Page 4 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

September 19, 2018

Istart my morningthe same way I always do, with my fists relentlessly pounding against the stiff leather of my punching bag. It takes the edge off, and I’m in a better mood if I get in a solid hour with the bag every day. I stop when I hear the light shushing of sand hitting the wood floor. Spinning the bag, I find the tear that has now led to sand gushing out from the side of it like a bleeding wound.

“Crap.” I shift my feet to avoid getting sand on my sneakers. “Well, there goes another one.”

My knuckles are numb as I pull off my gloves. Sweat drips down the side of my face and neck, and I swipe it away with the back of my hand as I walk to the shower.

Once I’m dressed and ready, I wait at the door and inhale a few breaths. My room is my sanctuary. When we moved to Pasadena last year, my dad renovated it for me. It’s massive, about the size of a bachelor pad with a loft area for my bed and a flat-screen TV. On the lower level is my gym area. Closer to the door, we’d set up a desk and bookshelf for a study area. My dad and I do a lot of DIY together. He enjoys manual labor and sees it as a way for us to bond.

With everything I have in my room, I basically never have to leave unless I want to eat. I asked for a mini fridge in here and that’s where my parents drew the line because the one rule they’ve always enforced is that we have to have meals as a family. They are so strict about this that they both leave the restaurant at five p.m. every day; we eat dinner together at six, and then my dad goes back until closing time. They make an active effort to be involved in every aspect of my life without being intrusive, and I love that about them.

I head downstairs and walk into the kitchen to find my mom hunched over on the kitchen counter. The deep sighs and sniffles tell me she’s crying...again.

“Morning, mom,” I greet as if I don’t see what’s right in front of me. I’ve learned how to ignore it.

Her head snaps up, and she quickly wipes the tears off her cheeks. Her dark brown eyes are puffy and swollen. She looks terrible. “Morning, sweetie. Have you had breakfast?”

“Nah, I’m just going to grab a protein bar.” I walk to the fridge to get an apple and the sandwich she prepacked for me and toss it into my backpack. “Are you going into the restaurant today?”

“Yep. In about an hour or so.”

I glare at her, trying not to get irritated. “But you can’t be around customers like that. You’re crying again and you’re a mess.”

“I’m fixing that right now.” She dabs her face again, runs a hand over her tousled, dark brown hair, and forces her most unauthentic smile yet. “See? I’m...happy.”

“Shit,” I curse under my breath, shaking my head. “Can you at least try to put some effort into it? That smile is so fake it looks plastic.”

“I’m like a walking advertisement for PTSD Barbie.”

We try not to show too much emotion in this house. The rules are if you cry, you’re weak, and if you laugh, you’re a loser, so I simply nod, not giving her the satisfaction of a laugh even though that joke deserved it. “Good one.”

“Why is there sand coming out of your room and all the way down the hallway?” my dad asks as he enters the kitchen.

“I ripped another punching bag.”

“You went through that one fast.” He grabs my head to slap a kiss on my forehead before walking over to the coffee percolator. I’m not a small guy, but my dad still seems like an ogre compared to me. He’s this big, burly giant of a man, but still a gentle soul. “I’ll get you another one on my way home today. Just make sure you clean up that mess.”

We have a housekeeper, but my parents always insist that I clean up my own messes. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll sort it out when I get home from school. I’m already late.”

“I’ll clean it up,” mom offers.

“No, mom, don’t worry about it. I’ll do it later.”

“It’s no trouble, sweetie...unless you’re trying to keep me out of your room because you don’t want me stumbling onto your secret stash of porn magazines.”

“Mom! You know me better than that.” I am shocked that she would even suggest such a thing. “It’s the digital age. I have all that shit on my phone now.”

My dad jumps on the bandwagon, too. “Geez, get with the times, Lorraine.”

I probably have the coolest parents in the world. They’re caring, supportive, and—although a bit deranged—they both have a wicked sense of humor. As long as I’m honest with them and keep my grades up, they pretty much let me do whatever I want. They spoil me a little too much, but we come from humble beginnings, and they try their very best to make sure I have a better life than they had.

They spent the first few years of their marriage struggling to stay afloat, but soon after my sister was born, the restaurant took off. They started opening more branches in different locations, and it turned into a very lucrative franchise as the years passed. Now we live in one of the wealthiest suburbs in Pasadena. When Meryl Streep is your neighbor, you know that you’ve made it in life. Well, she doesn’t actually live next door. It’s more of a holiday home for her, I think. Still pretty cool, though. But not even wealth and Meryl Streep have been able to change my parents. They are still every bit as quirky and humble as they always were.

My dad pours two cups of coffee and hands her one. “Have you been crying?”

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