Johnny Was Not OK

The Celebrants

Christmas is around the corner, some of my friends are celebrating Hanukkah, and in our family birthdays tend to pile up right around this time of year. It’s one of those seasons where everything overlaps—celebrations, obligations, expectations—and before you know it, you’re trying to honor all of it at once. I’ve learned that when that happens, it’s very easy to overdo things, usually with the best intentions.

During the COVID lockdown, my daughter Grace turned 21 in January. It wasn’t the milestone birthday she had imagined, or frankly the one she deserved. It was a workday, my wife couldn’t take the day off, and my second daughter, Audrey, was teaching at schools that were still trying to figure out whether being open was brave or irresponsible. That left my eldest son Griffin—who at the time was working as a sous chef—and me in charge of creating something memorable. Two guys, one car, a global pandemic, and a 21-year-old who should have been celebrating with friends. What could possibly go wrong?

Grace planned the stops for the day, trying to recreate the kind of wandering, indulgent birthday she would have had in college, except now everything was takeout. Our first stop was Aya Bakery (Sadly now closed.), where Michelin-level pastries were handed to us through a drive-through window like highly regulated substances. We bought far too much, and I ate with an urgency that suggested I hadn’t seen food in weeks. I was completely full before we even exited the parking lot, which in hindsight should have been a warning.

Next, Grace wanted to see the Starbucks Reserve Roastery. It was enormous, eerily empty, and open for reasons I still don’t fully understand. We got coffee, admired the industrial machinery, and used what may have been the nicest public bathroom any of us had experienced in months. At the time, this felt like a legitimate highlight. (I took a picture of the faucet thinking it was cool at the time.)

Soap, Water, and Hand Dryer

From there, we attempted to pick up tiki drinks from Three Dots and a Dash, only to learn that even pickup wasn’t quite ready yet. As we circled the area throwing out ideas, Griffin suddenly said, “Dispensary.” I laughed, paused, and laughed again. I knew I had gotten high in my day, and I knew Griffin had too, but Grace? She shrugged and said sure. Apparently legalized drugs were still very much operational during a pandemic, which was news to me.

There was no parking, so I stayed in the car and handed them cash like I was sending kids into a convenience store in the late ’80s. ( I was El Jefe.) They came back with edibles—chocolates (Key Lime Pie, really?) and other carefully measured items. They broke off a small piece for me right there in the back seat. Griffin was driving, so Grace and I partook while he remained the responsible one.

I should probably mention that my entire marijuana résumé involves a Coke can, a depressed end, and a few strategically placed holes. That was the extent of my expertise. Edibles were not part of the curriculum. How do I know how many Milligrams? We just inhaled.

We eventually made our way back to Three Dots and a Dash to pick up what we referred to as “the package,” which required entering a completely unrelated store because nothing during COVID made sense. It was cold, and as Grace and I walked through the alley, I started to feel strange. My hearing felt off, my head felt light, and I convinced myself it was probably an inner ear issue, because denial is powerful.

On the way to pick up ramen at Ramen Wasabi, I made the single worst decision of the day: I had another piece of chocolate. Shortly after, I found myself in full-blown, high-school-level paranoia, convinced I was about to have a heart attack. I was checking my pulse, running imaginary medical tests, and quietly unraveling while Grace and Griffin were up front laughing, listening to music, and having a genuinely great time.

Eventually after a lot embarrassing thoughts, I told them what was happening. I said, as calmly as I could, that their dad was extremely high and not handling it at all well. They looked at each other, unfazed, and Griffin asked if I needed him to talk me down. I said yes immediately. From that moment on, he started calling me Johnny, a nickname that has somehow stuck to this day.

While they ran inside to pick up tonkatsu ramen, I stayed in the car conducting what I can only describe as amateur cardiology. They assured me that soup would help. When we got home, Grace wanted a tiki drink, which I struggled mightily to make, followed by hot ramen and an all-day Jersey Shore marathon, by special request. The edibles lasted forever. Edibles are liars. Give me a Coke can any day.

But here’s the part that stays with me. Grace had a great 21st birthday. She really did. And Griffin, without making a big deal of it, calmly walked his dad through a moment I never expected to need help with, even while I was, objectively, a liability.

So now, in this season of birthdays, candles, and Christmas lights, I think about that day more than I ever thought I would. Not because I’m proud of it, and certainly not because I’d repeat it, but because it reminds me that these moments don’t need to be perfect to matter. Sometimes they just need to be real. And occasionally, they need your kids to gently remind you that you’re going to be okay—even if they call you Johnny while they do it.