“And I’m Driving!”
(Losing Independence)
“Not this light, but the next one, make a right,” Phillip, (handsome like a younger William Hurt) points out. Rocco grunts, “I know,” passing the first light. A moment after, and at nearly highway speed, he suddenly jerks his steering wheel to the hard right, long before the second light. The little Nissan Sentra pummels over a triangular concrete median entrance/exit divider of a strip mall, coming to an abrupt halt as Rocco slams on his brakes — once on solid ground. The 72-year-old driver, with ocean blue eyes and lips, that some women inject Botox to obtain, in his golf cap and matching windbreaker, now seems smaller than Phillip remembers his father ever being. Rocco sits, firmly holding the steering wheel with two hands, while staring aimlessly at the dashboard. Confused but slightly empathetic, Phillip questions, “Dad?” Still locked in position, his father, in a softer tone now, responds, “I’m sorry!”
Earlier in the day:
Phillip opens the creaky door to his parent’s ranch-style home. “Phillip!”, his mother (Nancy) elated with surprise, proclaims, as his father bellows from the living room, “I have to oil that” (referring to the door)! Nancy calls to her husband, Rocco, “Phillip’s here.” “Phillip,” Rocco replies stoically but does not come to see his son. “What’s up Da?”, as mother and son simultaneously roll their eyes. Rocco’s response is inaudible, and Phillip proceeds to hug his mother who is sitting, as always, at the kitchen table, with a newspaper handy, reading glasses, a cup of coffee, and wearing her day robe. Nancy is a bit of an introverted woman, who smiles and becomes lively and boisterous when her only son is present. She has smooth skin, with just enough wrinkles to tell some colorful stories, and strong thick hair that, although dyed now, had only started graying from its original black color in recent years.
“To what do I owe this honor?”, Nancy asks facetiously. “Well, I had an audition in New York for” … “that’s great,” his mother interrupts. “Yeah, but my cars’ in the shop again, so I took mass transit, and well … since you’re two blocks from the train station … here I am.” Nancy smiles and touches her son’s face, “I’m glad you are!” Whispering some, Phillip leans in and asks his mother, “how’s Scrooge?” Nancy laughs, silent but hearty, shrugging, she responds as if a question, “Bah humbug?” “No, no, he’s good,” she continues, “he does the shopping — even cleans the house now.” Phillip responds jokingly, “oh, so he’s a queer now too? … well, we finally have something in common.” Nancy, chuckling again, brushes her son’s hand, “stop that.”
While sipping coffee, mother and son talk for some time about Phillip’s work as a Modern Stage Dancer, his partner, Austin — a Financial Advisor, and even about the people they are now watching on Family Feud. During the conversation, Rocco had sauntered into the kitchen, seemingly paying little attention to the pair, and going about his routine, of sorting his daily pills, checking his blood sugar, and occasionally calling the contestants on TV, “stupid!” “How’s the blood sugar, Roc?”, Phillip questions. “Dad,” Rocco snaps back! “I’m Dad … Roc is what the Ironworkers called me, and you chose …” Rocco stops himself from continuing. His wife steps in offering, “please,” a plead for peace — not a polite gesture — “why don’t you give Phillip a ride home?” “Where’s your car?”, his father asks. “In the shop again, I think it’s a belt or something.” “Do you spray them with the lubricant, like I told you?”, Rocco interrogates. “I forget,” Phillip casually replies. Growing surprisingly angrier, his father begins to rant, “I told you, they get dry in the summer, but you don’t listen. That’s your problem, you’re stubborn — now you’re gonna need new belts and who knows what else, cause you just couldn’t do what I said.” His wife interjects, “I didn’t know cars wear belts … are you boys hungry?”
“I’ll drive him home,” Rocco continues, then bursts out, “AND I’M DRIVING!” His slight Italian accent seems to intensify some now, “you driving makes me seasick — with the rocking the boat, back and forth, back and forth.” “O-Ok,” Phillip responds, with a bit of a patronizing tone. As Rocco begins to leave the kitchen, he becomes dizzy and must stabilize himself on the wall. Leaning on the wall now, Rocco exhales and without turning to face his wife and son, accuses, “See what you two do to me?” He’s able to stand upright and begins down the hall, ‘that’s my problem, I care too much.” Mother and son look at each other, disguising their concerns with a forced smile. After a brief silence, “Is he?” Phillip begins to question, as Nancy motions him to silence. Rocco re-enters the kitchen wearing a cap and a jacket, “let’s go.” Rising from his chair, Phillip kisses his mother on the cheek, “love you Ma.” “Love you too,” then she whispers, “please don’t fight.” Phillip softly nods agreeing, then sniffs, his face appears inquisitive. “Da … are you wearing Mom’s perfume?” “Don’t be stupid,” Rocco fires back, “you just smell my itchy spray — I have an irritation on my neck.” Nancy’s eyes go wide, as she meets eyes with her son. It is unspoken, but understood, that she must have moved one of her husband’s calculated medicinal placements, mistakenly leaving her perfume in the same spot. “Well,” their son begins, “you smell like a fresh meadow in Springtime.” On that statement, Nancy and Phillip begin laughing hysterically, as Rocco just stares at them with a bit of fury — “come on,” he yells!
The Drive:
After ten minutes or so into the drive, Phillip attempts to break the loud silence, by putting some music on, to which, Rocco promptly shuts the car radio off. Defending himself, “I have to listen for a noise that the cars’ been making!” His son nods sarcastically and looking out the window comments, “nice day!” To his son (or anyone who knows him) Rocco’s next instant response is not shocking, “it’s going to rain!” “Of course, it is,” Phillip mumbles, or so he thought, as a slow turn of his head to the left reveals his father staring right at him with disapproval. Phillip shoots his head back to the right and mimes’ preoccupation. After a moment, he rolls the window down a bit [yes, these are manual windows] and takes a long and pleasant inhalation of the air outside. “Can you please shut that?”, Rocco asks in a civil tone of voice. “Da, the perfume is giving me an awful headache.” The civility ends, as Rocco’s voice and Italian accent climb higher now, “first of all, it’s my rash spray, not fucking perfume, and the cross wind’s bother my vertigo!” “Crosswinds?”, Phillip fires back, “it’s a Sentra, not the Concord … and it’s Mom’s perfume, she’s been wearing the same perfume, my whole life, I think I would” … Rocco abruptly cuts him off, “I KNOW!” His voice comes down a notch, “I know.” “I don’t know why your mother moved it — she knows I have a system.” To himself, though Phillip can still hear him, he says, “it’s not easy anymore.” Knowing the pride of his old man, Phillip says nothing in return, as such admissions are rare, and frankly, difficult for both men to accept.
With the window still, open a tiny bit and the mood in the car more peaceful, even somewhat somber now, Rocco calmly reaches across his son’s torso and begins to roll up the window. Holding a small Tupperware of his mother’s pasta sauce, in his left hand, with his free right hand, Phillip gently grabs his father’s wrist, softly saying, “Pop”, as if the two had come to an unspoken agreement and starts rolling the window down again. Now, with escalated rile Rocco throws his arm across Phillip’s chest — “Pop, my ass … roll the fucking window up, before I get a dizzy spell and start swerving all over the road!” The small car is now swerving all over the road, as the two men struggle over two inches of an open window. In the commotion, the lid of the Tupperware comes loose and spills sauce on Phillip’s shirt. “GREAT,” Phillip hollers! He then begins to carefully remove the shirt, so as not to spread the stain, and placing it over an open shopping bag on the floor of the car, he pours some of his bottled water on the stain and slowly folds the shirt to isolate the blotch. He then puts it inside the shopping bag. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” Rocco states humbly and then, in the same instance, reaches across his shirtless son and closes the window the remainder of the half of an inch that it was left open after the battle. Phillip folds his arms, “stubborn old fool!” “At least you won’t catch a cold, now that you have no shirt on,” Rocco justifies. Phillip just stares at the side of his father’s head, speechless and in complete disbelief about the comment.
Birds and the 5–0:
For several minutes, the only sounds are that of the road under the tires and an occasional sigh of aggravation from a shirtless Phillip, who is sitting with his arms folded. Then, Phillip, spotting a bird overhead, plainly comments, “Tufted Titmouse.” “Yes, strange to see one of those near the highway,” Rocco, apparently having also noticed it concurs. Staring out of his window now, Phillip agrees, with some tension in his voice, “I know … you taught me all about that stuff.” As if nothing had transpired, Rocco asks, “how’s Houston?” “AUSTIN … Austin is fine,” Phillip curtly corrects his father. “That’s good. Maybe he can get you a job at the bank so you can buy a new car” … then, amusing himself under his breath mumbles, “and a shirt.” Phillip abruptly turns his half-naked body toward his father now, “he’s a Financial Advisor with Merrill Lynch, he doesn’t work in a bank, he has an office and,” Phillip pauses, tightening up, he changes the subject … “I don’t want to work in finance — I hated it! I’m a dancer Dad, a professional dancer. People pay me and enjoy seeing me. I know that makes you want to crash the car into a tree, but that’s who I am — what I do, and ….” His father cuts him off, with stern compassion, “I know. I don’t agree, but I know. It’s just … it’s just, I worry about your mother. Who’s going to take care of her when — if — something should happen to me?”
After a long sigh and a head shake, his son begins, “look, I know it’s not what you wanted for me, it’s … well, you made your choices in life, right? You gave up singing — and you sang beautifully — I mean that, but you chose to be an Iron Worker, and provide for your family in that way. Austin and I,” Rocco seriously queries, “Houston?” … “right, Dallas, whatever … we are providing for our daughter, our way.” Smiling now, “how is my Bellissima Angelo?” Phillip, in a softer tone of rebuttal, “she’s wonderful Dad, but the point is …” “your mother,” Rocco interrupts his son, “your mother will need help when I’m gone.” Phillip growing a tad irritated, but not angry responds, “first, stop dying, and second, I will take care of mommy and you’ve made enough provisions that … well … she’ll be fine, ok, just leave it at that!” Within the realm of possible resolution in the vehicle, Phillip rubs his aching head and rolls the window down, halfway open this time. “Yes, she will,” Rocco raises his voice over the incoming breeze, “but what about you?” “Will your daughter be ok, say what’s his name loses his job, or you break up? Will you be able to take your mother out to dinner or Atlantic City once in a while … or will that poor woman have to sit in that kitchen watching General Hospital and Dunking Anisette cookies?” Phillip screams, “she likes those things and YES, I’ll take her to fucking Atlantic City!” Rocco immediately reaches for his sons’ car door, and in his finest Italian accent yells back, “closa’ de’ Goddamn Finestra!” There is a bit of a hand slap fight as Rocco begins swerving the car more aggressively now. Right then, they hear “pull over,” from a commanding loudspeaker voice, and are illuminated by the bright lights of a police car. Phillip has the final angry word, “who’s rocking the boat back and forth now, Mario Andretti?”
The officer takes some time before exiting his vehicle, as they often do, and the two men continue bickering a bit more. Only now in a quieter voice, as if the Policeman can hear them. As Rocco spies the officer in his side-view mirror, exiting his patrol car and beginning his approach towards them, he firmly but quietly commands, “just let me do the talking! You start with that modern dance shit he’s gonna lock us both up.” The Policeman, complete with mirrored sunglasses and Marine fashioned buzz cut, appears at Rocco’s door, bending forward in standard cautious protocol position. “Good day, sir,” Rocco says, smiling up at the officer through a closed window. “Cross wind’s,” Phillip mumbles. “Shut up,” Rocco grunts, rolling down the window. “What seems to be the trouble officer … do I have a light out?” “Afternoon gentleman,” the policeman briefly pauses, tilting his glasses and peering at the arms folded — shirtless Phillip, who is staring straight ahead with an angry expression. The police officer continues, “you were swerving quite a bit for a while there and,” removing his shades this time and looking closer at the despondent Phillip, asks, “Is everything ok here sir?” Phillip quickly turns to reply, with his arms still folded, when Rocco places a gentle hand on the side of his son’s face, comforting, silencing, and speaking on his behalf. “Commander …” “I am just a patrolman,” the cop interjects. “Yes, of course,” Rocco continues, passionately sounding as if lobbying for funds to feed a starving colony, “your excellence” … once again, interrupted by the patrolman, “officer — officer is fine.” Rocco blatantly disingenuously chuckles. So out of character for his father that Phillip must turn his head to the far right, to keep from bursting with laughter. “Officer,” Rocco, pleased with himself for using the correct title continues, with his hand still on his son’s face, only now he is secretly squeezing his ear, tighter and tighter with each word — “we had, how do you say, a spat.” “A spat?”, the officer repeats. “A spat,” Rocco goes on. “Yes, Pedro here … is my lover (Phillip is fully engaged in the story now, torn between uncontrollable smirking — from both amusement and the pain from his ear — and utter astonishment, he just mouths the word, Pedro) and we were arguing, whether the bird we saw overhead was a Tufted Titmouse or not … you understand!” Rocco states this as if to make a connection with the policeman on the trials of relationships. “Suddenly, my” … Phillip releases some air and spit from the laughter that he is containing. Rocco pauses a nervous brief second, glancing at his son, then returning to his story, “my betrothed, commented how beautiful and sexy my perfume was. Well (Rocco pretends to be as shy as a little schoolgirl), playfully, of course, he tore off his shirt and we…”. The police officer abruptly stops the story, “I got ya’!” “Look, given your age and your — your — situation, I’m gonna let you off with a warning.” Rocco and Phillip both begin showering the man with gratitude, when he then raises his voice, “just DON’T let it happen again!” As the officer walks away, Rocco sees him in the rearview mirror as he shakes his head and spits on the ground. This causes a profound emotional discord in Phillip’s father.
Rocco slowly pulls from the side of the road back onto the route, raising a humble wave to the police officer, whose still in his patrol car behind them. Then, disgusted, mutters to himself, “given my age, huh!” “Oh my God,” Phillip excitedly begins, “that was epic!” “Rocco DeNiro, ladies, and gentlemen.” “HEY,” Rocco hollers at his son, “my name is Dad to you, Dad, and if you would’ve closed the Damn window like I asked, you wouldn’t have been naked, and I wouldn’t have had to lie. You know what this does for my blood pressure, huh? Sure, kill me, and we’re right back to your mother being cared for by a …”, Rocco stops himself. “By a what?”, Phillip superciliously questions. “By a dancer? By a faaggg, DAD, is that what?” … “NO,” Rocco stops him. He continues driving, visibly upset with himself, searching his mind for the words. “Yes,” Rocco softly utters. “I probably would’ve said something like that, but that’s not what’s in my heart.” He drives for a moment, looking straight ahead before continuing, “that’s just how I talk. It’s the shit I picked up from my stupid father … and it’s no excuse. It’s just … just … my ignorant generation. In my heart, and my head, Phillip, I am so very proud of you. Yes, there’s much I do not understand, and although you would argue, much that I had to accept. But I never — NEVER,” Rocco whispers, “stopped loving you for one minute!”
Emotionally absorbing the words, that he has never heard from his dad — but needed to for so long, Phillip sits in silence. Then, closing his window and cheating towards his father he begins (with some defensiveness), “accept?” “PLEASE,” Rocco demands — his right hand raised in his son’s direction, “let me finish.” Shaking his right fist with an extended thumb towards the back of the car, he expresses with a tone of repulsion, “you know what that cop did when he walked away from us?” Phillip moves his head from left to right, indicating that he did not. Still looking forward, but inherently knowing that his son did not know, Rocco goes on, “he shook his head in disgust and spit on the ground! Maybe it was because of our age difference or maybe … it was just because we were gay — well, he thought we … either way, I wanted to get out and kick his (mouthing the word motherfucking) ass all ova’ tha’ road. How dare he spit, because of my son’s lifestyle. But then, like that prick had held up a mirror,” audible sadness wells slightly in his words, “I saw myself. I saw my father. And I saw all the ignorance in this world, and it made me sick. It made me realize that loving you in my heart, but not showing you in real life (he pauses — fighting to find the right words) … was not loving you, or accepting you, at all!”
Rocco then makes a jarring shift in both his conversation and his temperament — his Italian accent heightened once again, “given your age? … given my age? How dare he! I shoulda’ tooka’ the ticket … and told that Strunz (slang for shit) off!” Shocked, Phillip questions, “that’s what you’re angry about? Is that what this is all about — the fact that you can’t accept getting older?” Yelling now, “Nooo … and I’m not getting older, I just thought the guy should accept that a mature Iron Worker and a younger dancer could be in love, RIGHT? What’s so terrible about dat’? Is that the kind of Jackass that I have been to you, my son? Well, I’m …”, Rocco raises his head, holds his breath in, then turns to face his son. “Ima’ sorry (softer now he speaks his son’s name in Italian) Phillip, — but of course”, raising his tone again, “what the fuck is so old about me, huh?” Right then, a tailgating car gently toots their horn at the pair and Rocco screams out, “BA FONGULE!” As if they both heard the most hysterical punchline ever told, at the exact same time, father and son explode with laughter. The kind of laughter that is so intense that it makes your face grow red — from lack of oxygen, your throat wheezes from phlegm, and your eyes tear. Struggling to speak, Phillip manages to say, “Pedro?”, and the two guffaw louder and harder than before.
Confessions & Senility:
It took the next twenty minutes for Phillip and Rocco to calm down, breathe, and stop laughing. Now, just five minutes or so from Phillip’s house, the energy in the car was light and wonderful. Not just for the first time that day, but for the first time in almost fifteen years. “Papa,” Phillip addresses his father by a term, and in a tone, that he hasn’t used in a very long time, “I can’t express how much it meant to me to hear you say that you loved and accepted me. I think I’ve always known it — but we’re two stubborn mules — Austin is quick to point that out about me — and we don’t often say what we feel inside. Hearing it was good! Look, Dad, I was never going to work for you or be what you wanted me to be but … that doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate you … looking out for me, for Ma, providing, and yes, loving us — in your own way. I respect the hell out of you, even though we don’t ever agree, I do!” Phillip goes on to explain that they are both independent thinkers, with strong ethics, and despite their many differences, that’s what oddly bonds them. Rocco makes an attempt to disagree that they are not cut from the same cloth but ultimately cannot deny that his son is right — they are connected in spirit. He shows this surrender by silencing his rebuttal and extending a rough and calloused hand toward his son, seeking a handshake, to which Phillip complies.
Phillip, speaking from his heart and not his head continues, “I love you too, Papa. It pains me, as much as it frustrates you, that getting older is an inevitable part of life. I’m not calling you old or saying you’re less of a man, but you are getting old-er. Yes, something we both must face, even if we don’t want to. But you have so much to be proud of. And hey, Mommy’s worried about you, Da. And when Austin, Angela, and I, move to San Francisco, I … Mommy … we … need to know that you’re going to take care of yourself…settle into this time in your life …” Phillip pauses his speech and points at the front windshield stating, “not this light, but the next one, make a right.” Rocco becomes extremely tense and quiet now, simultaneously feeling dizzy, he grunts back, “I know,” passing the first light.
After jumping the median and apologizing:
“San Francisco?”, nearly speechless, Rocco questions. “Getting older!”, he sadly repeats. Still sitting in the center divider of the parking lot he rubs his forehead, reaching into his coat he takes out his pill carrier and swallows medicine for his diabetes and his dizziness. “What’s in San Francisco?”, Rocco asks. “Well, Austin got a great offer from a firm out there, and I have an opportunity to do a residency at a venue called, #The Independent and …” Rocco stops him, “you deserve to be happy! Please forgive my years of anger and ignorance, I,” Rocco holds back his tears, “I’m a fool … an old fool now, I guess.” “You’re the best father a son could ask for! Stubborn. A bit homophobic. But strong, caring, and loving, and …” Phillip opens the arms of his still shirtless body, “thank you!?” Rocco wrestles with his affection discomforts for a moment, then hugs his son with the intensity to close the gap of fifteen lost years and to last a lifetime going forward. A police car, with flashing lights, appears behind the embracing men. “Encore,” (meaning again in Italian) Rocco chuckles, as Phillip joins in the laughter.
