Before
I speak a word, Alexander begins every conversation with, “I can’t talk right now. I’m (fill in the blank: studying, eating, in the library, or with
friends). That's if I call him.
Last
night Alexander calls me. Around midnight. “Hi. I’m sorry if I woke you, but I want to know,
is it okay to get an apartment with my friends next year?
We need to sign a lease this week.” The
cost is less than he’s paying this year, so I think it’s sweet he is even
bothering to ask. “Sure,” I say, and
then can’t fall back to sleep for the next hour.
Today
Alexander calls again. This time with
more details. He’s going to live with
seven other students in Collegetown — in a “really nice house,” though he hasn’t seen
it yet. But he’s seen photos. So I ask Alexander if he can send me the photos and he says he can.
I
get these on my iPhone:
I’m
thinking, rather hoping, it's my iPhone, and I'm not seeing the photos clearly. So I look at them on my computer. Even worse. Much worse. But I don’t
want to discourage my son if this is where he and his friends want to
live. Alexander calls and says, “So what
do you think? It’s nice, isn’t it?” He sounds so enthusiastic that I agree. But then I can’t help myself. “Don’t you think the living room looks a
little bit like a bordello?” I ask. “No," he responds, “I like it.” So I don’t say anything. “But you like it too, right?” he asks again. “Ya,” I say.
It looks awful but I won't be the one living there.
We
talk about some other things, and then Alexander says, “That’s not really the
apartment. I looked for photos online
under ugly rooms. That’s what I
found.” Then he sends me the real
link. And he’s right. It is nice.
Alexander may not have time to talk on the phone with me, but I'm glad he can find the time to google ugly rooms.
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