"Hey, dad…" the door slammed, and I continued in a low voice, "I wanted to talk about something." It seemed like almost every day he has to leave early to go to New York, California, or Europe. I sat down and ate my eggs while my mother ate her cereal across from me reading the Post. "Mom?" No response. She continued to read. She could read nearly 2 pages a minute, and when she read, she was enthralled in whatever she was reading. As a child she stayed up late at night with a flashlight finishing whole books in one night. "Mom?" I asked again. "Mom, stop reading for a sec."
She looked up at me attentively. "You ready?" I had just finished my eggs and was walking to the kitchen with my plate. She continued reading. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I could hear her heels clacking down the hallway towards the door. "Hurry up, we're going to be late," I could hear her almost shouting at me. Since I was brushing my teeth, I couldn't respond, so she repeated herself, only louder. I said "Ah ee ah ih a ee eh," with the toothbrush still in my mouth. I spat, rinsed, and left the bathroom. She was headed out the door, but waited for me to set the alarm, then I bolted after her so that the door wouldn't close in my face.
That was when I was twelve. Throughout the rest of my high school life, and through one or two promotions, it only seemed to get worse. I guess he figured that since I was a teenager now, he could work more. Which was true in one sense: I didn't really need to be taken care of any more. But when had he ever taken care of me? He had always wanted me to be like him: get straight A's in school, do extracurricular things like joining the math club, doing extra problems that didn't need to be done, nearly exactly how he was. Up until high school, I didn't have too much of a choice, and it wasn't that bad. I learned stuff that, although not very useful, was kind of interesting. But once I got to freshman year, it stopped. I still got good grades, but I wouldn't do the extra work. Sometimes I slacked off, left my homework for the next day's lunch, or the subway.
"Mom, I don't feel like going to Hebrew today." It was the inevitable battle over Sunday Hebrew school.
"Okay, but you're not going to a friend's house. You're going to stay home and do work."
"Okay, okay," I said grudgingly as I walked out of my parents' room and into the TV room. I sat down and watched "The Cable Guy" on HBO. At 11 o'clock, I got up and went into my room. I looked at my backpack, then went over to read Brave New World. I had gotten it at a book fair last year, and only began reading it last week. At around one, I started getting hungry. I went downstairs and made myself a ham sandwich. I shook my head, thinking about the last four hours. I felt a sinking feeling, a sinking guilty feeling, in my stomach. Time just passed me by; two hours of sitting on the couch watching the TV. I imagined spending two hours in thought, and realized how long two hours was, and that there was only so much time in a day, and only seven, a measly seven, days in a week, and only 52 (such a small number) weeks in a year, and only 90 or so years in a life. And then I thought about my father. He was probably half way through his life, and he had so many more experiences than I did. So many more years; weeks; days; hours.
If for no other reason than that for the first twelve years of my life, I had been brought up under my mother's wing and my father's eye, I actually felt guilty about skipping Hebrew school. And I felt guilty. There's no other way to explain it, but I felt guilty towards him.
Just like my father, sister, and mother, I graduated from MIT in 2005. I majored in computer science, and I had already applied for several jobs at many computer management offices. My father was retiring that year from the position as Vice-President of New Technologies in a large computer management firm, so I assumed he wouldn't care that I took a job in one of his corporation's competitors. I called my mother the night I received the letter notifying me that I was accepted for the position.
"Hi Mom."
"Oh, hi, honey! I haven't heard from you in so long."
"Mom, its only been two weeks."
"I know, it seems like forever though. I'm still used to having at least one child around the house…"
"I'm not a child anymore, Mom."
"I know, I know. So, have you heard from any of the companies yet?"
"Actually, that's what I was calling about. I heard from the Computer Sciences Corporation."
"And?" she was eager to hear their response.
"I was accepted. I'm going to take the job there. It pays well enough, and it looks good."
"Are you sure about this?."
"Of course I'm sure. I'm going to love this job," I said reassuringly.
"So, how's you're sister?"
"She's fine. How am I supposed to know? You think she calls me more often than you?"
"Well…then how's your girlfriend?"
"She's fine, Mom."
"How's your friend, you know…um…"
"He's fine too. And so are all my other friends and so is everybody. Gotta run, love you."
"Love you, too."
Click.
On my first day, I was given a tour of the offices. This company had the most advanced technology I had ever seen. There were cursors that followed the movement of your eyes, programs that were completely controlled by voice, even gloves that interpreted your finger movements as typing. This really excited me, and I was glad I had applied for a job in the New Technologies department. Tomorrow would be my 27th birthday. Luckily, I was still in Boston, so all of my "old" college friends and I could go out to a restaurant to celebrate.
"Hi, son." My father had called me. The only time he ever called was on my birthday. I hadn't heard from him in a year. "Happy birthday. What is it now, 26? 27?"
"Twenty-seven. How've you been?"
"Oh, fine, fine. I heard your taking that job over at CSC. Why not over where I used to work, at AMS?"
"I…I wasn't accepted there," I lied.
"Don't give me that. Why did you really go to CSC? Is it because it pays better? Easier work? Well, I'll tell you something, work isn't supposed to…"
"No. No, Dad, no. It's just that…"
"Oh, I get it. Just couldn't be like your old man could you?"
"Dad, it's not that at all," I pleaded, "It's just that…that I just wanted some variety. I'm in the New Technologies department, though. Some of the stuff they've got there is so amaz…" "Yeah. Variety. I can understand that. I moved between six different companies before finally settling down with one."
"Okay, father. I'll see you."
"Yeah, yeah. Variety. I'll see you."
Twenty years later, I had risen to the position of Vice-President of my division. I was proud of myself. Only 47, and VP of my division. If I could just make it to President of my division before 52…
My phone rang. I picked it up, "Hello?"
"Hi, son," my mom was sobbing hard as she spoke. And I simply comforted her as much as I could the rest of what little conversation there was. I couldn't make out anything she said, and assumed that Dad had died. I sensed an urgency, as though it had just happened suddenly. The conversation ended with a final sob and a "I'm sorry, Mom," and a click.
Gone.
A young man, in his twenties, perhaps, wearing navy blue pants with a crease down the legs, a white shirt, and a black and white tie flailing wildly about him as he ran past the windows of my office to its door, and knocked on it, huffing as he began to slow down. I signaled him in, and he came in and handed me an envelope and then ran out, breathing hard as he went, tie flapping like a wing behind him. I opened the letter with a calmness seeming out of time. I put my head on my desk. And I thought. And I thought about how much time I had spent thinking. And I felt the warm sun on my back begin to fade. And I thought about the hours. And how there were only twenty-four in a day: I was older than that when I got my Ph.D. And how there were only seven days in a week, and only so many weeks in a year, and only so many years in a lifetime. And only so many hours.

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