All Grown Up And Home Alone

By Jeffrey Ressner/Los Angeles Sunday, Nov. 05, 2000
    • Every summer while I was growing up, my parents took me to the Jersey shore, where I'd plug quarter after quarter into pinball machines. As a teenager attempting to evade Mom and Dad's sometimes overbearing attention, I'd bike to the local arcade and slam the same games. Even into my 30s, whenever I'd visit my folks, I'd drive to a nearby juke joint and shoot a few pins for old times' sake. But when I became an orphan this year at age 42, I also became an adult. I stopped playing pinball for good.

    My mom died more than a decade ago, and it was devastating. But my father remained my close confidant, trusted adviser and safety net. If I got a new job or girlfriend, he'd be first to know--and if either didn't last, he'd lend a sympathetic ear. As long as my dad was around, I was his kid. And, just like the Dylan song, I felt forever young--staying single, going skateboarding, enjoying trashy monster movies. Forty-two going on 14, and proud of it.

    So after my father died this summer, I lost more than just my remaining parent. Four decades of childhood were also cut loose. Suddenly there were no family members to report to--or rebel against. And that's pretty scary. A new moral dilemma? A question about the stock market? A mature voice of reason? From this point on, the mirror would have to provide answers. Growing up is hard to do, especially when you're scheduled to enter middle age.

    There are remnants of family left: a sister living in England, a stepmother who gave my dad waves of happiness in his final years. The bonds feel closer now, and we all laughed hysterically poring through his massive, pack-rat's collection of videotapes. (Tarzan's New York Adventure? Drums of Fu Manchu? Dad, please!) But walking through the house is no longer nostalgic. There's an aching feeling that my folks should be in the next room, or pulling up in the driveway. Nothing seems quite right.

    Not even the boardwalk. A few days after the funeral, I drove out to the Jersey Shore to watch the sunrise. Walking on the familiar wooden slats, I passed the arcade that my parents took me to as a child. There were still a few pinball machines left amid the new video games. Somehow, I didn't have the urge to drop in a single coin. But I did imagine a time when I could take my own kids down to the beach and let them play to their hearts' content.