Obsession

“Oh, she wants it”, Mom intervenes. “There’s no question about that. She just doesn’t seem to be able to get it.”

“Then maybe you aren’t talented enough.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?”

I’ve had enough of this already. Business and life coaching from The Donkey? Please. “It doesn’t take a genius to throw a football a hundred yards.”

“Or to color inside the lines.”

Asshole.

“Any artistic field is going to be difficult to get into. That’s why your mother and my generation took jobs in more academic fields. There were only a few artists back then and they were bohemians really. Nobody doing that ever really made any money, and if they did, they were talented, hard working and had a bit of luck. You needed one of those things if not all three.”

“I never had any luck.”

Arrogant asshole.

“You were lucky I let you play at all. Every weekend down the park? Who do you think your practise partner was until you were old enough to get accepted to a team?”

“Yeah, whatever. My point is, if you want it badly enough, and you’re good enough at it, you’ll be able to get it.”

“That’s your expert advice? Want it, and it will happen?”

Landon holds my gaze. “You want something bad enough, princess, there isn’t anything that can stop it happening.”

Yeah, right. I don’t believe that kind of philosophy for a second. The ‘I’m not working hard enough to achieve my goals’ philosophy. Gee, thanks, Landon. Mr. Never had to worry about things because I play a stupid ball game and make millions of dollars a year running around a park in a silly costume pretending to be important Maddox. Artists are a different breed entirely. Artists are educated, talented, flawed. They are geniuses, and produce work that reflects the human condition. Nurtures it. Football players, and by extension underwear models, are valueless saps, contributing nothing worthwhile in a cultural or creative sense. I’m nineteen years old, I’ve just finished my first year of University, and I haven’t even begun looking for work properly yet. No doubt I’ll get a grant, or a fellowship, or a position on an important project. I haven’t even decided on my discipline, so it’s a little rich he’s talking to me about not showing enough eagerness. Landon may have known for his whole life he wanted to be a footballer, well I’m the same about my art. I wonder if he also knew whether he wanted to be an arrogant alpha-male asshole too.

“Dessert, anyone?”

Tilly

Well that was incredibly awkward. I wonder if the day will ever arrive when I don’t have to justify my career choice to anyone.

My assessment of the day so far: Landon Maddox is an absolute douchebag. Not content with having to be the centre of attention at all times, he also happens to be infuriatingly, intoxicatingly handsome. I mean, why exactly does that always happen? Why can’t they let the meek, humble, chivalrous men be the ones with biceps I can’t even get my two hands around, perfect eyes and washboard abs? You know, the all around better human beings.

At least he’s not overly polite and incredibly sycophantic. I don’t think I could cope with it at all if he were actually a perfect human being as well as a perfect specimen of one. I didn’t actually expect him to clear the table, do the washing up, sweep the floor and put a load of laundry on, and I’m glad he hasn’t. The more I think about it, the fact that he’s obviously completely flawed - inflated sense of self worth, delusions of grandeur, seemingly impenetrable emotional shield - actually makes him seem much more human. It’s contrary I know, but it’s true.

Yes, he may be built like a Roman God, but it’s refreshing to see he isn’t constantly seeking approval or desperately wants to be liked despite clearly needing to be centre of attention. It seems like the complete opposite of that actually. He seems like he’s doing everything he can in his power to make people dislike him. Or he’s just being himself, which is probably more accurate, and the result of that is the same.

After dinner, Landon treats us all to a kind of showreel highlights package of his best moments from the previous season, complete with theatrical interpretations and unnecessary audience involvement, when we find out the TV doesn’t work and we are stuck for things to do.

He is clearly excited to be sharing his memories, but it’s all a bit one sided if you ask me. Landon threw this pass that won the game, Landon broke this record, Landon got this trophy. Yada yada yada. What he doesn’t tell us about are the controversies away from the field that had just as much impact over the year as the stats on it. Landon screws this girl, Landon crashes this car, Landon puts his huge dick where it isn’t wanted.

I’d challenge him if I could get a word in edgeways, but he just keeps talking and talking, his eyes lighting up and his biceps bulging.

God knows how he managed to get any sex in at all with any of those hundreds of women if all he did on those dates was the same. Maybe he just fucks them all from the room next door, just far enough out of earshot that he can go on and on about how brilliant he is without them even having to hear him.

“I was that far away from MVP. That far.”

Finally he sits down.

“They only gave it to Sands because he’s PG.”

“There is always next year”, I offer, my voice lilted to be intentionally sarcastic. “You know, if they let you back on the team.”

“I am the team.”

I rest my case. Landon Maddox is an absolute douchebag.

“What’s MVP?” Mom asks.

She must be being polite, because I can’t believe she’s this interested in the NFL. She certainly never showed this much interest when Dad used to watch it on TV, and she hasn’t ever shown this much interest in anything I’m passionate about.

“It’s kind of like the best player of the year award”, Landon explains. “I was a shoe-in and then they gave it to some running back from the Colts.”

Please don’t ask what a running back is.

“Well, I guess we ought to start thinking about getting to bed.”

This is the interesting life Marvin and my mother live. They eat dinner and then they go to bed. At 9pm.

“It’s 9pm”, I say.

“Early start tomorrow. I’m going to get out on one of those walks, see if I can spot some of the wildlife. You guys stay up, I’m sure you’ve got a whole lot of stuff to talk about.”

When I look at Landon, he’s smiling at me.

“I might see if the jacuzzi works.”

I shake my head. I cannot believe he’s looking at me and suggesting what I think he’s suggesting. I am struck briefly by an image of Landon and I in the jacuzzi, as naked as the day we were born.

“Not tonight you won’t”, Mom says. “Those things make a hell of a racket and I’m the world’s lightest sleeper. You can make it a project for tomorrow if you like. It might be nice for us all to sit in there one evening.”

Ewww. “I don’t think we’ll fit”, I’m quick to warn her.

“Course we will, Tilly. That’ll take six that thing. Right, I’m leaving you to it, Marvin and I are off to bed.”

“Six”, Landon whispers to me and I have to stem a giggle.

“Good night kids.”

“Wait”, I shout, immediately aware that they are leaving me on my own with The Donkey. This wasn’t in the plan. I wasn’t meant to be alone with the enemy, certainly not this early in the holiday. I don’t know what to do.

“I’m going to bed too.”

“Ok”, Mom says. “You do what you like dear, it’s your holiday too.”

This set up is so awkward that Mom and Marvin will be literally sleeping two metres away from where we are. The only thing between us is a door and what I expect to be a very thin wall. Going to bed doesn’t involve climbing up a flight of stairs, a long discourse or a drawn out series of stages, it involves stepping two strides into a different room, changing into an embarrassing set of matching pajamas, cleaning teeth and urinating loudly

in the bathroom, while desperately trying to squeeze enough to not make any noise and then returning again to the same bedroom that’s no bigger than a walk in closet.

While they do this, I drag the mattress from what should be my room and is now Landon’s, into the lounge to try and find a space big enough to construct a makeshift sleeping area.

While I do this, and Mom and Marvin, who, short of a pair of matching sleeping hats could be cartoon characters, get themselves ready for bed. Landon does absolutely nothing but watch me. Not his dad and my mom, but me. He doesn’t lift a finger to help me, despite the mattress being so heavy I have to drag it along the ground, and nor does he get up from the two seater sofa he has effectively turned into an armchair because of his bulk.