The End
There are twenty to thirty parents wandering around our backyard watching their kids fuck with my grill, some flowers Alyna planted last month, and a bird feeder that’s been hanging from a tree since we bought the place. The parents do nothing about it. I recognize some of the parents from other kids’ birthday parties, but I don’t know any of their names.
It’s strange to think about this pool of money that basically just gets pushed around for all of our kids’ birthdays. Today Andy gets the full benefit. Next month it’ll be one of these other little shitheads, and Andy will be tearing apart that shithead’s dad’s grill.
I’m drunk from what I think is my fifth Blue Moon when some dad comes up to me and says, “Nice party.”
I don’t care what he’s saying and neither does he. We’re just going through the protocol. I say, “Thanks.”
He says, “They sure grow up fast, don’t they?”
I say, “Yeah. They sure do.”
We both take a swig of beer, he pats me on the back and says, “See ya ’round.” This exact same conversation happens four or five more times with similar dead-eyed fathers who have given up hope for happiness but who experience no real sadness or discomfort in their lives either. They exist in a mediocre haze, content to serve out the remainder of their lives on the planet attending events like this, fucking their wives without meaning or enthusiasm when it’s allowed, performing a job that has no real impact in the world and has no meaning to them personally, just as I do.
I try to remember what it was like to fuck Holly, what it was like to be excited about something. The memory is too far out, though. The entire experience has drifted into something so far removed from my actual life that is seems like it might not have happened at all. I still think about her from time to time and wonder what she might be doing. She’s graduated by now. Maybe she’s still sucking dick for weed. Maybe she’s learned how to be affectionate. Maybe she even has a boyfriend.
After the party that night, as I tuck my son in, he says, “Daddy, did you have fun at the party today?”
I say, “Yeah, bud, I did. Did you?”
He says, “It was awesome. How many birthdays do I get to have?”
I say, “A bunch.”
He says, “You’ve had more birthdays than me. Will they all be as fun as today?”
I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell my son that eventually birthdays become meaningless. You stop having parties, people stop giving you presents, and you stop caring that these things stop happening. I want to tell him that this doesn’t just happen with birthdays. Eventually there’s nothing that’s fun in your life anymore. Eventually you come to understand that your life is just a series of similar meaningless days in which you try to find some sense of evenness and normalcy, and that becomes the best you can hope for.
Instead I kiss him on the head and I say, “They get even better.”
He says, “I love you, Daddy.”
I say, “I love you, too, bud.” Then I turn off his light, get into bed with my wife, wait for her to fall asleep, and then sneak into the office, cue up some babysitter porn, and jerk off.