his butt so hard, his asshole will be up between his shoulder blades."
"He treats me fine, Dad," I said. What I wanted to say was that I knew
Eric would never try to steal my paycheck or throw me out the window,
that I'd always been terrified I'd fall for a hard-drinking, hell-raising,
charismatic scoundrel like you, Dad, but I'd wound up with a man who
was exactly the opposite. All my belongings fit into two plastic milk
crates and a garbage bag. I hauled them to the street, hailed a taxi, and
took it across town to Eric's building. The doorman, in a blue uniform
with gold piping, hurried out from under the awning and insisted on
carrying the milk crates into the lobby.
Eric's apartment had crossbeamed ceilings and a fireplace with an art
deco mantel. I actually live on Park Avenue, I kept telling myself as I
hung my clothes in the closet Eric had cleared out for me. Then I started
thinking about Mom and Dad. When they had moved into their squat—a
fifteen-minute subway ride south and about half a dozen worlds away—
it seemed as if they had finally found the place where they belonged, and
I wondered if I had done the same.
I INVITED MOM and Dad up to the apartment. Dad said he'd feel out of
place, and never did come, but Mom visited almost immediately. She
turned over dishes to read the manufacturer's name and lifted the corner
of the Persian rug to count the knots. She held the china to the light and
ran her finger along the antique campaign chest. Then she went to the
window and looked out at the brick and limestone apartment buildings
across the street. "I don't really like Park Avenue," she said. "The
architecture is too monotonous. I prefer the architecture on Central Park
West."
I told Mom she was the snootiest squatter I'd ever met, and that made her
laugh. We sat down on the living room couch. I had something I wanted