What was most repulsive about the debt crisis was that it did not level the country. If it had, then I could have at least been reassured in the thought that everyone was equally worse off, and that no one could say 'well, it could have been worse', because there would not have been a 'worse' to which one could compare their situation. Equality would come about not from some proletariat fidgeting but from banks draining the metaphorical nut sack of the middle class. And yet, as I closed the door to my bedroom, I heard the yelling coming from downstairs, and that was enough to remind me that the crisis had been uneven in its calamity.
"This is your fault," my mother was saying. "You did this. You ruined our lives." "No," my father responded, and explained that she was behaving like a bitch, and it was that which had bankrupted us. And so on.
The truth was that we were all to blame: my father for investing in the market when stocks were overpriced, and then subsequently selling his investments when the market crashed; my mother for leaving her accounting job two years ago to pursue a career in writing; and me, because it seemed unfair that only they should be blamed.
The yelling subsided, and I heard one of them—my father, I think, because the staircase whined beneath his weight—climb the stairs. Moments later, another pair of feet followed. I peeked out my bedroom door. All the lights were off, save for one light which escaped through the gaps between my parent's door and their door frame.
I moved slowly until I was in front of my parent's bedroom door. I pressed my ear against it. Silence. Then, the tell-tale creak of bed springs being tested. My parents had an unconventional approach to conflict resolution: they would fuck each other until they could no longer remember what it was that had made them so upset in the first place. An unhealthy approach, to be sure, but it was, in my mind, far superior to the alternative.
I listened to the bed springs' whine until my father groaned louder than any of us had expected. The creaking stopped, and I heard my mother say, "Go check on Jack," because she would not want to continue if I was awake. I did not know how my father responded, but I heard the bed creak several more times until my mother shouted, "David!"
By the time my father visited my bedroom, I had already pulled the sheets over my head. I felt him hover at my bedroom door. Then, my door clicked closed. I considered returning to my vantage point but stayed in bed for the rest of the night instead.
My days were long, but everyone had long days. I went to university every day except for Friday, and I tutored high school students in mathematics Mondays to Fridays from four to eight. As it was the case that only the wealthy bothered sending their children for tutoring anyway, the financial crisis did not hurt my tutoring services. Indeed, my clients did not blink when I raised my fees. They thought that I was worth the expense.
By the time I returned home, my mom would already be taking dinner out of the oven. We decided as a family to never order out, and so we were used to having late dinners. My mom and I would have eaten by the time my dad came home—he didn't mind. We would all talk until my dad finished his dinner, and then I would excuse myself from the table so that my parents could talk in private.
When they were finished talking, I would listen to them ascend the stairs and enter their bedroom. Then, I would leave my room, stand in front of theirs, and press my ear against their locked bedroom door.
I learned that they reserved sex for conflict resolutions. On the nights when they did have sex, I would listen until they finished. From these missions, I gleamed that my mom liked to act hesitant, and to have my dad soothe her into compliance. She said, "No, don't," and my father whispered, "Shhh, everything is okay," and I would listen to him moan into his orgasm. Then I would not hear anything, but I assumed that my dad was doing something pleasurable because minutes later I would hear a moan catch in my mom's throat, and I assumed that she had orgasmed, as well.
It never occurred to me that my spying would be inappropriate. I felt that my concern for their marriage was admirable, and while I could be overzealous, I was nonetheless committed to assuring that they stayed together. If I judged that they hadn't had sex in a long time, then I would know that they had either fought over something serious—finances, say—or hadn't fought in a long time. If the former, then I would explain to them how lonely I was feeling, and they would put aside their pettiness because their only son needed them.
If it was the case that they had not argued in a long time, then I would say an off-hand remark that would get them shouting at each other. Dad, do you like mom's new purse? Mom, is dad usually home this late? And so on. This would get them bickering at each other, and they would have sex that same night.
On some nights when I eavesdropped, I could feel my penis pressing against my underwear. Most times, I would rub it absentmindedly, and allow it to deflate when I returned to my bed. Sometimes, however—usually if my father was taking a particularly long time to climax—I would rub my penis for more than ten minutes, and, frustrated, I would stuff my hand into my underwear and wrap my fingers around my shaft. Then I would jerk myself with more chutzpah. The sounds from my parent's bedroom would seem more distinct, as if they knew what I was doing, and were fucking for my benefit.
I would cum into my underwear and return to bed.
My mom found a lottery ticket in my dad's pants pocket. I knew this because she marched into the kitchen with the ticket between her thumb and index finger, as if she had found something truly disgusting and wanted to minimize the surface area upon which it touched her skin. My dad denied her allegations at first, but then relented when her implacability became clear. He told us that he bought lottery tickets every other day and that he usually threw them in the garbage on his way home. I went to my room so that my parents could bicker in private.
At night, I stole to my parent's bedroom, and, as usual, placed my ear against their door. I heard nothing.
I waited.
Still nothing.
Anxious, I was about to return to my room when I saw a light coming from downstairs. It didn't surprise me that I hadn't noticed it earlier because then I had not expected any disruptions to my usual recognizance. I peered over the bannisters and found my mom lying on the couch. The light which I saw earlier came from a standing lamp beside her, which she used to see the book currently opened on her lap.
