Chapter_27_Calrissian

On the road again. No, literally; we’re listening to “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson. It only seems fitting that while we cross Nebraska toward Colorado, one of the first states to legalize marijuana, we should listen to the Prince of Weed sing his heart out.

Temporarily losing our dog in the middle of the country made us emotional wrecks, but finding her unharmed, with a delightful new companion, has emboldened us. Like Biz and I could endure anything together.

We feel in sync for the first time in a while as we happily sing together, “The life I love is making music with my friends! And I can’t wait to get on the road again!”

“I can’t wait to hit the dance floor,” Biz says, thinking ahead to our friends’ wedding.

“I need a bed,” I admit, too exhausted from driving all day to even think about physical activity.

“We’re going to party our asses off. I’m gonna get DRUNK.” Biz awkwardly pumps his fist in the air. “I wonder if there’s a dance remix to this song.”

There it is again. I silently worry that Biz is reverting back to his teenage party years.

I know we’re both hoping that we can find a happy medium between fatherhood and not abandoning fun forever but sometimes I feel like Biz is running in the opposite direction of where we’re going.

Biz checks Spotify and lists all the “On the Road Again” covers. “Alanis Morrissette did one?” Then I hear an unwanted tune.

“Do you hear... a gurgle and a rattle?” I ask.

“Gurgle and rattle. Isn’t that a U2 album?” Biz asks, buried in music.

“No, the car. It’s making noises. Like a gurgle and a rattle.” I grow concerned. I know nothing about cars and Biz knows even less. Matilda knows more about cars than us. One time, a friend of ours was talking about his Lexus and I thought he meant an antidepressant.

Biz looks up from his phone, his eyes scanning back and forth, searching for the sound I hear. Every few seconds it becomes more pronounced.

“There. Hear that?” I ask.

“That time I did, yes,” Biz says.

It’s probably a good idea to drive in the slow lane, I decide. If there’s something wrong with Virginia Woolf, we need easy access to the shoulder of the highway. We drive and listen to the rattling that sounds off every four seconds.

GrrrrrrrrrTKTKTKTKgrrrrrr.

After a few minutes, the rattling stops. But maybe the gurgle’s still happening?

“There. We fixed it,” Biz says, hoping we won’t have to eventually fix it for real.

“Teamwork,” I say. “Seriously, if it happens again, we should probably pull over and get it checked out.”

“We’re aligned,” Biz says.

After four peanut butter granola bars, a giant bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, one stop at a pet store to buy dog food, a new collar and leash for Pancake, and the entire album of Hamilton played twice, it’s pitch dark.

As much as I want to drive all the way through to Colorado, we follow the plan to check into a motel and start fresh, first thing in the morning.

We spot a Super 8 sign along the highway and I pull off the exit.

Our modest and perfectly fine motel room fits the four of us nicely, and as we get ready for bed, I start to worry about Flora and the baby.

“We should call her to check in,” I say.

“Her doctor’s appointment is tomorrow,” Biz says. “There’s not much we can do.”

“Yeah, but just to see how she’s doing? I know it’s late there but she might appreciate us thinking about—”

I turn to see Biz is asleep. The dogs are passed out, comically sprawled over the bed in a pile with Biz. It’s time for all of us to sleep as I snuggle in next to them and shut my tired eyes.

Early the next morning, we hit the road and arrive in Evergreen right on schedule. The breathtaking mountain vista is the perfect antidote to yesterday’s flat scenery. The looping road on the way to Patrick’s house nestles us in high altitude that makes our ears pop.

Biz has taken the bulk of the drive so I text Patrick to let him know we’re close. He texts back immediately:

PATRICK

Welcome to Colorado! The gate code is 9601

“He just sent us his gate code,” I say, barely comprehending our friend having a gate.

“His house has a gate?” Biz asks.

“I knew it was a big house but I didn’t think it was this big.”

We turn into a driveway with an enormously grand double gate.

“Looks like his gate has a gate,” Biz jokes.

On one side of the gate is a bronze plaque that reads, “Calrissian Cottage.”

“Is that some Star Wars reference?” Biz asks.

We playfully roll our eyes at our friend’s well-known Star Wars fandom. Biz enters the code and the iron doors slowly swing open into a grand driveway.

There’s another vibration on my phone and this time it’s my mom calling. My stomach nosedives. I haven’t spoken to her since we left, and I have a mental white board cluttered with unresolved theories, questions and mysteries surrounding my father.

I swipe to answer and hope I can control my emotions. “Hi, Mom,” I say, flatly, making sure she knows I’m not entirely happy with her at the moment.

“Where are you now?” my mom sounds like her usual energetic self. Then again, she would probably sound like this no matter what news she’s calling to share. She always has her game face on.

“We’re just arriving at Patrick’s house in Colorado.” We look ahead and all we see are rows of thick pine trees on either side with no end in sight. “I think.”

I stubbornly don’t want to say anything more to my mom. My resentment right now is as high as the Rockies. Plus, she called me. This is her show. “I’m putting you on speaker, Mom.”

“Hi, Bev,” Biz chirps. We both wonder if there’s an end to this long-ass driveway, which seems more like an airport runway inside a forest.

“Hi, Biz,” my mom says with a heavy sigh. “I just... I guess I wanted to talk to you about your boxes. And what you found. I see you took some of your father’s letters.”

I look at Biz solemnly. His mouth drops open, ready for the drama. This is the exact opposite kind of energy we need right before the beginning of a wedding weekend.

There’s so much I need to say to her and it’s going to have to wait because now Flora’s name pops up on my phone.

“Can I call you back, Mom?”

“Honey, there’s never a good time to talk about this and we just need to address this once and for all,” she says, almost in a scripted way. She’s never been this forthcoming about my father.

“I’d love to, Mom, but Flora’s calling,” I say, hoping she’ll remember our priority right now.

“Is everything alright?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I probably should answer her call. Can I call you back?”

I hang up with my mom and answer Flora as Biz stops the car at the end of this road/driveway. We can see a giant house peeking through the trees in the distance.

“Hi, Flora,” I say into the speakerphone.

“I’m just about to go into the doctor’s office,” Flora says, sounding nervous.

“Do you want to video conference us in?” I ask, trying anything to make her comfortable.

“I’ll be fine. I just wanted to hear your voices, I guess.”

“You’re gonna be great,” I say.

“Why, should we worry?!” Biz almost yells into the phone, way too anxious. I mime turning the drama dial down a notch.

“You got this, Flora. We’re with you in spirit,” I encourage her again.

“Call us the second you’re out,” Biz says, in a little more supportive tone.

“I will. Thanks, guys,” Flora says.

We hang up. Biz and I look at each other, feeling helpless. There’s only so much we can do long-distance.

Our quiet reflection is interrupted by Patrick exiting his house. Strike that: his mansion.

Climbing out of the car, tight hugs all around, we look up and feel dwarfed by the palatial structure. The dogs jump out of the car and chase each other around the ornate fountain in the middle of the driveway, happy to be free. As difficult as it is, I try to focus on the present.

“Now I get it,” I say. “Calrissian Cottage is ironic. Because it’s not a cottage.”

“This is unbelievable!” Biz says, taking it all in.

Our jaws fall to the circular heated driveway. What we see before us is outside of anyone’s imagination. The three-story house disappears into the forest on either end.

“Funny, you guys don’t look like freaked-out dads-to-be,” Patrick greets us. Now with a full beard since the last time we saw him, he looks very Bradley-Cooper-moved-to-Colorado-and-became-a-gay-bear. The small gap in between his two front teeth has always given him a little extra relatable quirk. “How do you two always look so fresh?”

“We have two dogs now. They keep us young,” Biz says, not joking.

“You said this place was big but I wasn’t thinking MGM Grand big,” I say.

“Four years in the making,” Nathan adds, exiting the house and coming at us with big hugs. Nathan is Patrick’s husband-to-be, with an equally bushy beard, bear vibes and hairier than an average werewolf.

“You guys must miss New York,” Biz says, looking around.

“We have ten acres of land here, but yeah, we totally miss our Hell’s Kitchen one bedroom,” Nathan jokes.

“Please tell me you have a casino in there,” Biz says.

“Apologies if the bowling alley, basketball court and petting zoo aren’t enough for your tastes,” Patrick says.

“You do not have a petting zoo,” I say, unsure.

“You’ll have to come in and find out,” Patrick says.

“I never pegged you as indoor basketball court guys,” Biz says.

“We have a gift-wrapping room to even it out,” Nathan says.

“If there’s a Beanie Babies room, I’m checking into a Red Roof Inn,” Biz says.

“Why do I direct commercials? I need to get into cryptocurrency,” I say.

“First you need to google cryptocurrency,” Biz says, more accurately. Everyone laughs.

As we pull our luggage from the trunk, I see Patrick not-so-subtly slip Biz a plastic baggie of what I presume are drugs. I try to ignore this exchange and call for Matilda and Pancake, who zoom around the driveway.

“You know we sold the business, right?” Patrick asks us.

Patrick and Nathan spent their formative years together in New York before building their dream home closer to Nathan’s family in Denver. They’d created a string of successful tech start-ups together that were all moneymakers but totally unclear to us. Some kind of software company? A film data marketing exchange maybe? A geolocation infrastructure app thing? Whatever they touch turns to gold. They briefly explain their current business, which makes me feel like I should’ve studied harder in school.

Inside we’re greeted by a statuesque man in a tight black T-shirt serving us a specialty cocktail. “Spicy cucumber margarita?” he says with a heavenly deep voice.

“Sure!” Biz is the first one to take a glass. He raises an eyebrow at Patrick after the butler (maybe?) disappears around a corner.

“We hired some staff for a couple days so we didn’t have to do everything ourselves this weekend.” Nathan shrugs, trying to stay humble despite everything around him being anything but humble.

After the grand tour of the compound, which takes forty-five minutes, the four of us sit in the living room and surround the largest charcuterie board known to man. Patrick is originally from Houston and does everything oversized.

“How’s your gaycation so far?” Patrick asks, chomping down on spicy soppressata to go with his spicy marg.

“Hasn’t been super gay,” Biz says. “Except for two days in P-town. But it’s been pretty great.” Biz seems happy with our detours and no longer missing our original plan.

“We made some last-minute stops in Boston and Chicago to see our families so we didn’t even get to the places we were supposed to visit. Totally unplanned but they were great. Mostly,” I add, remembering my father’s letters.

“Wow. The man who used to make Excel spreadsheets to map out his ten-year career plan took detours?” Patrick roasts me.

Our bedroom is cozied away in our own separate cottage, one of four such buildings, just opposite the main house. The couple’s family members are staying in the other cottages. It’s surreal that a peer of ours—not even just a peer, a close friend—could afford this type of luxury while we’re scraping by to make our Brooklyn rent and have a baby. Now with Biz out of a job, our struggle feels more real.

“I can’t believe we have our own little house,” I say, inspecting every inch. Our house is not so little. It’s two stories and looks like it was kissed by a production designer on a Nancy Meyers movie.

I admire a tiny golden ceramic Laughing Buddha on the dresser. I rub the Buddha’s belly and make a wish that Flora’s doctor’s appointment goes well. That’s exactly when Biz and I get a text from her. We both read our phones.

FLORA

The doctor said everything is great!

She decided not to induce me early.

She’s continuing to monitor me but we’re back on track with the same due date!

“Such a relief!” I say out loud to Biz as I type the same thing to Flora. We can rest easy tonight and enjoy the casual rehearsal dinner Patrick and Nathan have planned.

“That makes me feel so much better. We should check in with her again after the wedding,” Biz says, exhausted, falling into the luxurious bed. “Isn’t it wild those two are getting married tomorrow?” Biz asks as he sighs with a pang of heartbreak. I know Biz wishes this could be our wedding. I fall onto the bed next to him.

We stare at the beamed ceiling and listen to Matilda and Pancake find a spot together in a corner of the room. It’s cute we have this huge room and they choose to nap together.

I’m feeling uncontrollably sleepy and I can tell Biz has heavy thoughts on his mind. “Do you wish that... maybe we were the ones getting married?” he asks.

It’s the last thing I hear before everything fades and sleep takes hold of me.