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Of Beads and Brakes
Aidan’s summer booklist is self-assigned. Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror, Ken Wilbur’s A Sociable God, the Epic of Gilgamesh, a thick history of China. And Chuck Palahniuk. This is the guy who wrote Fight Club, the film version of which has become something of a cult classic.
“You wouldn’t like him,” he assures me. “The guy’s brilliant, and nihilistic, and funny. But he’s not maternal reading.” I do an Internet search on Chuck Palahniuk, read some plot summaries. So this is transgressional fiction. My son is right. I do not want to know about sous chefs who ejaculate into the hollandaise as an act of cultural subversion. Nor will I ever again order Eggs Benedict. Could we go back to Redwall, please?
But Pahalniuk comes into town to promote his new book, and Aidan has to go. The Triple Rock on Cedar hosts him. Apparently the man puts on quite a show. “He was throwing inflatable dolls into the audience,” Aidan tells me. “But I didn’t get one.” Too bad. I could have used a passenger for the commuter lane on 394.
“What are these, Aidan?” I have found an unusual bookmark in the history of China - a string of beads. They are about the size of the ones on the wooden rosary we were given for Maggie when she was born. She teethed on it.
He is marking a passage in the book with one of four colored markers – one for dates, one for names, one for trends and one for quotations – a study system he has invented for himself. “Anal beads,” he says, without looking up. “From Chuck Palahniuk.” He shows me the actual bookmark they are attached to. Written plainly on one end: “For your book, not your butt.”
He highlights another quotation.
The car is ten years old and has 170,000 miles on it. We bought it in 2000 or 2001 for $8000 from Paul’s parents. Aidan crunched the front end up right after he got his license, pulling out of his dad’s driveway on the way to school; he’s been quite good since. Now both front and rear brakes need to be replaced, and the front need new rotors; they can’t even be reground.
Certain he does not want to spend the summer delivering pizzas, Aidan finds a job within a week of coming home, at a deli a couple miles down Shady Oak, Pastrami Jack’s. The work is easy by comparison, he says, and he still makes tips. Good thing he does not want to deliver pizzas, because not long after he tells me that the brakes on his car sound bad. I don’t even have to back the car out of the driveway before I know bad is an understatement. Those brake pads are not even a memory: this is metal-to-metal.
The car is ten years old and has 170,000 miles on it. We bought it in 2000 or 2001 for $8000 from Paul’s parents. Aidan crunched the front end up right after he got his license, pulling out of his dad’s driveway on the way to school; he’s been quite good since. Now both front and rear brakes need to be replaced, and the front need new rotors; they can’t even be reground.
We both agree that an $800 brake job makes little sense, especially with gas at $4 a gallon. The car was once a necessity for moving between two households and getting to Eden Prairie High School, but neither kid really wants or needs a car in college, and both are now pretty much living with me when they’re home. So the 1998 Toyota Corolla is prepared for a Goodwill pickup.
And we are now the proud owners of a used Kymco Agility scooter, with a 49cc 4 stroke engine that gets 80 mph and a top speed of 35 mph. Your basic Taiwanese Vespa. My brother-in-law’s riding lawnmower is only about four times more powerful, but no matter. The scooter has minimal environmental impact, something Aidan is very conscious of. It’s fun to ride, and it gets him where he needs to go. He has almost finished paying me off for it, and when he does, if it doesn’t affect the insurance, I will transfer the title to him. If I am very, very careful, I may be allowed to drive it around the block someday.
I liked fight club
Transgresstional fiction I can do without Not a fan of most exploitation films either.
Glad to hear Aiden is doing good. Ya know, we go to Pastrami Jacks sometimes. Maybe we'll run into him.