The three men hung out at the bar, sipping their drinks, talking about their sons.
“I don’t know where Toby got it from to be honest. I mean we knew he liked math, but the piano? Fuck. He sure can play. And he’s only three. His teacher said he’s playing showpan or some shit like that, except it’s spelled like choppin’. I don’t know. I just hope he gets a scholarship from tickling those ivories. I could spend those savings on a boat. What about you Dave? How’s little David’s tennis game coming along?”
“He beat me last week – a four year old with a top spin serve. It’s like he learned it in his sleep.”
“I mean, Dave, you do push the boy,” Ronnie said.
“Well sure. I mean I want him to be the best for him. Scholarship or not, I’ll love him.”
Steve sat there in silence, and all the men took sips of their beer.
“Hey, Steve, what about your boy, Carl?” Ronnie asked.
“Yeah, Steve how’s little Carl doing?” Dave followed up.
“Fine,” Steve said, “just fine.”
“Any talents risen to the surface?” Ronnie asked.
“Nothing of consequence yet. Although, the teachers do say he is a good listener.”
“Well that’s nice.”
“Yeah, that’s nice.”
The men sat there staring at the mirror on the other side of the bar. Steve stared at himself in the eyes. He thought to himself, how did Ronnie and Dave end up with two genius sons? Ronnie and Dave weren’t special, yet they were given these two lottery ticket children. They weren’t different, but their sons sure were. Anomalies of nature, he thought. Was anomaly the right word in that context? He didn’t know.
He left the bar and went home. Brenda had left some meatloaf out. He made a sandwich, ate it and chugged down two Advil with a glass of whole milk. Then he went up to Carl’s room. He opened the door and the light from the hallway spilled into the room, falling on his son’s face. That’s my boy, he thought to himself.
He was about to close the door when a waft of something awful rose up into his nose. He followed the smell to Carl’s bed. He lifted up his son’s comforter. It smelled like hot death. Carl had shit his bed.
He went into his bedroom to wake Brenda up.
“Hey, B, wake up. Carl shit his bed.”
“What?” she said rubbing her eyes.
“I said Carl shit his bed.”
“Are you drunk? Did you see the meatloaf?”
“I’m not drunk. I saw the meatloaf, but that’s now what I’m talking about. Carl shit his bed.”
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him in the shower. I’ll start the wash and set up a sleeping bag.”
- Thirty years later -
Ronnie, Dave and Steve sat at the bar, sipping their drinks.
“How’s Toby doing, Ronnie? Has he performed any concerts lately?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, he had a recital last week. It was nice. It was in our basement. Only good family friends, mainly. Toby doesn’t like playing for strangers anymore.”
“Oh, that nice,” Dave said.
“I mean, it’s kinda nice. I still think he should move out and try to find a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a doll or whatever. All he does is play that fucking piano.”
“I know what you mean. It’s like they don’t have anything else. It’s been fifteen years since David’s collapse at the junior national tournament. I just wish he’d get over it and go do something else. I know we home schooled him, but hell, get out there, go meet some people. Tennis was your life. Was. You’re not good at it anymore. Move on,” Dave said.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Steve said.
“Oh, sure, Steve. Sorry our sons didn’t turn out to be beautiful Carls, with a nice house and a nice family and a normal, well-paying job.” Ronnie said.
“That’s not what I was saying.”
“Well then, what are you saying?”
“I’m just saying they’ll be fine. If you wait long enough, things change.”
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