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We worked at the same place, but different shifts. As I was going into work, she was leaving. She would wave hi and just to be polite I’d wave back, but it wasn’t like we were best friends. All I knew about her was that she wore tight clothing all the time; her boobs would be pouring over her shirt, and a couple of times I swore I saw the top of her nipples, but that’s beside the point. Some guy from work was having a Halloween party at his house and invited everyone. I was really shy at work so I didn’t really know anyone, except for getting occasionally hit on by the new guy. So I was standing there, in a wrongly-fit sailor-girl outfit, back to the wall, staring down by half-finished cup of vodka and lemonade, thinking about leaving soon. His living room had been converted to the dance floor and the blaring House music was causing my co-workers to bump and grind against each other, girls in tight, slutty costumes and guys in jeans and festive t-shirts. I knew Julia was in the crowd. Chuck met Ruth at Penn and married her after a brief courtship, Dad was painting hookers on the Boulevard de Clichy one morning when an English girl happened by and, admiring his work, asked if he’d like to join her for tea at the Crillon. They married later that afternoon, or so the story goes, a large quantity of Pernod rumored to be a factor in their well-considered decision to tie the knot. But more on my mother in a moment, I need to talk about the dynamic between Chuck and my father just now. These two brothers, it turned out, were more than just a study in contrasts: they were, rather, poised as mortal enemies, opposite particles of matter and anti-matter held apart by all the forces nature could muster. Their parents failed at the enterprise completely, by the way. I’ll spare you the details. But, and this might be important, the root of the idea of genetic memory I alluded to earlier was buried deep within this fertile soil. What grew between them blossomed and reached for.
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