I went that weekend to furniture stores, charged a couch and bed and end tables and lamps — mismatched items from the wildest and most disparate styles I could find. I tied them in the trunk of the Buick, tied them to the roof, took them home and put them in places where they weren’t supposed to be: bed in the dining area, couch in the bedroom. This wasn’t ordinary; this wasn’t average or mundane. No one could ignore this. I walked around my apartment, admiring the extravagantly gauche decorations, satisfied.
I went to Marshall’s, charged a new wardrobe. Loud shirts and outrageously designed pants.
I went to Supercuts, got a modified mohawk.
I had done it. I had changed. I had made myself over. I was a new me.
And at work on Monday, nobody noticed.
I walked through the parking lot and into the lobby feeling almost foolishly conspicuous, my band of centered hair standing tall and stiff on my otherwise bald head, my pants baggy and shiny red, my shirt lime-green, my tie fluorescent pink. But no one gave me a second glance. There was not even a pause in the conversation between two fifth-floor secretaries waiting for the elevator as I walked up and stood next to them. Neither of them glanced in my direction or paid me any attention at all.
Even David did not notice the difference. He said hi to me when I walked into the office, finished his breakfast muffin, then settled down to work.
I was Ignored no matter what I did.
I sat down at my desk, discouraged and depressed, feeling like an asshole with my hair and my clothes. Why was this happening to me? Why was I Ignored? What was wrong with me? I touched my mohawk, as if to reassure myself that it was real, that I was real, that I had physical substance. My hand felt hard lacquered hair.
What was I?
That was the real question.
And for that, of course, I had no answer.
The week passed slowly, with seconds that seemed like hours, hours that seemed like days, days that were of interminable length. David was out for the second half of the week, and by the time Friday rolled around I had been so consistently disregarded and overlooked that I was about ready to attack one of the secretaries to prove to myself and everyone else that I existed, that I was there.
On my way home, I tried to speed, to drive crazily and recklessly, but my heart wasn’t in it and I failed to make even a small dent in the consciousness of my fellow freeway travelers.
Inside my apartment, the garishly clashing color scheme of the living room only made me feel tired and even more depressed. I stared at the Monster Roster poster hung at an inappropriate angle above my pink butterfly chair. I had somehow managed to make the gaudy look mundane, the garish unobtrusive.
I loosened my tie and sat down on he couch. I felt drained. The weekend loomed before me: two days of freedom in which I would constantly be confronted with my anonymity. I tried to think of something I could do, some place I could go where I wouldn’t be continually faced with the meaningless obscurity that was my existence.
My parents, I thought. I could visit my parents. I wasn’t ignored by them. I was not just a forgettable face to my mom, not just a nobody to my dad. I might not be able to talk to them about my situation, but just being with them, just being with people who noticed and paid attention to me, would help.
I hadn’t tried calling them after Thanksgiving, feeling vaguely pissed off at their treatment of me and wanting to punish them for it, but Christmas was fast approaching and I needed both my mom and my dad to give me some idea of what they wanted this year.
I figured that was as good an excuse as any to give them a ring.
I walked over to the phone, picked it up and dialed. Busy. I hung up, dialed again. We weren’t close, my parents and I. We did not see eye to eye on most things; we did not even like each other a lot of the time. But we loved each other. We were family. And if you couldn’t turn to your family in time of need, who could you turn to?
The line was still busy. I hung up the phone. I had a plan. I would be spontaneous. I would surprise them by driving down right now and showing up on their doorstep for dinner.
Average people weren’t spontaneous.
I packed a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and ten minutes later I was on the freeway, headed for San Diego.
I considered pulling off at San Juan Capistrano, then at Oceanside, then at Del Mar and trying to call again. Now that I thought about it, my parents probably wouldn’t like it if I just showed up on their doorstep without warning. But I had momentum, I didn’t want to get sidetracked, and I stayed on the highway, moving south.
It was close to nine when I pulled up in front of my parents’ home. Our home. It hadn’t changed much since I was a child, and that was reassuring. I got out of the car and walked up the short cement path to the porch. Although I had been here less than a year ago, it seemed like it had been forever, and I felt as though I were returning after a long, long absence. I stepped onto the porch, knocked, rang the bell.
A strange man answered the door.
I jumped, startled.
From behind the stranger came the voice of another stranger, a woman. “Who is it, dear?”
“I don’t know!” the man called back. He was unshaven, overweight, wearing low-slung jeans and a tank top T-shirt. He looked at me through the screen. “Yes?”
I cleared my throat. There was a funny feeling in my stomach. “Are my parents here?” I asked.
The man frowned. “What?”
“I came to visit my parents. They live here. I’m Bob Jones.”
The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I live here.”
“This is my parents’ house.”
“Maybe you have the wrong street or something.”
“Taz!” the woman called.
“In a minute!” the man called back.
“I don’t have the wrong street. This is my parents’ house. I was born here. My parents have lived here for the past thirty years!”
“I live here now. What did you say your parents’ names were?”
“Martin and Ella Jones.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They own this house!”
“I rent from Mr. Sanchez. He’s the owner. Maybe you should talk to him.”
My heart was pounding. I was sweating, though the weather was chilly. I tried to remain calm, tried to tell myself that there was a rational explanation for this, that it was all part of a simple misunderstanding, but I knew it was not true. I swallowed, tried not to show my fear. “Could you give me Mr. Sanchez’s address and phone number?”
The man nodded. “Sure.” He started to turn around, then stopped. “I don’t know, though. Mr. Sanchez might not appreciate me giving out personal stuff — ”
“A daytime number, then. Don’t you have his work phone number?”
“Yeah, sure. Hold on a sec.”
The man retreated into the house — our house — to find a pen and paper, and I realized that a work number wouldn’t do me any good. It was Friday night. Unless I wanted to wait until Monday, I was screwed. On an impulse, I looked toward the wood frame house next door. The name on the burnt wood novelty shingle hanging from the lighted porch was CRAWFORD. The Crawfords! I should have thought of them before. If Mr. and Mrs. Crawford still lived next door, they would know what the hell had happened. They would know why my parents were not here, why this strange man and his wife were living in our house.
Without waiting for the man to return, I hopped off the porch and started across the lawn toward the Crawfords’. “Hey!” the man called out behind me. I heard his wife yell something.