Legoland

There’s a Lego Empire State building there,and a Lego French Quarter with what you hopeare tiny Lego prostitutes. There’s a Lego

White House, and a huge Lego head ofAlbert Einstein—Lego every damn thinguntil you just want to cut your own throat.

But the kids like it, especially Henry, who’s six—he likes the Lego octopus, the little boatsin their canal. So you keep your mouth shut

even though you can’t get a drinkat these places and it’s dangerously closeto cocktail hour, when at last your wife,

God bless her, says, Okay, let’s hit the gift shop,which is just like every gift shop everywhereexcept it’s wall-to-wall Legos, which is the whole

point, the thing you’ve paid three hundred dollarsto do. Your kids have both picked out a not-too-expensivething (a Lego helicopter for Henry,

and for Ava a Lego girl with her Lego horse),and you’re standing there at the registerwith your Visa card out when the floor drops

a few inches and turns for a moment to sponge,the countertop tips, and something behind yougoes crash, and of course you think

Henry has broken some pricey Lego object,what a boy of six reflexively does. Henry,you say, Henry, God damn it, what did you do?

And the teenage girl at the register looks at you,eyes wide, surprised by how stupid you are,even judged against the general run

of gift shop customers. Thatwas an earthquake, she says. It wasn’t your son.He didn’t do anything wrong. And of course

you think of your father, long gone,nothing left but his voice in your mouth.How old were you, then? When you swore

you’d never be like him?