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Hello and welcome to Orange Heights. This blog has migrated a few times, so the entry dates might be a little confusing. Apologies...

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Chapter 5

In 217 Orange Heights Avenue, every light in the house was shining, or so it seemed to Joe Atkinson as he paced from room to room, circling back to his computer only when he had visited every other room on the first floor.
The blinking cursor of his computer seemed to reproach him as he stood in front of the monitor willing words to come. Joe sat and typed, speaking aloud as he wrote.
“Single African-American Male,” he muttered. “No, scratch that. Widowed African-American man.” Joe glanced up at a photo above his desk, a picture of himself, his wife Melanie, and Cole as an infant in front of the Sears Tower in Chicago. The photo, taken some 15 years ago, was of a past life, or so it felt to Joe. Since Melanie died of breast cancer in 1997, he and Cole had moved to Orange Heights, where he was raised, to be closer to family. Joe had changed jobs, leaving the Chicago Tribune for sportswriting at the Newark Star-Ledger. Now, nudged by Cole, he was hoping to make another change, from widowed and single to a man with an occasional Saturday night date.
Cole walked into the room followed by Daisy, their pound dog. He hung up her leash and kicked off his sneakers.
“How was your run?” asked Joe, shielding the computer monitor with his body.
Cole was undeterred and leaned over his father’s shoulder. “Match.com, huh?” He scrolled down the screen. “This is all you have so far? Widowed African-American man. Did you know that you’re in the Men Seeking Men category?”
Joe shook his head. “I’m not done yet with that ad. It’s a work in progress.”
Cole leaned down to reach the keyboard. “You’re a writer, Dad. Don’t sweat it, just put who you are. Here, move over and let me help.”
While his son typed, hunt-and-peck with his index fingers, Joe watched him and wondered when and how Cole had developed a confidence with women that he lacked. For the past year, Cole had been nagging him to meet women, warning that “I’ll be at college pretty soon and I don’t want to think of you heating up a Hot Pocket on your Saturday nights and forgetting to walk Daisy.”
Joe was unconvinced until Valentine’s Day and the Umojaa Club fundraiser at the high school. Now a junior, Cole was Club President and chief fundraiser. He proposed selling roses on Valentine’s Day that students could have delivered to friends during homeroom. While the school buzzed about who was sending roses, Cole thought about who was receiving. To make sure that each girl in the junior class received at least one flower, Cole sent flowers to each of them, all 112, giving himself a ten percent discount for quantity. The fundraiser was a success, and Cole ever more popular. Girls he had never spoken to, but whose names he knew from studying the yearbook, smiled at him in the hallways and friended him online. Girls introduced him to friends from other schools, and Cole had been invited to six proms.
Even so, Joe wasn’t moved to change his own situation until the man running the tuxedo rental shop in town made a comment. When Joe pulled a credit card from his wallet to pay for the fourth rental, the shop owner said, “That’s okay, I don’t need the card. I’m keeping you on file as a frequent flyer.”
“It’s not for me,” said Joe. “But thanks. It’s for my son. He keeps getting invited to proms.”
“Chip off the old block?” asked the owner, smiling and handing Joe a receipt. “That kid must be doing something right.”
“I married my prom date,” Joe said. And it was true. Melanie was the girl he met in fourth grade, kissed as a freshman, and married when they finished college. But the storeowner had a point; Cole was doing something right, getting out in the world and socializing.
Joe stepped away from the computer as his son clicked “Submit.”
“Done,” said Cole, grinning with satisfaction. “Watch the emails come flying in.”
“I didn’t get to see it first,” protested his father. “How can I find that listing? How do I change it?”
“Give me twenty-four hours with it,” said Cole with a persuasive smile. “What harm can it do?”
Suddenly weary of the whole project, Joe agreed. “School and work tomorrow,” he reminded his son. “Time for news and bed.”
“The evening’s young,” said Cole, and when his father opened his mouth to argue, he held up his hands. “I’m not going out. I meant homework. French project.”
“Bon soir, then,” said his father, walking up the stairs towards his bedroom. “And give that dog a drink of water. I’m tired of her drinking from the toilet all night long. We need to raise our standards around here if someone plans to be dating.”
But Cole was lost already to his homework, and only nodded in reply. As he passed the bathroom, Joe put up the toilet seat. He knew where that dog would be drinking at two in the morning.
In 217 Orange Heights Avenue, every light in the house was shining, or so it seemed to Joe Atkinson as he paced from room to room, circling back to his computer only when he had visited every other room on the first floor.
The blinking cursor of his computer seemed to reproach him as he stood in front of the monitor willing words to come. Joe sat and typed, speaking aloud as he wrote.
“Single African-American Male,” he muttered. “No, scratch that. Widowed African-American man.” Joe glanced up at a photo above his desk, a picture of himself, his wife Melanie, and Cole as an infant in front of the Sears Tower in Chicago. The photo, taken some 15 years ago, was of a past life, or so it felt to Joe. Since Melanie died of breast cancer in 1997, he and Cole had moved to Orange Heights, where he was raised, to be closer to family. Joe had changed jobs, leaving the Chicago Tribune for sportswriting at the Newark Star-Ledger. Now, nudged by Cole, he was hoping to make another change, from widowed and single to a man with an occasional Saturday night date.
Cole walked into the room followed by Daisy, their pound dog. He hung up her leash and kicked off his sneakers.
“How was your run?” asked Joe, shielding the computer monitor with his body.
Cole was undeterred and leaned over his father’s shoulder. “Match.com, huh?” He scrolled down the screen. “This is all you have so far? Widowed African-American man. Did you know that you’re in the Men Seeking Men category?”
Joe shook his head. “I’m not done yet with that ad. It’s a work in progress.”
Cole leaned down to reach the keyboard. “You’re a writer, Dad. Don’t sweat it, just put who you are. Here, move over and let me help.”
While his son typed, hunt-and-peck with his index fingers, Joe watched him and wondered when and how Cole had developed a confidence with women that he lacked. For the past year, Cole had been nagging him to meet women, warning that “I’ll be at college pretty soon and I don’t want to think of you heating up a Hot Pocket on your Saturday nights and forgetting to walk Daisy.”
Joe was unconvinced until Valentine’s Day and the Umojaa Club fundraiser at the high school. Now a junior, Cole was Club President and chief fundraiser. He proposed selling roses on Valentine’s Day that students could have delivered to friends during homeroom. While the school buzzed about who was sending roses, Cole thought about who was receiving. To make sure that each girl in the junior class received at least one flower, Cole sent flowers to each of them, all 112, giving himself a ten percent discount for quantity. The fundraiser was a success, and Cole ever more popular. Girls he had never spoken to, but whose names he knew from studying the yearbook, smiled at him in the hallways and friended him online. Girls introduced him to friends from other schools, and Cole had been invited to six proms.
Even so, Joe wasn’t moved to change his own situation until the man running the tuxedo rental shop in town made a comment. When Joe pulled a credit card from his wallet to pay for the fourth rental, the shop owner said, “That’s okay, I don’t need the card. I’m keeping you on file as a frequent flyer.”
“It’s not for me,” said Joe. “But thanks. It’s for my son. He keeps getting invited to proms.”
“Chip off the old block?” asked the owner, smiling and handing Joe a receipt. “That kid must be doing something right.”
“I married my prom date,” Joe said. And it was true. Melanie was the girl he met in fourth grade, kissed as a freshman, and married when they finished college. But the storeowner had a point; Cole was doing something right, getting out in the world and socializing.
Joe stepped away from the computer as his son clicked “Submit.”
“Done,” said Cole, grinning with satisfaction. “Watch the emails come flying in.”
“I didn’t get to see it first,” protested his father. “How can I find that listing? How do I change it?”
“Give me twenty-four hours with it,” said Cole with a persuasive smile. “What harm can it do?”
Suddenly weary of the whole project, Joe agreed. “School and work tomorrow,” he reminded his son. “Time for news and bed.”
“The evening’s young,” said Cole, and when his father opened his mouth to argue, he held up his hands. “I’m not going out. I meant homework. French project.”
“Bon soir, then,” said his father, walking up the stairs towards his bedroom. “And give that dog a drink of water. I’m tired of her drinking from the toilet all night long. We need to raise our standards around here if someone plans to be dating.”
But Cole was lost already to his homework, and only nodded in reply. As he passed the bathroom, Joe put up the toilet seat. He knew where that dog would be drinking at two in the morning.

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