Jake, Son of Zeus

Over breakfast and The New Yorker on Tuesday morning, Jake said, "Want to go get tattoos this weekend?"

E. E. didn't look up from his plate. Between bites of heavily buttered toast, he said, "Going through a midlife crisis?"

"I hope not. I'm only thirty. I'd hate to think this was the halfway point."

"It's not a reliable indicator of lifespan."

"Oh. Well, how would I know?"

E. E. raised a finger for each point, as though this was a memorized routine. Of course, E. E. had wasted a lot of money studying psychology years ago, so it might have been. "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a weirdly strong urge to learn to play guitar or make clay ashtrays?"

"No."

"Hm," E. E. said. "Are you wondering about the purpose of your life? Starting to doubt your choice of career and/or life partner?"

"Yes."

"Do you think about death?"

Jake paused. "Doesn't everyone?"

"No," E. E. replied. "Do you remind yourself of your father?"

Jake stopped, stared at the floor in front of him. "No," he said. "Not a bit." He wasn't sure if this was true, or if it was, if the thought utterly depressed him.

"Well, maybe this isn't a midlife crisis. Maybe it's an identity crisis. You have the whole caught-between-two-worlds thing. You're like a hyphenated immigrant—a Chinese-American, Indian-American, Alaskan-American, except you'd be like a mortal-immortal. Maybe you're having a midlife-identity crisis. You are pretty screwed up."

"Thanks."

E. E. made a motion as though toasting Jake with his toast.

Jake sighed and continued, "If I had superhuman strength, or godlike wisdom, or irresistible charm, or anything that would offset this insanity, it wouldn't be so bad. As it is, I can't even get out of a speeding ticket."

"Get a boob job."

"Do you think I'm crazy for letting this get to me?"

E. E. replied instantly, "Yes. Would this be a good time to mention that there's something living in the Raisin Bran box?"

"Is there ever a good time?"

E. E. shrugged, his shiny brown shirt shimmering down from his shoulder.

"Did you dig that shirt out of the 70's?"

"Been reading your fashion magazines again? Definitely a midlife crisis. You criticize me, but your clothing choices would make Gandhi slap you."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Yeah. I think I need to go do something manly for awhile. Want to belch and spit with me for awhile?"

"Can't we play your X-Box instead?"

"Only if you stop commenting on my clothes."

"There should be a law against brown shirts. Anyone caught wearing one should be stripped, flogged, and forced to wear chartreuse sackcloth for the rest of his life."

E. E. muttered, "Midlife crisis or hormonal imbalance."

Jake forced a smile that soon became a real one. He stood and said, "Would you like me to pour you a bowl of Raisin Bran?"