We’re off to see the play produced by the oldest one’s girlfriend – the one my wife thought she wasn’t invited to because she quit Facebook and didn’t get the invitation. But we’re all invited, and we’re all going. Or almost all of us – the middle one has decided to stay home at the last minute, citing illness. My wife is cross about this – it leaves us with an extra ticket – but also worried, because he seems genuinely ill. This combination of irritation and concern makes her a difficult person to share a car with. Soon after we set off, I change the radio station to listen to the football scores.
“Oh no you don’t,” she says, changing it back.
She starts asking the youngest one questions about his French, which he has been obliged to bring along. He is himself irritable, believing he’s been wrong-footed into attending a theatrical production. If his brother could cry off citing illness, why couldn’t he cry off citing French?
“I’m doing it,” he says.
“You don’t look like you’re doing it,” she says.
“You shouldn’t be looking back here when you’re driving,” he says.
“Good point,” I say.
“Is he doing it?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t turn around that far.”
“Hand the sheet to Dad and he’ll test you,” my wife says.
“No,” the boy replies.
By the time we arrive, morale is low. The oldest one is late meeting us, and the play’s start time is looming. We walk briskly in the direction of the theatre, but as we get nearer, the oldest one’s gait slows. Finally, he stops to consult his phone.
“Don’t you know where it is?” I ask.
“It’s around here somewhere,” he says.
“But haven’t you been here?” I ask.
“I came a different way,” he says.
As he leads us around the outside of a hulking concrete complex that appears to have no entrance, it’s my turn to be concerned and irritable. “We’re going to miss the play!” I shout.
“I don’t know why you’re all following me,” the oldest one says. “I have no idea where I’m going.”
Eventually, we locate a door. As we’re shooed toward our seats, I catch a glimpse of half a dozen sheets of A4 taped to the wall, warning that the play contains smoking, strobe lighting, loud noises, bad language, partial nudity and scenes of a sexual nature. The lights dim almost as soon as we sit down, as if the curtain had been held for us.
During the interval, I glance over at the youngest one, to see how he’s coping. He seems fine. I look over towards the sheets of A4 and I think: smoking, tick; loud noises, tick; partial nudity, tick.
In the second half, the play takes a dark turn. There are some more loud noises and a bit of offensive language, but it’s not until very near the end that we’re presented with the simulated masturbation of one actor by another, and a pretty convincing simulation at that. I feel for the youngest one, having to watch this scene of a sexual nature while seated between his parents in an audience full of university students. I wonder if I should throw my coat over his head in sympathy. He’d probably thank me, but I don’t. I steel myself for worse to come, but all we get is some strobe lighting.
Afterwards, we congratulate the oldest one’s girlfriend and head back towards the car. Once we’re outside, I turn to the youngest.
“So,” I say, “what did you think of that?”
He looks at the ground and nods slowly, as if weighing the matter. “It had its touching moments,” he says.
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