Stephanie Georgopulos - Some Things I Did for Money

Some Things I Did for Money

By Stephanie Georgopulos

Copyright 2015 by Stephanie Georgopulos

Imsitting in the back of a West Village restaurant when a commotion erupts.Chairs scrape wood, hostesses protest, and a voice rings out in panic:

HEY!Do you work here? I need a Coke, STAT!

Jesus,I think, who inthe fresh hell talks to a waiter that way?

Itwist around in my chair, and turns out its my little sister. Its my littlesister who barrel rolls through my favorite restaurant and starts demandingthings that civilized people wait at least ten minutes for. Also, I see thatthe person shes ordering around is not a waiter, but the owner of therestaurant. Hed been lovingly folding napkins on the table behind mine whilemaking small talk with my brother and me. Wed been having a fine, dignifiedtime. Until the rest of my family showed up, naturally.

Adri!I stage whisper. You cant talk to people like that! What the

Dadsgoing into diabetic shock! she counters.

Well,OK.

Daddeveloped diabetes in his sixties, and those of us with intimate knowledge ofhis diet did not struggle to make sense of this tragedy. Pictures of mychildhood are littered with two-liter Coke bottles, like someone in corporatemade a terrible product placement decision. And when it comes to food, my dadsphilosophy has always been, Yes. He doesnt eschew the healthy stuff; hesjust indiscriminate. Like a billy goat.

Myparents moved to Florida four years ago, so Ive never lived with this DiabetesDad. I have no idea how or when he takes his insulin, Im not clear on how itaffects his day-to-day life. Ive never seen him or anyone go into diabeticshock. So when its happening in front of me, in the back room of Tavern onJane, my embarrassment, fear, and helplessness calcify into a knot of inactionand horror. Mostly horror.

Imsilent as my brother races to help, shuffles my dad toward our table, and plopshim onto the seat next to mine. Dad is bright red, a Coke has materialized infront of him, and Im really starting to wonder about the productplacement thing. My brother is dabbing a napkin into my water glass and holdingit to Dads face. My sister looms over the table, ready to take action ordisrupt our fellow diners with a decree for more fountain soda, whatevers necessary.My mom saunters in like, Oh, is this not normal?

Areyou OK? is all I can manage.

Yes,Stephie. Thank you.

Mycollection of ex-boyfriends would not believe the lack of sentimentality I showmy family. I love them, of course. From a distance. Hugs are too sexual forfamily, and I believe were above outward displays of affection, anyway.Havent we already established that we love each other? What are we trying toprove, exactly? Weve never been one of those kiss-on-the-lips,phone-every-week families. My version of showing I care amounts to a monthlytext message and writing about my parents on the Internet. Its something theyvegrown to accept. But now, as my dads face returns to its olive color, I wish Ihad a translator. Someone to explain that I didn't think he deserved this, thatI was sorry my first instinct was shame.

* * *

Myparents are both Brooklyn natives, although today you wouldnt know it. For onething, they toyed with the idea of visiting the 9/11 Museum while in town. Foranother, they mistook the West Village for Chelsea, parking their rental carthirty blocks from the restaurant where my brother and I waited as ourreservation came and went. An hour late, my parents and sister decided to walkto the restaurant in ninety-degree weather. My father hadnt had anything toeat in hours. His body started a revolution.

Couldntyou have stopped for a soda? And why didnt you jump in a cab? I say. Thisline of questioning is met with a shrug, and a cloud of humiliation envelops meas I remember. Hopping into a cab isnt a thoughtless action for most people,my family included. A year ago, it wouldve been me opting to hoof it in thesummer heat. I accept the shrugs, and everyone sits, except for the elephant inthe room. Just because its there doesnt mean it needs a seat at our table.

Oncemy dad has reached stasis, he turns to me and says, Every time this happens, Iswear to myself Ill be prepared next time Ill keep a Hershey bar in mypocket or something. And then, he gestures with an arm as if to say, this.

* * *

Ithad been a rough year for my parents. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer this was after my dad had recovered from his spinal surgery, but beforehe got laid off at age sixty-four. Still, theyd made the trek to New York formy youngest sisters college graduation. It was an important day; it didntmatter that my dad had been in town weeks earlier, burying his father. Lots ofsurprises for the two of them, my parents, but not the good kind. Just the sortthat turns black hair gray and black lines red. It was clear this visit hadtaken its toll.

Iwas faring a bit better, which is what parents want for their children, eventhough the child feels like a little shit when it actually happens. I didntexpect it. Id worried about money for years: whenever my mom took me toPayless for Back to School sneakers; while my friends regularly muttered theword mooch while referencing me in teasing, resentful tones; every time mydad got laid off and my family was sentenced to live in the shell of a middle-classfamily. Money, and the ambition to pursue it, has many origin points, and mineall seem to stem from home. Our familys financial volatility went fromsomething I ignored, to something I feared, to something I confronted withforce. At some point, some point of origin, I figured I had two options. Icould get trapped in a cycle of bad decisions and piss luck like my parentsdid, or I could learn to keep a Hershey bar in my pocket, always prepared forthe next time.

WhenI ask for the check, I notice I am not worried. About money, I mean. That worryis reserved for two hours from now, when I meet my boyfriend for a snack and tryto make sense of how five chicken fingers can cost $16. The worry will seize meas my eyes intuitively scan the menu for the cheapest beer. Worry is alwaysthere, lurking beneath the surface. But for now, its at bay. Being with myfamily puts me at ease, even when one of us is about to pass out in public. Ifeel normal by comparison, or maybe in spite of it.

* * *

Thediabetes drama has died down now and my dad is happily sipping his Coke. Itoccurs to me that while money has many origins, my story probably begins atMcDonalds.

Atfourteen, I discovered my mother didnt love me. It was the bluest, brightestday of July, so she decided itd be best spent between four gray walls. I tooksolace in a stack of colorful waiting room magazines, which reported that myfavorite pop stars were addicted to heroin, divorcing their parents/husbands,and battling rosacea. At least Im not alone in my suffering.

Iwas waiting to get lectured on my dental hygiene for two hours. My friends hadprobably all turned sixteen, lost their virginities to boys with accents, andbought cigarettes without getting carded in the time Id spent at the dentist.Come 4 p.m., Id be a friendless loser whod have to tattoo track marks on herarms just to get some attention (according to US Weekly).

Asexpected, I disappointed the dentist with the state of my mouth.

Isthis a piece of cheese? he asked, removing a hardened, yellow mass from myback molar.

Yourguess is as good as mine, I tried to say. My mouth was numb, a web of drool blanketingmy face as I tried to speak. Not that it slowed his small talk.