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TM #236: Old Habits
Jun. 23rd, 2008 06:57 amWhat does respect mean to you?
After the forty-third mile Ray pulled over and shut off the engine, the radio following soon after. Not that he had anything against Aretha Franklin per se; she had it right after all, spot on: R-E-S-P-E-C-T or the highway. Easy equation. Though Ray had never been one for math. No, he turned the knob with such vigor not because he’d grown a sudden disliking for soul music, heaven forbid, but because he was reminded just how hard an equation it was. Every chorus socked it to him and always just below the belt for that painful added extra.
The need for respect ran through his veins thicker than blood itself. Being Italian was only half of it; having the parents that he had, the other. The one thing his Pop had strived so hard to gain from everybody was the one thing Ray never gave him in his later years and that killed him far more than the car crash ever did. Ray didn’t like to think of himself as being anything like his father but he’d already inherited his receding hairline so why not his desperate need for respect too? One bad gene deserved another.
His Ma had been worse. Forty-two years of marriage and she had still thought being respected meant her husband coming home drunk only five nights out of seven. The thing about Ray’s Pop was that he did respect her, he just had an obscure way of showing it; damn near unnoticeable if Ray didn’t squint really hard. Ornaments were his tell. Little presents he’d buy for her when he had the cash in his pocket and wasn’t due to hit the pool table for another few hours. By the time Ray was sixteen every available surface in the living room was taken up by miniature ceramic teapots, mismatching bits here and there, figurines, angels, faux-china dolls. It had spread to the bedrooms and the kitchen by the time he hit twenty-five. Three years later and his Pop was no more, and all that remained were the reminders. His Ma got comfort from them, surrounded herself with them at first; deep down she’d loved him senseless. All Ray saw was cheap crap, ways to buy his Ma over. It amazed him how she had stuck by him all this time, though he knew why she had, was thankful that she had.
But he knew teapots and angels weren’t enough for him. He’d grown up thinking respect is what he gave people. His Pop, Frankie, girls like Annie McGray (before the Ricky Stangles basement incident); that only families like the Zuko’s deserved it. He’d learned pretty slow, when Frank had humiliated him in front of Irene yet again, that respect didn’t have to be all give give give. That was the first time he’d punched his so-called ‘friend’ in the face. It wasn’t the last.
Since then it had been high on his list of must haves. He’d never had that much of a problem with it personally. Professionally, it came with the occupation. He could deal with it, most days, as long as he was in control of it when the badge came off. Irene, Angie, Stella, they had all demanded as much respect as Ray had and he’d given it freely, received it just as well. He even respected Canadians, and that was saying something.
Knowing he wasn’t respected though, that was the killer. It made him angry like nothing in the world. What confused him though, the equation that he just could not get his head around, was why he continued to show respect to some people when it was quite clear he would never get it in return. The expectation that he couldn’t quench pissed him off more; it was always there now, in-built since he’d thrown that first punch and it had landed squarely on Frankie’s jaw. But now he couldn’t hit, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t have the first sensible clue as to why he put up with it, but he did, and it was then that he realized it wasn’t his Pop he should have feared becoming; it was his Ma. And maybe a little respect really was too much to ask for.
After the forty-third mile Ray pulled over and shut off the engine, the radio following soon after. Not that he had anything against Aretha Franklin per se; she had it right after all, spot on: R-E-S-P-E-C-T or the highway. Easy equation. Though Ray had never been one for math. No, he turned the knob with such vigor not because he’d grown a sudden disliking for soul music, heaven forbid, but because he was reminded just how hard an equation it was. Every chorus socked it to him and always just below the belt for that painful added extra.
The need for respect ran through his veins thicker than blood itself. Being Italian was only half of it; having the parents that he had, the other. The one thing his Pop had strived so hard to gain from everybody was the one thing Ray never gave him in his later years and that killed him far more than the car crash ever did. Ray didn’t like to think of himself as being anything like his father but he’d already inherited his receding hairline so why not his desperate need for respect too? One bad gene deserved another.
His Ma had been worse. Forty-two years of marriage and she had still thought being respected meant her husband coming home drunk only five nights out of seven. The thing about Ray’s Pop was that he did respect her, he just had an obscure way of showing it; damn near unnoticeable if Ray didn’t squint really hard. Ornaments were his tell. Little presents he’d buy for her when he had the cash in his pocket and wasn’t due to hit the pool table for another few hours. By the time Ray was sixteen every available surface in the living room was taken up by miniature ceramic teapots, mismatching bits here and there, figurines, angels, faux-china dolls. It had spread to the bedrooms and the kitchen by the time he hit twenty-five. Three years later and his Pop was no more, and all that remained were the reminders. His Ma got comfort from them, surrounded herself with them at first; deep down she’d loved him senseless. All Ray saw was cheap crap, ways to buy his Ma over. It amazed him how she had stuck by him all this time, though he knew why she had, was thankful that she had.
But he knew teapots and angels weren’t enough for him. He’d grown up thinking respect is what he gave people. His Pop, Frankie, girls like Annie McGray (before the Ricky Stangles basement incident); that only families like the Zuko’s deserved it. He’d learned pretty slow, when Frank had humiliated him in front of Irene yet again, that respect didn’t have to be all give give give. That was the first time he’d punched his so-called ‘friend’ in the face. It wasn’t the last.
Since then it had been high on his list of must haves. He’d never had that much of a problem with it personally. Professionally, it came with the occupation. He could deal with it, most days, as long as he was in control of it when the badge came off. Irene, Angie, Stella, they had all demanded as much respect as Ray had and he’d given it freely, received it just as well. He even respected Canadians, and that was saying something.
Knowing he wasn’t respected though, that was the killer. It made him angry like nothing in the world. What confused him though, the equation that he just could not get his head around, was why he continued to show respect to some people when it was quite clear he would never get it in return. The expectation that he couldn’t quench pissed him off more; it was always there now, in-built since he’d thrown that first punch and it had landed squarely on Frankie’s jaw. But now he couldn’t hit, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t have the first sensible clue as to why he put up with it, but he did, and it was then that he realized it wasn’t his Pop he should have feared becoming; it was his Ma. And maybe a little respect really was too much to ask for.
