You Only Get So Much by Dan Kolbet Page A

never-ending holiday meal where you just want to go home,
but you're too drunk to drive and your relatives keep plying you with alcohol.
You want to get away, but you can't. This house, as big as it is, isn't big enough.
I find myself constraining bouts of anger and annoyance at the girls and my
parents as they take over portions of the house.
    Boxes of my parents'
belongings arrived just a day after Mom announced they were moving in, which
tells me that she had made arrangements for the move well before informing me
about it. The boxes filled up half of the three-car garage and I'm forced to
wonder where the hell all this stuff was stored previously and why the hell
they have so much stuff in the first place. Granted, Mom needs her colorful
pants collection—but that's only a few dresser drawers of
seizure-inducing patterns. This collection is a life's worth of knick-knacks
that nobody really needs or wants. The boxes are labeled —a few with my
name on them—and at some point I should take some time to go through
them. I have the time, but lack the motivation. It's not like I'm busy.
    We've got the routine
down now and it's clear that Mom is running the show and I've been relegated to
assistant, with chores and prescribed living quarters. I'm rather content about
this arrangement—less pressure—but I can't help feeling like a
teenager again. I'm stuck in the house waiting to turn 18 and asking to borrow
the keys to the car. I often find myself out on the deck overlooking the city
and sitting with Dad. The poor guy is stuck with me, but he likes being
outside—or at least we think he does—so that's where he goes. If
he's hearing me, I don't know, but if he can, he's heard it all.
    Kendall comes out of her
room every few days and sneaks into the kitchen to eat while her grandma is
cooking. She's basically stopped talking to me entirely, which means I get
called an "old ass," a lot less now. This is nice on several levels.
I can't be sure what it was that made her so upset with me; but then again, I'm
not making any effort to figure that out either. She's got her boyfriend and
her fancy black eye makeup to keep her company, anyhow. If she wants Uncle
Billy at arm's length, I'm OK with that.
    Gracie seems to be the
happiest with this change in living arrangements. She's got a grandma to watch
over her every move and when that's not enough for her, she comes and finds me,
which I rather enjoy. We go to the park or just watch TV. She cuddles up next
to me on the couch and only wakes me when I start to snore during her shows.
It's a good deal for both of us.
    I'd forgotten how
anal-retentive Mom was.   A place
for everything and everything in its place. I don't dare leave a glass out on
the table or my shoes by the front door.
    "I won't live in a
house filled with clutter, William," she says. "Clutter breeds
disorder and that makes us all lazy and apathetic."
    She's on top of every
one of us correcting and redirecting our actions. Gracie's used to it because
she's a kid. Kendall just seems to ignore her. Yet, I'm stuck in a constant
flashback of my childhood.
    I've found myself coming
up with reasons to leave the house. The physical therapy appointments are nice
little getaways with just Dad and me. I talk and he listens. I've told him
things that I've never told anyone else. Things about Jane and me. Things about
Monique and how I messed up.   I
might be driving Dad to physical therapy appointments, but it's probably more
mentally therapeutic for me than him. I've never really had the opportunity to
converse with my dad before. He wasn't that kind of dad growing up. You didn't
just ask him a question and get the benefit of a heartfelt conversation. He'd
answer and move on to something else. Very matter of fact. I guess that's how
fathers are supposed to be. I've never experienced anything else and can't say
I was any different with Aspen. I was always writing or re-writing; the need to
finish my work trumping my time