Chapter 3 Owen
OWEN
I’m pretty sure the movie score to my son’s life is a cello solo with occasional trombone wah wah wah wahhh sounds, and that breaks my heart.
All kids should have joyful trumpets and drums and calliopes and I don’t know…
ukuleles as their soundtrack. That is why, after picking Sam up at my ex-wife’s house, I immediately brought him to the nearest frozen yogurt place for a treat.
Because Ashley told me not to let him eat any ice cream for dessert because she wants him to lose a little weight.
Fuck that.
My boy’s gonna eat a giant cardboard bowl full of frozen pseudo-healthy dairy topped with literally anything he wants.
If he wants a pound of M&Ms on top of four swirls, covered with whipped cream and an ice cream cake, I’m buying it for him.
It’ll give him an epic tummy ache, but he’s allowed to eat all of it if he wants to.
That’s good parenting, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.
I’ll make him eat a carrot and give him a gummy vitamin when we get home, or whatever.
I have him for the week—and I’m so glad—but I’ve got a show tonight, and his nanny was supposed to come with us to look after him for a couple of hours.
When I got to Ashley’s house in Brentwood, she informed me that the nanny would be staying there with the new baby tonight because she and her husband have an event to go to.
Why can’t I just come back to pick Sam up later tonight, you ask?
Because everyone’s life doesn’t have to revolve around my schedule anymore.
Why did she not give me a heads-up so I could make alternate arrangements, one might wonder?
Because she’s been so busy with the baby all day and she had to go shopping for an evening gown that fits her—not that I would understand what it’s like to not be able to fit into your favorite dresses after giving birth.
Over two years since we were officially divorced—you’d think she’d be blaming her new husband for everything by now. But nope. I swear, she would divorce me again if she could, as long as she didn’t have to marry me again first.
But honestly, I don’t even care about all that.
I’m worried about Sam. Summer break has started.
He should be having fun, but I can just tell that ever since the baby was born, he isn’t getting enough attention when he stays with them.
They all mean well, I get it. I’m probably projecting some forgotten feelings I had when I was three years old and my little brother Dylan came along.
That little shit.
I open the door to the pastel-colored frozen yogurt place for Sam. “You excited, buddy?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it’s frozen yogurt, but sure.”
That was like getting a fucking standing ovation from this kid.
The blonde behind the cash register turns and gives us an impossibly bright smile. “Hello, gentlemen! Welcome to Froyoville—population you!”
“Say hi to the nice lady, Sam.”
“I don’t want to say hi to people. I just want dessert.”
“Fair enough.”
The young lady giggles. “Well lemme know if you have any questions or need any help with anything.”
“I think we got this, thanks.”
I get Sam all set up with his vanilla—seriously, what kid asks for low-fat vanilla—with granola and chocolate chip topping.
He must have heard his mom talking about putting him on a diet.
He’s barely overweight. She just wants him to have a six-pack.
Meanwhile, she was always mad at me for spending time at the gym.
But I’m not going to think about that right now.
I’m not going to get mad while I’m here with my kid.
And I need to find a fucking babysitter for tonight, or I’m screwed.
I pull out a chair for my boy and sit down opposite him at a little table by the wall of windows.
“You aren’t gonna get anything?”
“Nahhh. I’m too uncultured for yogurt.”
He stares at me, blank-faced. Doesn’t even blink.
“You get it?”
“No.”
“It’s a joke. Because yogurt is cultured milk.”
He shakes his head and digs into his yogurt.
“Fro-yo information, that was a very sophisticated and super funny joke.”
“Oh-kayyy.” I get an eye-roll. Seems to me I shouldn’t have to deal with eye-rolls from my kid until he’s thirteen, but at least it’s a reaction.
“You’ll get it in about fifteen or twenty years, and when you do—I want you to call me. Or however people get in touch with each other in the future. Just be sure to let me know the minute you realize how funny your old man is.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll let you know, Dad.”
I am this close to pulling up Entertainment Weekly’s rave review of my stand-up act from a couple of months ago on my phone and showing it to him.
That’s how badly I need the validation from this particular person.
I mean, it’s not just about wanting my son to think I’m funny—I want to make him happy.
I would saw off my own arm right now if it would make him laugh.
It’s not like he never laughs. I’ve seen him with other kids and he’s always having a blast. He just doesn’t laugh at me.
I can’t wait till he’s in college—maybe even when he’s old enough to drive—and I can start telling him awesome classic jokes like: A woman goes into the dry cleaner’s, and the old guy inspects the stain on the skirt she brought in.
She asks him if he can get the stain out, but he’s hard of hearing and he says, “Come again?” And she says, “No, this time it’s yogurt. ”
I watch Sam carefully dip the spoon into his dessert so that he gets equal amounts of both kinds of toppings and frozen yogurt in each bite, and then he shoves it into his mouth, barely chewing. He seems satisfied though. So that’s good.
Now I just have to find a fucking babysitter for tonight, drop my kid off wherever I need to during rush hour, and then get out to Hollywood to do a set before driving back to pick him up from wherever.
I’m about to call my neighbor, Mrs. Billings, who’s looked after him before, but then I remember seeing her daughter over there to water her plants because Mrs. Billings is out of town.
So I call my older brother Miles on his personal cell phone, though he’s probably still at the office.
He’s a hotshot entertainment lawyer, but he does make time to respond to family texts and calls.
He usually responds with a reminder of how busy he is and some snarky comment, but he’s almost always available.
And he is also a divorced single dad with a kid, so we try to help each other out whenever possible.
It would be great if our kids didn’t despise each other, but what are ya gonna do.
Miles answers on the third ring. I can hear NPR in the background, which means he’s driving. “Yeah? I’ve got a conference call with a client in four minutes.”
I speak really slowly to piss him off. “I was just calling to tell you that I love you.”
“Fuck off. What do you need?”
“I just picked Sam up, and I have a gig tonight.”
Sam looks up, eyes filled with horror. “Not Macy!” He has hated his cousin since they were babies. It’s adorable.
I wink at him.
“Awww, sorry, man. I’m on my way to pick Macy up at her dance class, and then I’m taking her to see Annie at the Ahmanson.”
“You mean the show she didn’t get cast in or even get a callback for?”
“Yeah, we don’t talk about that. I’m pretty sure she’s just going to boo at all the child actors, but maybe she’ll suddenly become a super chill, supportive, noncompetitive person in the next hour. We’ll see.”
No comment. “So can I borrow your nanny?”
“It’s her night off. She’s celebrating her thirtieth wedding anniversary with her family.”
We’re silent for, like, three seconds, and I know without a doubt that we’re both wondering how anyone manages to stay married for that long and what the hell is wrong with us that neither of us could keep a marriage alive for more than four years.
But we would never say these things out loud to each other. Not sober anyway.
“Well, that doesn’t sound anywhere near as fun or emotionally satisfying as what I have planned.”
“Same,” he says. “I almost feel sorry for her.”
“Well, I gotta go. There’s a line of, like, fifty women waiting to talk to me.”
“Yeah, a bunch of women in a Prius just threw their panties at me, so I should say hi to them, or something.”
“Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Don’t break too many hearts tonight.”
I hang up and say to Sam reassuringly, “Not Macy.”
“Phew!” He goes back to inhaling his dessert.
The truth is, he probably doesn’t even care whose TV or iPad he gets parked in front of for a couple of hours. He’ll probably just sleep. But times like this I really wish my parents had stayed in LA instead of moving back to Texas a few years ago.
“Can I stay with Uncle Dylan?” Sam asks, all hopeful. He loves and idolizes my little brother. Which is sweet but also deeply annoying.
“Lemme see if he’s around.” I text him because he never answers his phone. Little shit.
ME: You in town?
DYLAN: That depends which town you’re referring to.
ME: Los Angeles. I need someone to look after Sam for a couple of hours.
DYLAN: I’m still in New York. Starring in a Broadway play that the New York Times reviewer called “Riveting and thoroughly entertaining…despite Dylan Brodie’s somewhat mannered performance.”
ME: Oh yeah. I saw that review. That was funny.
DYLAN: Kindly go fuck yourself.
ME: That’s a solid Friday night plan for me. I deserve a kindly fuck for a change. Thought you’d be back by now. Has your costar dumped you yet?
DYLAN: No. We’re still very much in love. She might move to LA to be with me. Or maybe I’ll move here. I don’t even care where we are. I just want to be with her. This is real.
ME: Uh-huh.
DYLAN: Fuck you. I gotta get back onstage. Say hey to my buddy for me.
ME: Yeah, break a leg and please accept my condolences in advance for when yet another leading lady breaks your sad little heart.
DYLAN:
ME:
I scrub my face with the palm of my hand. “Uncle Dylan’s in New York right now.”
“Can I go there?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it takes five and a half hours to fly to New York. I need to find someone to look after you tonight.”
“Why can’t Blanca look after me?”
“Because she’s going to be busy.”
“Doing what?”
I take a long, deep breath before answering. I don’t want to be short with my kid just because my ex-wife is being a dick. “I don’t know, buddy. I just know I have to find someone else.”
There is only one other person I can think of right now, and that’s my friend Shane Miller.
Dylan played his younger brother on a Disney Channel show called That’s So Wizard back when they were teenagers.
Back when Dylan wasn’t a pretentious actor who takes himself too seriously.
Now Shane’s attached to direct the pilot episode of the family show I have in development—the one that neither of us would have gotten involved with if we took ourselves too seriously.
ME: SOS. Single dad emergency. Is your scary nanny busy tonight?
SHANE: If your single dad emergency involves wanting to date my sixty-something scary nanny, I will just tell you right now that after the last time you guys were here, she told me, “I do not trust a man with that kind of chin.”
ME: Well, that is disappointing, but I actually need someone to babysit Sam for a couple of hours while I’m at a gig in Hollywood. Thought maybe if she has the night off, I could pick her up and bring her to my place. I could throw on a high neck turtleneck, hide my chin with it.
SHANE: Oh man I’m sorry. The twins are with Margo, so she’s over there this week. But Willa and I are at home with the baby. Sam can hang with us.
ME: That is so nice of you to offer, but I can’t ask you to do that. It’s cool. I’ll figure it out.
SHANE: Ok, lemme know if you change your mind. See you on the Zoom meeting next week.
ME: Right. Is it too soon to clear a space on our mantles for all the Emmys we’re going to win for this?
SHANE: Not at all! I’ve already advised my wife to start calling me “multiple Emmy-winning actor-director Shane Miller.” Have a great gig. I’ll probably never make it to one of your shows, but just know that I support you. xo
ME: Thanks! I’ll probably only ever watch your movies if I’m on a plane and there’s no other option. xoxo
I guess now the only question is… Do I call the owner of the comedy club to ask him if it’s okay to bring my seven-year-old son and have him hang out in his office while I’m on stage?
Or do I just show up with my kid to a twenty-one-and-over venue that has a two-drink-minimum and make him tell me no to my face twenty minutes before I have to go on?
“Hey. I’ve got a fun idea.”
He grins. “Do I get to go to New York to stay with Uncle Dylan?”
“No. He’s too busy with work to look after you. How about you come with me to my show tonight? You’ll probably have to stay in the back office because kids aren’t supposed to be there, but there’s Wi-Fi so you can watch stuff on your iPad.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Will there be a sofa for me to nap on?”
“Yes.” I don’t even want to know what kind of action that sofa has seen though. A lot of “yogurt stains”… “Remind me to grab a blanket from home on the way. To put over the sofa so you don’t have to actually touch the sofa.”
“Why?”
“Because. You’re not even a little excited to see where I go to work?”
“I guess. A little.” He grins again.
This kid. He’s egging me on, like a chick.
And that just makes me think of @frankiesayrelax.
And I need to stop thinking about her.
And I definitely need to stop checking to see if she’s replied to my message yet.
Sam swallows another mouthful of froyo and then asks, “When are you going away?”
“I’m not going away, buddy.”
He looks up at me, frowning, and blinks at me like I’m an idiot.
“Oh, you mean for my stand-up tour? That’s in two weeks actually.”
“How long are you going away for?”
“A month. One month. I’ll be going all across the country. But I can call you and FaceTime you every day if you want.”
He stares down at his plastic spoon and nods once.
“Do you want me to call and FaceTime you every day? Because I will.”
“Sure, I guess.”
I swear I can actually hear the cello solo in his head right now. He is disappearing into his thoughts now, and I don’t want to lose him.
“Hey. Sam.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine.
“How’d you like to go on my stand-up tour with me?”
I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m going to swing this if he says yes, but there’s a glimmer of something in those blue eyes now. Something that resembles excitement. Like he might actually be thrilled to be able to spend a month on the road with his dad.
“Will we go to New York to see Uncle Dylan?!”
Yup. Just like a chick.