Ted decided that the random image of his mother on the detergent box was a sign to clean up Marty’s house, so that’s what he did all night. It was years-long überfilthy, and Ted quickly got well acquainted with the smells and putrid rejectamenta of his dad’s encroaching disease. He did laundry for hours and hours, filled trash bags with ancient Kleenex crusted by god knows what. He didn’t want to know. Animal mineral vegetable—all three in one? He half expected to find Jimmy Hoffa. But he plowed on. Just because he was a lousy housekeeper for himself didn’t mean he couldn’t be a decent housekeeper for his father. It gave Ted something to do, and made the strained silences between father and son less glaring. If he couldn’t identify something, he tossed it in a trash bag without looking too closely.
When Ted could take no more, they reheated the Chinese and ate in front of the TV, watching the sports news. Father and son both favored the “Amazin’” Bill Mazer on WNEW. The Amazin’ informed the men that the Yankees had won up at Fenway. The loss seemed to make Marty cough. Ted stuffed his own mouth with an orange gelatinous piece of fried something that the mostly unilingual folks over at Jade Mountain identified as sweet-and-sour pork. He had his suspicions. Growing up, there had always been rumors of the dog over at Jade Mountain. Every year was possibly the Year of the Rat or Dog over there. He had no idea what meat was at the center of the sweet, crunchy orange goo, or if it was meat at all, and he stopped himself from wondering how they got it so fucking orange, but it was good chow.
“Stop gloating,” Marty said.
“Do I have to?”
Marty didn’t have much of an appetite. But Ted used his chopsticks to swirl the chicken lo mein, fried rice, and sweet-and-sour orange glue into one insane mass on his plate and ate at it that way as a seamless whole, like a shark might worry at a dead whale. Aside from the chewing and the sound from the TV, it was quiet. Ted took a sip of beer.
“Hey, what’s that nurse’s story anyway? That, what was her name—Maria, was it? Maria—Somethingspanishy?”
Marty laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Ted asked.
“‘What was it?’ You been thinking about her since you met her, checked her card a thousand times, probably sniffed it, you damn well know her name. Probably the only reason you’re here with me right now. The off chance she might show up. You’re transparent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And she’s mine. She’s outta your league. She’s a spic, ya know?”
“Yes, we established that she’s Hispanic, yes.”
“You don’t have enough juice for her, not enough sap.”
“That’s fucking gross.”
“You understand Latin, son, but you don’t understand Latina, if you catch my drift.”
“You’re on a roll.”
“I wish I hadn’t let your mother dilute your good, Old Testament blood with that Mayflower Wasp weakness. I thought the mix might lend you mongrel vigor, but…”
“Fine, Dad. I get it.”
“My cock used to get so hard I could see my reflection in it. Like a mirror.”
“That’s kind of a non sequitur.”
“My cock. What happened to it?”
“You lost your penis?”
“Can’t remember where I put it.”
“I bet you can’t.”
“Fuck you.”
“Here we go.”
“Where did it go?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dad, and I’m sure I don’t wanna know.”
“Your mother…”
“Stop! No!”
“Okay, you don’t wanna talk, pass me the remote.”
“The remote? Where is it?”
Marty pointed at his shoe. Ted shrugged. Marty pointed at the shoe again, Ted picked it up, looked underneath it. Marty held out his hand. Ted gave him the shoe. Marty threw the shoe at the TV, expertly turning it off. The remote.
“I used to be able to change channels with my cock.”
“Oh bullshit, Marty, but you could change families with it.”
“Finally, a real person speaks. Why don’t you shut the fuck up? You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. You always were your mother’s spy.”
“That kind of cock-talk shit, that can be traumatizing to a kid.”
“Traumatizing—what a bullshit word. I feel sorry for you, you belong to Generation Pussy. Everything’s a fucking trauma now.”
“To a kid, yeah.”
“You’re a kid?”
“No. I was a kid, back when you fucking knew me, I was a kid.”
“Maybe you still are.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I’m guessing yours?”
They were both breathing heavily by now. Ted got up to go. Marty tried to stay him:
“Okay, I could never really see myself in my cock. At best the image was blurry. Feel better? All grown up now?”
“Yeah, Dad, all grown up now.”
Ted stormed out of the house.
Marty called after Ted’s back as he left, “And it was just getting good.”