roof.
“Speaking of poor business decisions,” she said, “are you still giving charity jobs to hobos?”
I had to put my hands in my lap so no one could see me balling up my fists in anger.
“Yes, Mom. I’m still instilling community outreach into my business,” I said. “I’ve even taken a couple of them on as permanent employees once I trained them and cleaned them up.”
“You know that will never bring your brother back. It’s just your guilt driving that sort of thing. It really is a poor business model,” she said.
“Dorothy, I believe that’s enough,” my father said.
“Look. We tried to talk him out of those hideous tattoos, and it almost cost him his career, Michael. The least we can do is intervene now before his emotions completely sink his business.”
“Well, I’m not the one actively removing the presence of John out of my life, so I’d be careful with the next words you choose,” I said.
“Beg your pardon?” my mother asked.
“The pictures. You’ve removed all of them containing John like he didn’t even exist. I might be reaching out into the community because of what he went through in his life, but at least I’m not trying to act like the black sheep of the family didn’t exist.”
“Bryan,” my father said.
“And for the record, the mere fact that I’m a successful business owner disproves your theory about the negative value of tattoos,” I said.
“I’d like to scrub them off with steel wool,” she said, murmuring.
“I’m a law-abiding citizen with a very successful career co-owning the premier up-and-coming construction company in all of California. I reach out to the community and try to revive it by pulling from the most underutilized workforce in this country, the poor. I’ve had requests from all over the state wanting our crews to come in and develop some of the lands they can’t seem to do anything with and to revive communities that have sunken into turmoil. And I did it all with these tattoos you seem to think so rudely of,” I said.
“The tattoos simply make you look bad, regardless of your business success,” she said. “I gave birth to such a beautiful boy, and you marred your body with these ugly things.”
I had to take a deep breath in order to regulate my blood pressure. The chef tried to sit dessert in front of me, but I simply waved him off. I had no intentions of staying any longer in this house. I didn’t have to tolerate my mother speaking to me this way, and I sure as hell didn’t have to tolerate my father trying to shut me up while she did it.
I didn’t give a shit as to whether or not she liked the tattoos, but I’d be damned if I was going to sit here and listen to her degrade and shit on my plan to help the homeless.
Just because she thought she was better than everyone else didn’t mean I had to sit here and listen to her preach her twisted truth.
“And anyway, everyone who is able-bodied proves themselves,” my mother said. “People who are homeless simply deserve it. Handing them jobs they don’t deserve or interview for simply perpetuates their dependence on us. Those who have become successful because we didn’t succumb to the pressures of life.”
“I am not giving handouts, mother. I am taking them on with strict rules they have to abide by. If they don’t follow the rules, they get fired. Simple as that. They work full days, earn their paychecks, and learn a trade in the process that they can then use to get them off the streets. I’m not handing them jobs, I’m giving them a chance to do what you just talked about.”
“And what is that, my dear?” she asked.
“Prove themselves. I’m doing exactly what you both taught me to do growing up, provide opportunities for hard-working people who recognize the fact that they’ve made mistakes.”
Silence descended upo
n the table again as my parents sent their desserts away as well. We all sat there, sipping our expensive wine while the tension slowly grew between the three of us. Despite all that occurred, despite everything with John and all the values they raised us with, they were stuck in this insane mindset that permeated the upper-class arrogance of this area of the country. They lacked empathy and respect. They lacked the ability to have mercy and put themselves in other people’s shoes. It was that same lack of desire to help and care for and love that had pushed my brother out of the house and onto the streets.
It was that same lack of respect that pushed my brother all the way to Los Angeles.
It was that same lack of caring about anything other than how shit reflected on them that resulted in my brother overdosing in the streets instead of being helped by the people he should’ve been able to trust all his life, especially the two people who should’ve taken him in when no one else would.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said as I stood.