52 inches

Fiction

52 Inches

"Dad, are you suuure that's our TV?" Frankie asks, pointing his finger at the spot right beneath the screen where my window to the world had the chipped SONY logo.

Shit. Walking five blocks with a large-ass screen wrapped in a blanket, in this heat, having to stop every two minutes to catch my breath was embarrassing enough. Walking back is out of the question, especially with the game on in five.

"Maybe Uncle Woz gave you the wrong one..." The kid pauses for a bit. He always does this when trying to find logic in the messy world around him. "But would that mean that he borrowed two TVs—one from you and one from someone else?"

I'm not ready to give him the talk today. Not the sex talk, that his mother can have with him. No, the talk about why I periodically take my stuff to Woz's place in exchange for some coin. Woz is good people, though, always playing pretend when Frankie's around. He'd probably come up with a tall tale of playing Mario Kart on two screens.

"Well, son, you know how Uncle Woz loves tinkering with electronics. Maybe he tinkered with our old TV too. Let's see if it got any better." I give Frankie a pat on the head and start untangling the white wires sticking out of the little box I bought from Levan at the Armenian gadget store. Twenty bucks and all the channels your heart desires. With Frankie around for the weekend, wouldn't be the worst idea to turn parental control on—channels between 69 and 99 are something else, nothing compared to a once-in-a-blue-moon Tinto Brass flick from back in the day.

"Why don't you make us some popcorn while I'm trying to make this thing work?"

Plop-plop-plop go his bare feet against the floor my conscience made me wash before the weekend. Easy to tidy up when you don't own squat, that's for sure. And the carpets—even the stained ones—I sold for a handsome price at the flea market, the only thing with actual fleas to sell that day.

"Daaaad, I can't find it," echoes from the kitchen, where every sharp object has been tucked away in a drawer. Boy's making me paranoid, or maybe it's his mom, who would love to pop in for an impromptu inspection, but thankfully she's at some funeral this weekend—one of the cons of having a big family. When you least expect it, somebody just drops dead.

"Check the grocery bag on the chair," I mumble, holding one of the wires—there's always one that's too damn short—with my teeth.

"You know, when I was a kid, I'd have to climb the apple tree in our yard to fix the antenna every other day. And then one day—it was Easter Sunday—some asshole cut the mast with the whole setup and took it to the scrap shop."

Not sure if Frankie can hear me, as the first kernels start to pop.

"Just let it cool a bit before you tear the bag, alright?" Linda wouldn't be too happy about me sending home a second-degree burn victim.

"Alright, Dad!" he shouts back and burps. Little punk probably found the Sprite.

With all the cables in, I gently tilt the TV against the wall. It's weird for this 52-inch monstrosity not to have a stand, but Woz takes them without questions.

The microwave pings. Don't know why but I always have to take a leak when I hear that ring.

After the flushing dance (the throne never really flushes the first time, something about this place makes you do things twice), I get back to see the boy sitting in front of the screen. Good kid, figured out how to turn that thing on, even without a remote.

"This ad is so long!" he exclaims, shoveling popcorn into his mouth.

Not only is it long, it's so damn slow too. Banh mi slowly gives way to the bun soup, turns to pho, banh mi again. Bun again. We stare at the screen just like me and Daydream Donny would stare at the DVD logo bouncing around the old CRT screen our parents had to chip in for the school to buy.

"What channel is that?" I ask out loud, only for the boy to shrug his shoulders.

Levan's magic box had everything from Moonie-land to Polish dance music channels.

The game probably already started. Lakers against Bulls, and if either team wins with a 20-point lead, I'm going to be one lucky man. I can always turn the radio on.

Banh mi, pho, bun.

Poorly cropped pictures against a yellow backdrop.

Prices in large red letters.

Again and again and again.

That's a first. Woz getting duped, that is. Makes the whole thing bearable.

"Can we watch something else?"

"Nope, Frankie, tonight we're gonna learn some Vietnamese," I say as the pho turns to bun. "Repeat after me…"