"What?" " Nothing."

For as long as I can recall, the "What?" "Nothing." game has been played in my life. I remember first playing it out with my parents. I would be pouting for a particular reason - being told "no", usually, about something I was set upon having or doing. One of my hapless parents, after catching on that I was, indeed, upset (perhaps after experiencing fifty or so heavy sighs and eye roll-ups coming from my general direction), would ask, "What?"1

"Nothing." I would reply. Unless my parents were in an unusually challenging mood that day, this word would usually signal the end of the matter. We would go about our days without being particularly traumatized by the episode, except of course, during periods when there was a build-up of "What?" Nothing." baggage that needed to be blown away, then later forgiven with a kiss.2

I progressed to engaging in a more ludicrous version of the script when it involved my outside relationships, particularly romantic ones. I would often give in to my date’s choice of movie or restaurant, then sigh and act martyred throughout the event. Whenever he would enquire, at first concerned, then later annoyed, "What?" I would sigh and offer a pained little smile.3

"Nothing." I would reply. Yes, and well, nothing was what a lot of dates turned out to be, as well. Once I married, the script was basically a more polished and dramatic version of all the above, with occasional variations. Sometimes my husband and I would switch roles. This provided a slightly "edgy" and dangerous kick to the dialogue.4

When I said, "What?" my tone had to be just right; not too naggy or snotty. Otherwise, his "Nothing." might be very unpleasant indeed. How it usually went, though, was: I would be pouting (sound familiar?) for any number of reasons. I would not verbally say that I was upset; rather, I would use body language and heavy sighs to slow my displeasure. However, unlike parents, husbands do not always drop the subject after the first, "Nothing."5

"Okay, you’re upset. What’s up?"6

"Nothing." If at first you don’t succeed…7

"That’s such a lie!"8

"There’s nothing wrong!" Hoping that the third time will be the charm…9

"Why do you have that look on your face, then?"10

"What look?"11

"Like this -" he proceeded to make himself look like a cross between "Eeyore" and a Basset Hound with worms.12

I started to say "I do not look like that!" but had learned by now to not even take that old and futile turn. Instead, I became silent, staring out the window if we are in a car, or at the TV or my book if we are at home. After an especially loud sigh from me, it was time for him to resume the dialogue.13

"What?’14

"Nothing."15

"Okay, you’re starting to drive me nuts here!"16

"It’s just that …well…"17

"WHAT?" he shouted in frustration. I clammed up.18

"Nothing."19

Motherhood naturally brought with it a whole new cast of characters to play out the "What?" "Nothing." routine. The following is a scenario which I wrote four years ago, that describes a typical game of "What?" "Nothing." being played in our family, in a typical fashion for that period of our lives:20

Imagine, if you can stand it, driving a close to overheating, raggedly-idling, late ‘70s station wagon filled with three kids. The 13 year old son is playing Ozzy Osbourne full-tilt in the front seat (it’s always his "shotgun" when he’s in the car, it seems, otherwise the younger two take turns) next to me. His hair is a dark tangled mass of tight waves…or loose curls…growing out, but currently in the "’fro" stage. He wears all black - t-shirt, baggy shorts, shoes, and socks. His head bobs to the music as he talks at the same time.21

In the backseat, his sister is complaining, loudly and incessantly, about the music playing. I am driving straight ahead and ignoring them both, which I am good at doing. I fortunately have a "single-track" mind, which has its advantages… as well as its drawbacks.22

The eleven year sits next to his sister in the back, arms crossed, eyes decidedly out the window. He is sporting a "mullet" haircut. Now, this is a decade or more past the ‘80s, I realize, but I still like mullets. For one thing, I can achieve that style. I cut my kids’ hair myself at this point; none of us trust hairstylists or barbers. William, to whom I have been speaking for the past three minutes, continues to sullenly (or is it moodily? I never can tell with him) stare out the window, in total silence. At a stop light, I look in the rear view mirror at him.23

"What?" he says after the light turns green and my eyes turn to the road again.24

"Did you hear what I was saying?"25

"Yes."26

"Are you going to answer me?"27

"-----------"28

By now, we have, naturally, hit another red light. I say "naturally," because where we live, in Tucson, the town is fraught with many perils which are the result of a town trying to stay small on the one hand, while encouraging growth and development with the other. Some of these perils include much congestion, many two-second green lights, and a lot of waiting in traffic at times. Forgoing the mirror, I twist to look at Will.29

"What?" he says with a lot less patience to his tone.30

"Nothing." I reply, having forgotten, at this point, what it was I had wanted to know from him.31

It is now that my daughter’s soprano voice registers upon my brain; her voice separates itself from the general hum of noise in the car that I have been, successfully until now, tuning out. "Can’t Keith turn down the music?"32

"Ask him!" I am forced to decree rapidly, as the light has turned green again, for a brief shining moment. We must make this light; otherwise, the car is sure to overheat. I step on it, tailgating the car in front of me until we are successfully in the "safe zone," then I slow down to the speed limit again. There are several minutes of silence, save for Ozzy, and my son singing along with him.33

"Uhm….Keith?" Ali begins tentatively.34

"What?" is her brother’s terse reply. He and Ozzy were in the middle of "Crazy Train" and he resents the interruption.35

"Nothing." she replies quickly.36

He explodes, "you interrupted me in the middle of the song for nothing?"37

"Well… it wasn’t nothing, it was just…" she looks at me to jump in and save her.38

"I think Ali is bothered by the loudness of the music." I say, clearing my throat. I am thrilled beyond belief to be joining this conversation. I am generally the type of mom who tells the kids to "work it out" when they have disagreements.39

"Well I don’t complain when she plays Brittany Spears!" he scowls, forgetting once again that his sister no longer listens to Brittany Spears. She makes a face and rolls up her eyes.40

The 11 year old, who has been silent and sulky until now, pipes in helpfully, "hey Ali, why don’t you just admit that you hate Ozzy and get it over with?"41

"I do not hate OZZY!" she shrieks, looking at her oldest brother with horror, lest he believe this sacrilege about her and pounce upon her.42

"Anyway," Keith says with menace in his voice, "you guys can all just…"43

"What?" I ask, in a dangerously calm tone.44

He looks at me, taking in my mood. The wheels in his brain are turning as he sizes me up: hormones…instability… stressed out…and most importantly, behind the wheel of the car he is in right now. Might be nice to live to be eighteen…45

"Nothing." he growls, turning the radio down and flopping back in his seat, as we hit yet another red light.