Jake hails a taxi and tells the driver, “City Hall.”
In the taxi I tell my brother I don’t have any money to pay for the taxi ride, but he says I never have to pay for anything when I am with him, which is a nice thing to say, but his saying it makes me feel sort of strange.
Underneath City Hall, we buy subway tokens, spin a turnstile, and then wait for the southbound Orange Line.
Even though it is only 1:30 p.m. and kickoff is not for seven hours yet, even though it is a Monday, a day when most people have to work, many men in Eagles jerseys are already waiting on the platform. This makes me realize that Jake is not working today—it makes me realize I do not even know what Jake does for a living, which really starts to freak me out. I think hard and remember that my brother was a business major in college, but I cannot remember where he works, so I ask him.
“I’m an options trader,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“I play the stock market.”
“Oh,” I say. “So who do you work for?”
“Myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I work for myself and do all my business online. I’m self-employed.”
“Which is why you could take off early to hang out with me.”
“That’s the best part about being self-employed.”
I am very impressed with Jake’s ability to support himself and his wife by playing the stock market, but he doesn’t want to talk about his work. He thinks I’m not smart enough to understand what he does; Jake doesn’t even try to explain his work to me.
“So what did you think of Caitlin?” he asks me.
But the train comes, and we join the herd of boarding Eagles fans before I can answer.
“What did you think of Caitlin?” he asks again after we find seats and the train starts moving.
“She’s great,” I say, avoiding eye contact with my brother.
“You’re mad at me for not telling you about Caitlin right away.”
“No, I’m not.” I want to tell him all about Tiffany following me when I run; finding the “Pat” box; how Mom is still on strike and dirty dishes are in the sink and Dad turned his white shirts pink when he did the wash; how my therapist Cliff says I need to stay neutral and not get involved in my parents’ marital problems but only focus on improving my own mental health—but how can I do that when Dad and Mom are sleeping in separate rooms and Dad is always telling me to clean the house and Mom is telling me to leave it filthy—and I was having a hard time keeping it together before I found out my brother plays the piano and trades stocks and is living with a beautiful musician and I have missed his gala wedding and therefore will never see my brother marry, which is something I very much wanted to see, because I love my brother. But instead of saying any of this, I say, “Jake, I’m sort of worried about seeing that Giants fan again.”
“Is that why you’ve been so quiet today?” my brother asks, as if he has forgotten all about what happened before the last home game. “I doubt a Giants fan will show up at the Green Bay game, but we’re going to set up in a different parking lot anyway, just in case any of the ass**le’s friends are looking for us. I got your back. Don’t worry. The fat guys are setting up the tent in the lot behind the Wachovia Center. No worries at all.”
When we arrive at Broad and Pattison, we exit the subway car and climb back up into the afternoon. I follow my brother through the thin crowds of diehards who—like us—have begun tailgating seven hours before kickoff, on a Monday no less. We walk past the Wachovia Center, and when the fat men’s green tent comes into view, I can’t believe what I see.
The fat men are outside of the tent with Scott, and they are yelling at someone hidden by their collective girth. A huge school bus painted green—it’s running, and the driver is inching toward our tent. On the hood of the bus is a portrait of Brian Dawkins’s bust, and the likeness is incredible. (Dawkins is a regular Pro Bowler who plays free safety for the Birds.) As we get closer, I make out the words the asian invasion along the side of the bus, which is full of brown-faced men. This early in the afternoon, parking spaces are plentiful, so I wonder what the argument is about.
Soon I recognize the voice, which argues, “The Asian Invasion has been parked in this very spot for every home game since the Linc was opened. It’s good luck for the Eagles. We are Eagles fans, just like you. Superstition or not, our parking the Asian Invasion bus in this very spot is crucial if you want the Birds to win tonight.”
“We’re not moving our tent,” Scott says. “No f**king way. You should have gotten here earlier.” The fat men reiterate Scott’s sentiment, and things are getting heated.
I see Cliff before he sees me. “Move the tent,” I say to our friends.
Scott and the fat men turn to face me; they look surprised by my command, almost bewildered, as if I have betrayed them.
My brother and Scott exchange a glance, and then Scott asks, “Hank Baskett—destroyer of Giants fans—says, ‘Move the tent’?”
“Hank Baskett says, ‘Move the tent,’” I say.
Scott turns and faces Cliff, who is shocked to see me. Scott says, “Hank Baskett says, ‘Move the tent.’ So we move the tent.”
The fat guys groan, but they begin to break down our tailgate party, and soon it is moved three parking spaces over, along with Scott’s van, at which time the Asian Invasion bus pulls forward and parks. Fifty or so Indian men exit—each one of them wearing a green number 20 Dawkins jersey. They are like a small army, and soon, several barbecues are going and the smell of curry is all around us.