The Thing I Didn't Know I Didn't Know (Russel Middlebrook: The Futon Years Book 1) (15 page)

"You think it was going to pull me down into the escalator and grind me up?" I finished tying my shoe and stood up again.

"It could have."

"Come on."

"It could!"

"People don't die getting sucked into escalators."

"They do!" Vernie said. "All the time. If it hadn't been for me, you'd be hamburger right now."

"I'm looking it up on Snopes."

While we were in line to buy tickets, I actually did look it up on my phone, and to my surprise, there actually
are
a bunch of recorded cases of people getting their shoelaces stuck in escalators with pretty scary results. In the worst-case-scenarios, they try to get their laces free and end up with mangled fingers—although one guy supposedly got the strings to his hoodie stuck and strangled to death.

"Okay," I said at last. "I admit it was
theoretically
possible for me to have died. But the lace was barely stuck. That doesn't count as saving my life."

"Fine," Vernie said. "But you can buy your own damn popcorn!"

*   *   *

After the movie, Vernie said, "Let's get coffee and talk about it."

"Okay," I said. From the escalator going down, I looked around the mall. Weirdly, I only saw three coffee shops in direct view. Given this is Seattle, home to Starbucks, I would've expected at least six. But there were plenty of restaurants too.

"Not in here," she said. "Follow me."

So I followed her—outside, across the street, and down into the light rail station, where we caught a train to the south end of downtown.

"Where are we going?" I asked on the train.

"You'll see."

We got off at the Pioneer Square Station, and she led me up the hill, to the Columbia Center, which is, like, one of the tallest buildings in the world. (Wait. Go back. I just looked it up. It's not even in the top one hundred tallest buildings in the world. But it's still seventy-six stories tall, with another seven floors underground.)

"The Starbucks on the fortieth floor," I said to Vernie. I'd heard about it before, how there was this coffee shop in the "sky lobby" on the fortieth floor, and about what great views it had. It was a totally cheap way to see the city from high up without paying the twelve bucks it cost to go to the observation deck on the very top floor. I'd been meaning to come for years.

"Why just drink coffee when you can drink coffee at five hundred feet?" Vernie said. "It costs the same either way, correct?"

"Correct," I said. Knowing Vernie, this totally figured.

We rode the elevator up. Truthfully, I was a little disappointed. When you call something a "sky lobby," you're leading people to believe there will be massive art deco ceilings and soaring winged guardian-statues. But it turned out to be less
Bioshock: Infinite
's city-in-the-clouds and more just a couple of hallways with several banks of elevators. That said, the corner view from the Starbucks was pretty great. Seattle is surrounded by water on three sides—Puget Sound to the west, Lake Union to the north, and Lake Washington to the east. From that coffee shop, you could see all three. And since the Columbia Center is the tallest building in town, on the fortieth floor you're already about as high up as most of the other skyscrapers.

As we were waiting in line to get our coffee, Vernie asked me, "So you didn't tell me how your date with Felicks went."

"Oh," I said, feeling awkward. "Well, he's a really nice guy. But his politics..."

"Politics?"

"He's a libertarian. Rand Paul supporter."

"Oh, good
God
." Her eyes bulged.

"Yeah, I know."

"I had no idea."

"Well, I still really appreciate you setting us up," I said. "I mean it. My parents...well, they've hardly ever even mentioned that I'm gay, not since I came out, like, six years ago. They never ask about my social life at all. I mean, it would probably be really horrible if they ever tried to set me up with a guy—I'd hate to see the kind of guy they'd want me to be with. But they'd never do it anyway, not in a million years. So it really means a lot that you did. It's like you're the mom I wish I'd had."

I said this without thinking, but as soon as it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. For one thing, it was weird to say while standing in line at Starbucks, even one in a "sky lobby". But for another thing, it seemed like I was putting Vernie in an awkward position. What if she didn't feel the same way?

"You're very sweet," she said.

That made me relax a little. But I couldn't help but notice that she turned forward in line and didn't say another word until after we'd both gotten our coffee from the barista.

*   *   *

We found a table at a window. Over on Puget Sound, a ferry was just heading off to Bainbridge Island. It was a quintessential Seattle scene, but I mostly ignored it. I just sat there, waiting for my drink to cool—plain old drip coffee, Pike Place Roast (I hadn't wanted to assume Vernie was paying). Vernie didn't say anything either, just sipped her mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino with extra whipped cream.

Now I knew I'd offended her.

"You wanna know what happened to my kids," she said at last, not a question.

"Huh?" I said. "No. I wasn't going to ask that. That's none of my business."

"Maybe not," she said, "but you were wondering. Ever since it came up at dinner."

This was why Vernie had gotten so quiet? I hadn't offended her—I'd reminded her of her kids. I'd completely misread the situation, maybe the same way I'd done with Trai (but not with Colin).

"Yeah," I admitted. I
had
been wondering.

"There's no real mystery. I was a crappy mom. My kids hate me."

"Oh, I'm sure they don't—"

"Russel, it's okay. The paper lantern has already been torn off the light bulb on that one, okay? And, you know, they're right. I never wanted to be a mother in the first place, and I resented that they came between me and my writing. It wasn't just that either. I always had these
choices
to make. Either I could spend the weekend with Warren and Goldie, or I could go see my kid play soccer. Always these terrible choices. And I made the choices I did, but karma got her revenge. In the end, I was a bad mother, and I didn't get the writing career I wanted either. Although that also had to do with sexism—it wasn't
all
my fault."

"I'm sorry," I said, even as I was also thinking,
You got invited to spend weekends with Warren Beatty and Goldie Hawn?

Vernie tugged an ear. "It is what it is. I made the choices, I have to live with the consequences. Everything in life has a price. But I haven't given up on my kids completely. I have this idea that there'll be a big happy reunion in the end. In the movie of my life, there sure would be." She sipped her drink. It left a small whipped cream Hitler mustache, but only until she licked her lip. "But enough about you, let's talk about me, right? What'd you think of the movie?"

What did I think of what? It was strange to shift gears so rapidly.

"I'm sorry," Vernie said. "I don't like to talk about it. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life—we all have. But screwing up your job as a parent? That's one of the mistakes that most people think is unforgiveable. And they're right—it
is
unforgiveable. I have no excuse for what I did, except I'm a bad person."

"I hated it," I said.

Vernie's eyes met mine, and she smiled as broadly as I'd seen her smile all day, and I knew I'd played it exactly right. The kind thing to do here wasn't to say, "No! You're really a great person!" but to simply let her have her moment of grief and move on.

But at the same time, I couldn't help but wonder if the fact that she'd taken an interest in me in the first place didn't have something to do with her own kids, if I was somehow sort of giving her a chance to "do over" her parenting. I mean, duh, right? It was funny how people really did make at least a tiny bit more sense when you stopped seeing them from just your own point of view and started thinking about how they might see themselves.

"What did you hate about it?" Vernie asked me.

"Well, it looked great," I said. "And it was well-acted. But I hated the characters." We'd gone to see this arthouse movie that had been getting really good reviews. It was called
Midnight Calling
, and it was about this guy and girl who agree to pretend to be a drug dealer and a prostitute in order to save someone's life. But as the night goes on, they discover they really like it, and they don't want to go back to their old, boring lives.

"So you think characters have to be likable for a movie to be good?"

"No," I said. "Obviously not."

"Why is that obvious?"

"Because there are a lot of great movie characters who aren't likeable at all."

"Like who?"

"I don't know. Norman Bates."

"You've seen
Psycho
?"

"Sure." I was happy she was impressed, which is why I didn't mention that I totally didn't get what the big deal was about the shower scene. (Yes, yes, it was revolutionary at the time. I'm not an idiot.)

"But even if they're not likeable, characters still have to be interesting," I said. "The characters in that movie were pretty much just, well, assholes." I was a little embarrassed to use that word in front of Vernie, being an old person and all, but I knew she wouldn't be offended, that she sometimes even swore herself. "I get that your characters have to be flawed—that if they're too perfect they're boring. But I've never understood why people think just being an asshole makes you interesting—in books and movies, I mean. There are enough assholes in real life—why would I want to spend time with them in the movies? There has to be a really good reason."

"Well, interesting characters are a lot harder to write than they look," Vernie said. "And of course 'asshole' is in the eye of the beholder. But I've thought the same thing. For a long time, the leading characters in movies
had
to be saintly. There was even a code. But now we've gone too far in the other direction. It's like the more an asshole a character is, the more it's an indication of the writer's 'bravery' and 'authenticity.' I think it has to do with the rise of the counter-culture in the sixties and seventies. The 'hero' became someone who questioned authority, someone who stood up against the prevailing culture. But then the counter-culture
became
the culture. Which was actually pretty great until the corporations started using counter-culture attitudes to sell shoes and music and soda pop. And then the conservatives co-opted it to sell wars and tax cuts for millionaires. Then came the rise of irony, and a corresponding rise in cynicism, and eventually it all collapsed into nihilism. Now we're condemned to sit through a bunch of movies where no one cares about anything except themselves, and they tell us it's all so revolutionary and daring, when it's really just the same old pandering."

"Yeah," I said. I wasn't used to feeling stupid around people, not even Min. But right then, I felt stupid around Vernie.

"The feeling I get these days," Vernie said, "is that a lot of writers don't like their characters very much. Or maybe it's that they don't like the audience. All I know is it has something to do with how they feel, which isn't good. I suppose it all comes back to their view of human nature. Is there anything redeemable about us at all?"

"What do you think?" I said.

She thought for a second. "I think that as a species, we're cruel, small-minded, bigoted, superstitious, completely self-centered, and incredibly short-sighted. But that there are still plenty of individuals among us, maybe ten percent, who are simply grand. Present company included."

I smiled. "And those are the characters you write about?"

"You bet your boots." She slurped her coffee. "What's your view of human nature?"

"What you said sounds about right."

"No, really. Tell me."

I had to think, not just because I wanted to impress Vernie, but also because I wanted to tell the truth. I sipped my coffee now too. It was finally cool enough to drink. And if it acted like most hot beverages, it would stay just the right temperature for about thirty seconds.

"People mostly suck," I said. "But sometimes they surprise you."

"Oh!" Vernie said, grinning. "That's much better than what I said. Much more concise."

Vernie's reaction made me feel warm inside. It was even better than coffee at the right temperature.

"What's sad," Vernie said, "is that these days, we're what passes for optimists."

I guffawed. "What was it like, working as a screenwriter in Hollywood?"

"Complicated. There are three main forces behind every movie, all very, very powerful. There's the producer, or whoever has the money. He's the most powerful force of all—and I'm not being sexist when I say 'he.' One way or another, it's always a he. Then there's the director, who also has a lot of power. And for what it's worth, that's almost always a 'he' too. Then there are the actors—the bigger the actor is, the more powerful they are. If they're really big, they might even have more clout than the director. But probably not the producer, at least not if he's also the financier. One way or another, those three forces need to be in synch, even if it's some kind of competitive rivalry. If they're not...well, have you ever wondered why there are so many crappy movies?"