One Step Beyond

A mainstream education, moving to Cooperstown, high school graduation, an impending college graduation. Looking back on all we’ve accomplished, all Nate has accomplished, takes my breath away. Are we ready for the next step? Am I?

We had a meeting with Nate’s support team last week and the focus was on post-school life. Nate is going to need some help in getting a real and worthwhile job. I’ve always thought it pointless for him to, say, bag groceries. He’s too smart and has too many skills to simply be assigned a task for the sake of saying “Nate has a job.” I always said I’d rather sit and read novels with him for the rest of my life than have him do something unchallenging.

A regular job, we believe, will be complemented by the Alpha Folks t-shirt idea, and maybe an outlet for Nate’s art. Good signs abound on those fronts. When the conversation turned to Nate living independently from us, I found myself ambivalent about a major, and normal, life step.

We haven’t had any of our kids leave permanently. Obviously, when that occurs, we’ll have mixed feelings. Sure it’ll be sad to see them out of the house full-time, but there’s a level of triumph in having helped shape such fine people. The fears of them being out in the world loom large: will they have what it takes to find good and fulfilling work, do they have the skills to live on their own, will they find themselves under the influence and manipulated by others in a way they can’t see and aren’t prepared for? Hey, we’ve all been through it, but I’ve never been through it as a father.

After the meeting, we got an email notifying us that there’s an apartment available  across the street and the landlords, who know Nate, would be willing to look in on him if we thought we were ready for that next step. We are not. It’s a wonderful and caring offer, exactly what we’d hoped for Nate when we moved to a small village, but the thought of myself sitting and watching TV, while visualizing Nate puttering around alone at a house I can see through the window from the couch, made me so sad.

Last night, I entered the big TV room, where Nate was lying down  watching X-Men Origins: Wolverine. I asked him if he’d like to move out and have an apartment and he emphatically said no. It’s one thing to have, by a natural progression, your kids leave the house. It’s another to force them out. Especially if it’s a child like Nate.

Will I ever be ready for that? I just don’t know, but if I want him to lead a life similar to the norm, I better get over it. I’m not sure how that works.

And the flip side of today’s post…

…today Nate ordered his cap and gown for college graduation!

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Nate and I had a good plan for yesterday: a trip to Albany. He had a few new bathrooms to visit – a McDonald’s in Watervliet, a renovated Dunkin’ Donuts on Western Ave., Subway and Panera on New Scotland Road and the new Five Guys in Colonie Center. I’m always up for Five Guys and the one on his “toilaroid” list (pictures of bathrooms for you new readers) turned out to be next door to Barnes & Noble. That would kill an hour or so. Then, if all went well, perhaps a trip to Last Vestige for record shopping.

I woke Nate up at 9 for a 10 AM departure. All was going according to plan during the 90 minute drive. We listened to a lot of ’80′s music, his favorite, and chatted a bit. At one point, Nate asked if he could use my iPhone, which he does often and I gladly said yes.

The great unravelling began soon after. From the corner of my eye I saw his window roll down and, to my horror, Nate made a move to toss my phone out the window! In his mind, it was a flashback to when he destroyed his first iPod by washing it. To me, it was a real effort to throw my phone away (he once did that with an old laptop).

I freaked out. I don’t really know what he’s capable of at any given moment. In 2005, at the midway point of our drive from Chicago to Cooperstown, Nate had an old-fashioned tantrum, punching the plexiglass frame of an old Alan Freed concert poster. I had no choice but to forcibly extricate him from the hall, Nate shrieking the whole way out. He was fifteen.

I waited in the car for Karen, Robbie and Joey. It was hellish, with Nate screaming and, like William Hurt in Altered States, smashing himself into the doors. He was frantic, a caged animal, and I wasn’t sure if we could make it through the next 400 miles without him trying to open the door and leap out.

Back to yesterday. After I stopped him from pitching my phone onto the highway, we made it to Watervliet without incident and headed to Five Guys. There Nate was acting weirdly, making more than the usual trips to the bathroom. I grew concerned. It seemed that the faces of the men leaving the rest room were telegraphing that something strange was going on in there. When he finally sat down to eat, he took a few nibbles of his plain burger and gagged as if preparing to throw up. It was going to be a bad scene, I could tell.

When Nate is out of control, there’s no way to predict what he’ll do, and that’s the worse part. He becomes eminently untrustworthy and I can’t leave him alone. So, I told him we’d skip the bookstore but still make his “toialroid” trips. At first, he was good with that, but once we got in the Kia he began to go berserk.

Nate began to obsess about getting gas, about his Five Guys lunch and other tic-like catchphrases. I admit he was driving me insane and I started screaming myself that he should shut up. I mean screaming (and cursing), my voice getting higher and higher and out of control. That only made it worse and he bit his arm, something he hasn’t done in a while.

Still, I didn’t want to deprive him of his goals, and took him to Dunkin’ Donuts. I went in with him because of his condition and I wasn’t sure what he’d do. The New Scotland Road places had to be crossed off the list because there was limited street parking amidst a ton of construction. He was pretty good with that.

As we headed home, I tried to explain to Nate that when he behaves so badly it makes me feel lousy about taking him on a special trip. After all, I did end up driving three hours for a burger, fries and three bathroom visits! He was shaky, upset with the day but trying his best to cope.

I stopped for gas in Duanesburg, first sending a message to Robbie who was having his own troubles in Brazil (computer related). I have to say that between Nate and Rob my brain felt like it was being crushed. As I pumped gas, Nate went to the bathroom and I didn’t think to stop him.

He was gone a long time and I began to panic. I shouldn’t have let him go in and, I was certain, he did something outlandish in there. I could hear the police cars coming, I could see Nate being held by some older man through the window, Nate trying to get away and yelling. I rushed into the building.

There was Nate slowly making his way out. It was all in my imagination, but that’s what living with him can do. It sends me to scary places. I was so relieved that my worst case scenario hadn’t played out.

The drive home was fine, Nate calmed down and napped. In Cooperstown, he was laughing that the guy who sang “Puttin’ On the Ritz” was named Taco. I reminded him that I wanted to wash the car and we stopped for a few minutes.

Before I got out, Nate began to sob about the lack of snow, a constant theme this winter. Still, I proceeded to clean the car, though through the soapsudsed windshield I could see him melting down, blubbering.

When I got back into the driver’s seat, he told me he was not crying about the weather now, that he was sad about how I was angry with him at Five Guys, how bad the day was, how we fought and that he wished he could press a do-over button and start again. It was heartbreaking.

What could have been, and should have been, a fun day had turned out to be a disaster.

And it was only 2:30.

Two of Us Riding Nowhere

“Dad, you’re late for your post,” Nate told me.

He was right. My iPhone had chimed with the pre-set alarm reminding me it was time to log in. Truth is, I’ve been writing all week, but not Mission of Complex stuff. I’m in the midst of some rewrites for a book proposal, so posting has taken a back seat.

It’s that time of year again, when Nate and I are standing solo.  Karen and Joey are in Los Angeles, Robbie still in Brazil. We’ve been yukking it up a lot since Friday. Seems like this year we’re cracking each other up a lot.

It can be difficult to keep up with Nate’s desires. The kid always wants to know what we’re going to do every minute of the day, and, more importantly, what we’re having for lunch and dinner. Just when you think you’ve stumbled on the perfect time killing event, he’s already on to later, or tomorrow, or Tuesday. There’s not even a second of enjoying the present.

Yesterday, after a busy morning of meetings, Nate and I headed south to Binghamton. I love revisiting my old college town, but rarely do I have a destination of my own. Nate always has other plans, like visiting the new Christmas Tree Shop of Johnson City, the renovated bathroom at Toys ‘R Us virtually next door, and the rehabbed McDonald’s on Main St., Binghamton. Fortunately, wherever we are in the Carousel City and environs, there are memories galore, like the gas station I used to go to my sophomore year, down the hill from the Ely Park townhouses where I lived. I can see myself from that time, filling the old blue Monza, with the WAAL on (probably playing Asia, to my dismay). I soon discovered WHRW, our college station, and just in time.

Nate is 21 & 1/2, the age I was in the middle of my senior year in college. I couldn’t help thinking about that as we drove around. I looked over at him, thought of me, and marvelled at where I am today. (Mentally, it’s miles away. Physically, I was just about in the same geographical place).

Who coulda thunk it back then, when my cares were limited to my records, my grades and whether I’d ever have a girlfriend? Such are the things that, in retrospect, were so monumental, yet now so silly. I guess that comes with age and perspective.

Last night Nate hung around with me and wanted to sleep in my room. I told him no, but this morning he came in pretty early, so there was no point in refusing. As the day went on, he seemed a little under the weather with all the aches - stomach, head, back. He complained about everything, but was good-natured when I informed him I needed to work on the proposal for a couple of hours. I promised him Chinese food for dinner, which kept him going. A side trip to the supermarket was a big thrill. Tonight he’s on his own. It’s the 500th episode of The Simpsons and he doesn’t need me around for that.

Tomorrow? Well, we’ll see. I’ve got to get back to work, though I promised him a few local errands and lunch at New York Pizzeria. Dinner? It’s already arranged: Chicken Kiev and rice pilaf. But I know tonight, around 8:30 when his show ends, I’ll hear this:

“Dad, what are we going to have for dinner on Tuesday night?”

The Big Sweetheart

Some people like to be alone when they’re sick, prone to wallowing in their misery. Others prefer company to take their mind off their woes. Still others want you to rearrange your entire existence to cater to their every whim. Nate gets adorable, confused and clingy.

Yesterday, Karen had an open house for her Quirky Works jewelry business. Nate had been a bit sick, glassy eyed and, as he is apt to get, somewhat hallucinatory. I thought I could run to the carriage barn to listen to music and read. It was not going to happen.

My phone rang while I was deep into Christopher Hitchens’ God is Not Great, with pianist Nicky Hopkins’ The Tin Man Was a Dreamer (lots of George Harrison on that disc) spinning on the turntable.

“Hello.”

“Hey Dad.” Silence.

“Nate do you need me to come in or are you OK?” Giving him a reasonable selection of choices usually works. Knowing Nate, I can guess what he’s thinking.

“Can you hang out with me?” So much for my alone time, but I was good with that.

Nate was in the Big TV room, watching lousy 1980′s era Tom and Jerry cartoons. He needed to rest his aching tummy, so he lay down on the couch and covered his head with a fuzzy black blanket. From under cover he told me about a nightmare he’d had.

“I dreamed about my iPhone’s death.” Nate always has weird visions when he’s sick. Recently he bought an iPad and he loves it. In the process of switching from one device to the other, he’s begun to mourn the passing of his old electronic pal. It’s an iPod, but he always refers to it as a phone.

All day I would check in on Nate. When I needed to leave the room, I told him why and when I’d return.

“It’s fun to hang out with you,” he said, and it is, in a funny way. There’s some interaction, but it’s mostly Nate needing me nearby as he conducts an endless monologue. But his desire for company is a joy.

Later, as we watched the Grammys in bed, Nate wriggled his way in between me and Karen. He’s a hulk, so it isn’t very easy or very comfortable.

“My body’s getting better,” he announced. “My stomach’s coming back from the dead.”

That’s how the day ended and, this morning, he seems fine.

The Quasi-Music Man

At dinner, over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, Nate pored through the new Rolling Stone. He likes reading it as soon as it arrives, pulling out loose subscription cards which he ends up drawing on. Then, later, he goes over the pages again, more slowly. I think he reads some of the articles. I caught him intently focused on a review of The Doors’ LA Woman reissue a few weeks ago.

“Who’s this old guy?” Nate asked, checking out the photos in “Random Notes.” I glanced over.

“It’s Warren Buffay,” Nate answered himself. And it was. The uber-tycoon was chatting with Jay-Z.

“Warren Buffett,” I corrected.

“Is he the father of singer Jimmy Buffay?” I hadn’t made a pronunciation impact.

“No, he’s not,” I corrected, again. “Jimmy Buffett.“

Nate always seems to know more than we think about pop culture. As readers know, he’s encyclopedic on cartoons, movies and toilets, but he ends up surprising me with his musical knowledge. I’m not sure where it comes from. He does always check out the artist info on Sirius Radio, and he’s always listened, intently and sneakily, to what’s being said around him.

While driving, I asked Nate if he knew who was singing “I Can’t Explain.” My intention was to give him a little lesson in rock history, but he didn’t need it.

“The Who does,” he replied matter-of-factly.”

And there was the time he overheard Oscar Pettiford’s “Blues in the Closet,” rushed over to my computer to check out what was playing, and said, “This is a jazzy version of the Violent Femmes’ “Blister in the Sun.” And it very much is. I never made that connection; he did immediately.

I’d like Nate to listen to more music. It’s a very important part of our lives in the Katz’ household. He tends to shut off iTunes, or Spotify, when I’m working. In the car he always needs the radio on. That I can’t figure out, but Nate has always had a sense that certain things are only for specific places. Maybe computers and music don’t mix. Perhaps he’s a man out of time, better suited to cruising in a T-bird listening to AM radio.

I wonder if he’s seen American Graffiti?’

Walking Through Nate’s Gallery

I wrote about Doug Miller back in November (http://missionofcomplex.wordpress.com/2011/11/16/impressions-of-an-art-insider/). He’s a family friend who thinks the world of Nate’s artwork. I also alluded to some potentially big developments re:Nate’s art, but it would be premature to talk in detail right now. I can, and will, tell you a bit about Doug’s visit last week.

Nate was sitting at the picnic table in our kitchen drawing a shopping center. When Doug arrived, he began asking Nate very pointed questions on his process. I learned a lot!

“Nate, why do you use colored pencils instead of magic markers, or paint?”

“Umm, it’s more realistic,” Nate responded after much hemming and hawing. That was a fascinating bit of insight into Nate’s mind, because, to me, his storefronts are primitive and stylized, not realistic at all. To him they are.

“Why do you use that kind of tape?”

That took a bit to answer, and there was much prompting. Nate uses Scotch brand transparent tape (he’s a brand name junkie) to laminate his work, quite ineffectively. Water always seeps through the slats of tape. He also, to my surprise, draws, tapes, and then draws again on top of the tape. It’s a more elaborate process than I imagined, and I didn’t realize it until Doug asked Nate some probing questions about his approach to his subject matter, strip malls.

From the kitchen we adjourned to the dining room, one of at least three rooms in the house that are teeming with Nate’s documents. From left to right that’s Nate, Doug and me.

 Doug flipped through Nate’s long pieces, two 8 1/2″ X 11″‘s taped side by side lengthwise. As Doug discussed the different perspectives, the variety of detail and busy-ness, the choice of color, the miniature logos of Colonel Sanders and Taco Bell, I began to see Nate’s work in a different light. It became quite complex, quite absorbing and, at that moment, I could truly see Nate as a valid artist. He may not have the chops of Gauguin, but he’s got something interesting to say about mass culture.

Nate humored us as we picked out particular drawings to discuss, but soon left the room. I think he was worried that we were looking though his stuff. When we had a question and asked him to return, he yelled in frustration, which he always does when we need him. He explained little gems we found, like a shopping center evolutionary timeline: car dealership, demolished car dealership, open field, new shopping center. Those were fascinating and new to me. Doug also liked how Nate recycled materials, taking old self-made books of fixtures – toilets, sinks and urinals from different municipalities, like The Complete List of Fixtures of Mt. Prospect, IL, and flipping them over to be used as thick canvasses.

Then there are Nate’s teeny drawings on magazine subscription cards. Doug loved them, sensing another genre within the volumes of Nate’s canon. I asked Nate if he knew who Picasso was, and he did. I explained how Pablo used to draw on napkins and other scraps.

At the end of the powwow, Doug borrowed a few of Nate’s pieces, with permission.

“Mr. Miller, you’ll borrow these for a few weeks?” Nate asked with concern. Doug said yes, and Nate seemed appeased, though he took photos on Karen’s iPad for posterity. What’s interesting is that Nate is deeply connected to each drawing, until he redoes them and throws the old versions unceremoniously in the trash. So how much do we consider his worry about the removal of a few works?

It’s a fine balance, but, if our plans pan out, it’ll be worth the stress. Days later, Nate hasn’t mentioned the missing malls at all.