A Bad Idea I'm About to Do Read Online Free PDF Page A

asked my mom. “He got better? Because he seemed pretty out there.”
    My mom laughed as she sipped her tea.

    P a refused to give up his Buick, though he had no right driving at his age. Besides swerving like a blacked-out drunk, he drove so slowly that the neighborhood kids would race his car, on foot, up our hill. We always won.
    My father was filled with anxiety whenever he saw his dad behind the wheel. Gardening has always been one of the few activities that clears my dad’s mind in times of stress. During my childhood he would often come home from work brooding and quiet, only to head into our yard to tend to his tomato plants. After an hour or so, he’d emerge, covered in dirt but visibly more relaxed. Gardening is to my father what weird hippie yoga is to other people. For my father, Pa’s driving was definitely a cause for gardening.
    One day, a kickball game I was embroiled in was interrupted when Pa’s car turned the corner and headed up the block. We cleared the way so he could pass. There was no need. Pa plowed directly into the back of a brand-new Jeep that was parked in front of the Tylers’ house. Audrey Tyler’s boyfriend flew out the door.

    â€œMy car! Shit!” he shouted, dismayed at the destruction wrought to his taillights.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Pa shouted from his window. “I’m Kenny’s father !” He then pointed in the direction of my dad, who’d been peacefully tending the flowers on our front lawn. Pa waved to my dad and drove away, leaving my father—who was clearly mortified, on his knees and holding gardening tools—alone to deal with the situation. I don’t think my father ever found as much peace in gardening after that day.

    â€œY ou were too young to really remember him before Grammy died,” my mom explained. “I knew him when she was alive, and saw how hard it hit him.”
    I looked up at my mom, who smiled.
    â€œI think Pa was weird,” she continued. “But weird was better than sad.”

    F or Pa’s eightieth birthday, our family gathered for a party at my uncle’s house. It was rare for some members on my father’s side of the family to admit each other’s existence, let alone be in one place together. I was fifteen, and it was the first time in my life that I remember everyone acting polite and cordial to each other. Aunt Joan wasn’t talking as much as usual, which is to say she was only talking constantly. My one uncle didn’t tell his joke about Hitler being his favorite American. All seemed strangely right.
    But no one was speaking to my brother. I would touch base with him, then go off to catch up with someone else, only to
see him standing alone in a corner, looking confused, or eating chips while everyone ignored him. Gregg was as baffled as I was.
    â€œDude, did you say something to piss everyone off?” I asked.
    â€œChris, I know I sometimes say weird shit,” he said, “but I swear to God, I have no idea why nobody’s talking to me.”
    Fearing that his social leprosy might rub off on me, I left him standing next to a cooler of my Aunt Karen’s famous homemade lemonade and got back to the party.
    Eventually, Gregg was approached by Kathy, one of my female cousins (the sassy one in her early thirties who lived in Manhattan, making her “open-minded”).
    â€œYou know, Gregory, I’m fine with whatever you choose,” Kathy told him.
    â€œUh . . . okay, thanks,” Gregg replied.
    â€œNot everyone here will support your decision,” she continued, “but I respect it. I may not understand it, but I respect that it’s how you want to live. And you’re going off to college next year, so now’s the time to figure it all out.”
    â€œUmm . . . okay?” Gregg managed to squeak out.
    I walked back over to Gregg.
    â€œThey think I’m gay,” he said.
    I scanned the yard and saw many