BY REASON OF INSANITY by Edward L. Woodyard

By Reason of Insanity Chapter Ten

I stopped wondering about the red coupe when I saw my son Willie standing in the driveway putting his surfboard into the back of his vintage Willys Jeep. He was dressed in a collared shirt, khakis, flip-flops, a silk necktie and a lightweight sport jacket, a uniform out of character for him. Who was he trying to fool this time?

I parked in the driveway next to his Jeep and watched Willie as I got out of my car. His movements had determination and purpose; however, he hesitated with even menial decisions.

I loved my son. He was bright, handsome, athletic, tan and still unemployed after having graduated from USC three years earlier with a degree in English. He was the kind of guy whom everyone just liked to have around. It wasn't necessarily in anything he said or did; maybe it was his smile or nonchalance, but he had an innate ability to make people feel good about themselves in a most understated way, just by being himself. He was very easy to love.

He had thought of becoming a writer, but I told him the world needed more writers like it needed more actors. I stressed to him that nothing new had been written about the human condition since the ancient Greeks and the Israelite stories in the Torah. After I observed to him that emotions and reactive behaviors have remained the same since time immemorial and that only the historical context and conditions have varied, I asked him what would make anyone's life interesting to anyone else, except perhaps to that person's analyst? He answered that was exactly what made life itself interesting: that there were no answers to anyone's questions. All was mystery – and any solution would spoil the suspense about the outcome.

Willie being that smart and personable still wouldn't provide him with a steady paycheck. He should've learned a trade, such as industrial plumbing, electrical contracting or stone masonry. Manual labor was honest work and would've got him out of the house and away from the beach. The beach was a hypnotic allure for him, the waves acting like mythical sirens enticing him into its saline grasp and then embracing him in torrential hugs as they crashed him against the sand, each time reinvigorating him as he retrieved his shortboard and returned to the briny breakers, only to repeat the process until exhaustion or hunger set in or the sun set past Malibu.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Willie."

"What's up?"

"The sky, the ceiling, the stock market. . ."

"That's old and tired, Dad."

"Like me."

"Try something else."

"Then ask me something else."

"You ask me instead."

"Okay. What's up?"

"Seeing what's out there."

"What? A job, a girl or a wave?"

"All three. Think I look okay?"

"You look okay. Got an interview somewhere?"

"I'm thinking of sales."

"How are you spelling that?"

"Good one, Dad. Not spinnakers this time. The serious stuff, like insurance and real estate. Retail is dead. Everything's online except haircuts and fresh pizza."

I couldn't refute his generalization. I changed the subject. "Is Mom inside?"

"In the greenhouse. She's taking up painting again."

"Good."

"Things between you two seem to be getting better."

"We're working on it."

"It must be tough being married. Ever notice how women expect things they never ask for?"

"You want to take over my practice?"

"No thanks. I want to figure out my own life first. Not other people's."

"We're all doing that, Willie. It's a lifelong process. When you find out what life's about, you be sure to let me know. In the meantime, you might figure out how to put gas in your car."

"Eventually hybrid, Dad. Think electric."

"I still pay that bill too."

"I'm going to get there, Dad."

"I know. There are always some detours along the way."

"Some of them we don't plan on. I'm doing the best that I can."

I wanted to tell him that everyone can always do better, but now was not that time. I have long insisted that once basic survival needs were taken care of – food, clothing, shelter – people gave themselves permission to act however or to be whomever they wanted. Once there were no restrictions on their mind, body or soul, people were free to be as crazy or as sane as they chose to be. They wouldn't have to think; they could let feelings make decisions for them.

"I know, Willie. All you can do is try."

"It's all part of my quarterlife crisis, Dad. See you later. Love you."

"Love you too."

Why didn't we say "I love you" to each other? Why didn't we make it an emphatic, definite statement instead of a flippant sign-off? "Love you" wasn't meant to be the close of a conversation or to a letter or an e-mail, something partnered with "Sincerely yours" or "Best regards;" it was an affirmation of honest affection for another human being. Were we so afraid to commit to say "I love you" so we'd only go half-way with "Love you" so that we could have an easy-out, like a quickie divorce, if it didn't work out as we planned? Why did we go half-way with each other and not love each other as fully as we should?

I watched Willie jump into his Willys, start it and back out onto the road to head toward the beach, narrowly avoiding a red coupe travelling in the opposite direction. I wasn't sure if it was the same one that I had last seen driving toward the ocean on San Vicente. My thoughts were on my son, not some erratic driver with a faulty GPS.

I knew one thing for sure. Willie's tie and jacket would be off by the time he hit Sunset.

Despite his best intentions to make himself self-supporting, Willie had had a major detour in his life recently when his girlfriend of six years dropped him. Mara and I had decided to let him get himself through that upheaval without our interference. I realized as Willie matured and got ever more handsome that people would have a difficult time getting past his physical attractiveness and not discover the depth of the man inside. I also thought that Willie used that same countenance as a way to keep people from getting too close to him and thus learning too much about him. That was the reason, I suspected, that his now-former girlfriend had left him, purely out of frustration from Willie never letting anyone know his true self. Did he too only give her a "love you" and balk at "I love you?" Why did I have to psychoanalyze him and not just love him for simply being whom he was beyond his having been born my son?

I also thought that Willie might be conflicted by trying to come to terms with his sexuality. Fathers could sense these things, as much as they didn't want to. I too was avoiding what I didn't want to admit: my only child, the son I loved more than life itself, the one who had made me discover places in my heart that I never thought existed, could very well be gay. He and his mother didn't seem to have a problem with it, even though the topic had never been discussed. I would have to deal with that on my own terms and in my own way. I had always hoped that I was wrong about Willie since he was still having sex with girls, but I thought it may be for social acceptance reasons since he didn't want to lose his friends; however, I suspected that those same friends didn't care about personal sexual choices – and that I seemed to be the only one who was distressed by the possibility of his being gay. Was it a generational thing? In any event, he was still a great kid and I loved him very much – regardless.

As long as he was happy. . . The mantra of every adoring, hopeful parent.