Free Further Joy by John Brandon Page A

industry.”
    â€œMy mom says LA is no worse than anywhere else. I heard her say that one time.”
    â€œWell, that’s mighty generous of her.” He looks down at his cigarette and lighter. They seem to have a peaceful effect on him. “No matter what you do out there, they’ve got a prize for it. And if you don’t get nominated for these prizes, it’s the end of the world. The absolute end of the world. And if you get nominated and don’t win, that’s worth getting upset about too. That’s called getting snubbed. Awards, awards, prizes, prizes.” He looks upward a moment. There’s just clouds up there, but he seems surprised to see them. “As you can probably surmise, we haven’t won any.”
    â€œPrizes are demeaning,” I tell him.
    He stays with his thoughts a moment, still gazing upward, then he looks at me. “Who told you that? Is that your mom again?”
    â€œNo, my father. He says children are motivated by prizes. ‘If you do real good, I’ll give you a candy.’ He says that’s kids’ stuff. He says I already should’ve outgrown it.”
    â€œHave you?”
    â€œI think so,” I say. “He says if you’re an adult doing adult work, having someone pat you on the head in approval is patronizing.”
    The guy nods. He presses his thumb against his front teeth. “It’s patronizing,” he says, “but it’s also how you secure patronage.” Then he leans forward and kills an ant in an expert fashion, cutting it in half with his fingernail. He watches the two halves of the ant continue to move, limping around in antic little circles, until they finally stop.
    â€œThat ant was scouting your jug of tea,” I say.
    There are two women in our area who have both opened restaurants serving Northern Italian cuisine, and these are the only restaurants of note. The women are sisters who moved here after they got tired of Dallas. The competition between their restaurants is fierce. Most people don’t take sides. Most people dine in both. Each time my parents and I eat at one, the prices arelower and the ingredients more exotic. The sisters are wealthy, the daughters of a pioneer in the cable TV industry. My father says he brings me down to the restaurants for one because the food is world-class, and for two to show me what kind of silliness can come of having siblings. He says a sibling is one more thing you’re tied to against your will, more toxic clutter in your life, more stale drama.
    Our churches are plain white buildings with piney, unpaved parking lots. Our men wear ties to church and our women wear whatever they want. Our preachers go on and on for hours, but never about right and wrong. They don’t want to hear about our shortcomings.
    A long-standing, moneyed Protestant church sent a guy down here to check things out. He’s been around the block. He’s not unfamiliar with the impossible. They sent him from Canada. He doesn’t stay at the motel. He stays down on the coast and drives up every day. He eats at the Italian restaurants, sits in the back row during church services, listens to the joyful noises raised by the young during the songs at the beginning and the end.
    My father designed memorials. His first one, when he was starting out, won him distinction. It’s on the campus of FSU, dedicated to a scientist who spent his life improving tomatoes. It’s a fountain inside a huge beaker. There are these transparent wires with copper tomatoes hanging from them, and the falling water is always nudging the tomatoes so they sway. A day of imagination and then a year of math. That’s what my father says about his job. He always has a pair of glasses in his shirt pocket and when he hugs you he does it with one arm so he can protect the glasses.
    There were others after that, in Florida and elsewhere. One was for a man who modernized the flower industry