I still remember my trip gone awry to the animal shelter, clear as day, more than a year later. When I stepped through the same doors last weekend, it wasn’t just the doors that were the same, it was the same staff, same smells, same din, same bustle. What was different was the added layer of despair.
This was partly because it was late afternoon, a mere 40 minutes before closing time, and there’s this sense of melancholy when that hour nears. I also noticed a lot more whining from a few of the dogs, which was a first in my trips to the pound. Now, I’ve heard whining before from the family dogs–for food, for an imminent walk–but this seemed more urgent, more desperate. In the very first kennel, there was a beautiful Retriever-Chow mix who tried to offer a paw to shake and then, deterred by the chainlink fence, pressed her golden flank against the wire instead, all the while whining. It was heartwrenching. You couldn’t have staged this shit. There I was, wishing I could speak dog, and all I could do was lock eyes with her and think about what I’d say: “I don’t know how you ended up here, or why the situation’s like this. But I am so, so sorry.”
I’m going back this weekend. Because I arrived at the shelter so late on Sunday, interactions weren’t allowed anymore, and I’ve got to spend some time with these dogs. This is also the perfect reason to really whip my abode into shape. I’ve been cleaning my townhouse slowly, over these past few weeks, but this was a wake-up call, a rallying cry to make my abode ready for two- and four-legged visitors alike.
Personal phone protocol stipulates that if I don’t recognize your phone number, I sure as shit ain’t pickin’ up. Heck, even if I do recognize your number, I may still not answer. Same goes for any knocks on the front door, where surprise visits will be summarily ignored. This has been my unilateral policy, and it’s served me well. I chose to break custom tonight, however, and I was duly punished for it.
There’s been an uptick of calls from a few unfamiliar numbers recently from a very familiar area code: 847, Illinois, home of the alma mater. At first, I wrote it off as an incompetent telemarketer, but I didn’t count on an incompetent and persistent telemarketer, so I answered today out of curiosity. An earnest, fresh-faced voice greeted me on the other end. Name of Chase, graduated a couple years after me, and he was calling for a few reasons. But first, he wanted to know how I was doing.
Then, he began reciting my current address, contact info, employer, job title, all in an easygoing, conversational tone, which annoyed me to the utmost. That’s because I knew precisely where this call was headed–an effort to dial for alumni dollars. Thing is, though, the punchline was still far off in the distance, and the road to it was fraught with topics such as what my degree truly meant to me.
I politely aborted the call, logged into the database to delete all my personal info, and promptly went ghost. In my mind, I had somehow concluded that by serving time in the local alumni association–a certifiably wretched experience, but that’s for another day–I was insulating myself from such calls. Erroneous! Erroneous on all counts. Yeah, a university might be an institution charged with the high-minded pursuit of truth. But it is also a creature that H.P. Lovecraft could only have conceived in his happier moments, one which will consume every minute, every dollar in your possession, if you let it. Lesson learned, you could say.
There was a healthy stretch of time, about a year or so ago, when I wasn’t entirely sure where my old man went. I had a pretty good idea it was either the States or somewhere in Taiwan, but if you had pressed me for a more accurate answer, well, you would’ve found more satisfaction in a coin toss. Sure, I could’ve e-mailed or called him at any point to ascertain his exact location, but that would’ve been too simple. We usually only contact each other a handful of times a year, and an off-cycle communiqué would’ve thrown off our rhythm.
Ours has always been a complicated relationship. “Distant” is one adjective I’d use. In case you think we’re headed for an exposé on traditional Asian father-son dynamics, though, let me disabuse you of this idea. Have you ever seen Heroes? Honestly it’s more like that, where parents are amped up versions of their offspring. He’s more stubborn than I am. Inscrutable, despite my best efforts to read him. Equal parts frugal and generous, far more than I will ever be.
“Competitive” is another adjective I’d choose. I remember starting my first job out of college and disclosing my salary to him, only to be told the amount was a mere fraction of the yearly bonuses he collected. The intent of the observation wasn’t malicious, by any means, but it was certainly twisted. And yet, there were instances, too, like when I landed my second job, where he’d acknowledge, with a kind of oblique pride, how he had made far less when he was my age.
Dysfunctional? Without a question. But I’ve made my peace, due in no small part to changing the way we talk. The tone used to be polite, reserved. Then, I started using this voice, the one which binds us twice a week–assured, sardonic, familiar–to good effect. I didn’t flip a switch, mind you. I’ve been easing into it, and now, finally, it feels like we’re speaking the same language.