Fate

"Mama, no."

The words slipped out before I could stop them, which is a cliche that is a cliche for a reason.

"No, I can't. Won't."

She drew back from me, seemingly uncomprehending what I had just said. Everybody else in the room had gone quiet, eager for her to respond to that which she did not yet understand. While she stared at me, I dissected her face, and the look on it. Was that...bemusement? Shock? Anger? Did it even register with her that this wasn't the fate I had chosen for myself?

That was another cliche. Fate. What did that even mean? I had always thought that fate was utter and complete crap, because it implied that I did not actually have control over what was happening to me. Of course, that's another cliche, but it's not a malicious one. But still, if I didn't have control over myself, am I not myself? Is there a self to be made, or is there just a linear sea that I have no choice but to sail?

No, that's not right. I choose my fate.

"Mama..."

"What did you say?" she responded, her cadence heavily influenced by the Italian that was her native language.

"The store isn't mine, Mama. It never was." My younger cousins stared at me, oblivious, seeing only a man talk to his mother, not someone claiming their freedom from a chain tied to them from birth.

Her face only seemed to get paler. "Mama..." I ventured, but was cut off by my aunt.

"Oh, you'll get over it. C'mon, Mike, have some more eggplant."

"Zia, not now." My voice came across cutting, probably more so then I had intended. It seemed to wake up my Mom from her stupor, and shake her into a fighting mood.

"You must work at the store. It is all we have." She said, as if that settled the matter. My father stood up by her, adding in, "Micheal, you have to understand. When we came to this country..." he droned, his haggard voice rambling over the same story he had told me a thousand times. He sounded nervous, pacing over the same ground he had grovelled on for the last 22 years.

Finishing up the story, he said, "...and that story will be told to your children when they inherit the store, and their children when they can sell it to someone else for a mille solidi." He finished, beaming at me. I looked around at the faces staring at me, hopeful that I would accept the bridle that had been tossed upon me. But I bucked yet again.

"I can't. I can't do it like you guys did."

My father's face contorted, showing the rage I had so clearly been looking for in my mother. In his smoother English he yelled at me, "Why not!? Why!? Have you met a girl? Have you entered the military? Have you forsaken your testicoli and given up your name?"

"Dad, I'm not like you," I screamed, which was another cliche. "I can't do that job again. It's-." I trailed off, hoping they would see what I was trying to say.

"You think you can discontinue our name, our heritage, our traditions, for some big-shot son who can't even handle a job at a corner store? Out of here, out!" He shouted, and moved to usher me out.

Zia Josie got in his way. "This is a hard scenario for all of us. Maybe we should all just take a deep breath and-"

"Out of my way, you ill-tempered witch. Get out of my house!" My father might as well have been steaming at the ears.

"Dad, please, just listen." I pleaded. I looked at him, imagining all the things he had said to me, all the things he had taught me.

I was going to say something hopefully profound, something to make him see we both wanted the same thing. We both just wanted a happy life, or whatever. But it never got out.

He screamed, "Get out of my house. You're no son of mine." And I was done. I put on my coat, took one last look at my family, and stepped out into the alley.

Thrown out on Christmas, I thought. Snowflakes coated my hair, and I turned down the cold alleyway.

I was the last male heir to my family name. We didn't have much, but we had a store, and it helped us through the harder months. But as the only boy, there was this sense of pressure. Don't let Italians fool you, they favor the boys. Only they can really reliably carry on the name, and so I had increased expectations. I can't mess up, I had to do well, so that I could take over the business in due time. Eventually, I just...couldn't.

I laughed in spite of myself. I didn't know much, but I'm pretty sure I had just been cast off from my family. Here I was, and I had gotten my wish in quite possibly the biggest cliche of the night.

My father texted me, and said I needed to come back so we could talk about this. Nuh-uh. I'm refusing. I needed something to guarantee my choice. I thought about it, and finally came up with a plan. My feet went to the direction of the store.

As I walked, I realized all the memories I had in the store, now tainted. Ringing people up, sneaking candy bars, restocking the fridge. I had always gotten taken for baseball afterwards, home dusty and tired from the hard days work. The day he had taught me how to throw a pitch...

I was on the mound, holding the worn leather in my hands. He gave me the instructions, how to curve my fingers just so, and how to aim for the proper spot so that batters couldn't hit it. I had been so exited that day.

There was a fist sized rock at the mouth of the alleyway, and instinctively I picked it up. I slipped it in my pocket, feeling the edges against the cold of the outside. I finally stopped outside of the store, a shabby corner labeled "Del Tino's" on the outside. I contemplated for a moment, thinking about how long it had been since I threw...

I was a short stop by trade, but I wanted to pitch so bad. He helped me measure out the steps, pacing ten, then twenty feet backwards. He explained, and then I had the thrill of knowing that I wasn't about to be stopped.

I walked backwards, getting the spacing right, and then experienced a thrill at the lack of people willing to stop me around.

I watched the pre-pitch, my face eager to let it go. And then, I did it.

Smack!

Crash!

The window shattered, the rock plunging into the glass. I had done it. I had evaded destiny.

"Today, you grew past me, son." I heard my fathers voice whisper through the years to me.

Today I controlled my own fate, dad, I thought. I regarded the store, regarded my past for a moment, then turned around and walked away, into my own fate, which may be a cliche, but it's all I have left now.