Angela's Dad

Angela began screaming the moment we stepped outside the restaurant to the sidewalk. The piecing, lung-filled shrieks erupted from somewhere so deep inside her, I had no idea what was wrong until I saw the figure standing across the busy intersection.

He was dressed in dark clothes, a thick matted beard; his face was gaunt and creased with lines like a child’s angry scribble. His eyes were black and staring.

The Los Vegas street was so thick with passing cars I wasn’t sure what about the man scared her so. I put my arms around her and felt her shivering.

“Make him go away!” she wailed.

“He’s not going to bother us, honey!” I said.

Angela lifted her head and began to struggle inside my arms. I turned around. The man was walking directly for us, crossing the street as cars screeched to a stop, their horns blaring. He seemed to have no sense of the cars as he crossed, his eyes fixed on my new wife.

I let go of Angela then and turned to face this filthy man who looked old enough to be my grandfather. I didn’t want to touch him, but I was ready to kick him in the balls, when he said, softly, his eyes wet, “Angela, I’m you’re father!”

“Stay away from me!” Angela screamed.

We left him then with our arms entwined. We moved as quickly as Angela could manage in her high-heels and her leather mini-skirt. We walked and we walked and we walked and we didn’t talk and I worried I didn’t know this girl as well as perhaps I should.

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