Chapter 6

Chapter 6


I tried to spot him from the bus. I couldn’t see him. I looked to the corners and the ashtrays; and in the parking lot where people leaned on their cars and waited for whoever it was they were expecting.

I guessed he would have his accustomed look. Probably a polyester shirt, unbuttoned with a pack of smokes in the breast pocket. Maybe a pair of sunglasses wedged in the ‘V’ of his shirt, or cheap flip flops and cut-off jeans. It was warm enough out. Whatever it was, it would look cheap, accentuated by a toothpick or a cigarette balancing on his ear. Even when he dressed up he looked cut-rate. You could always see this tired face behind the pressed shirt, and passable shoes. He looked like he was attending court anytime he donned a suit, borrowed from the communal closet at the public defender’s office.

The bus stopped. For the first time I felt fear. Panic. It all seemed so distant when I was in El Paso or Dallas, or as close as Shreveport and Jacksonville, Mississippi. Even when we crossed into Georgia and the sign had oranges covering the state’s silhouette. It didn’t feel real until know. Until the moment when my father was within sneezing range, somewhere. It was that dreaded big day- the one that you prepare for in front of the mirror a thousand times, but rest easy because it isn’t for another three weeks, with three more mid-week dress rehearsals at Main Street Theatre. But when I heard the engine fall dead, the humid Atlanta air filling the bus with a thick smell of earth, I knew it was my turn to sing.



The bus became a circus. People filled the aisles, stealing inches as quick as the person in front. They were all in a hurry to get off. Go somewhere, see someone, eat some real food or stretch their legs and breathe some fresh, firsthand oxygen. I stayed seated. I wasn’t in a rush. In fact, I was hoping someone would get on board and steal the bus. With me in it. At least then, I wouldn’t have a choice. I would go where they wanted and wouldn’t have to face a decade of unanswered questions. My father.

Memories of my childhood nudged me while I stared out that thick bus window. It all seemed like a collage. A thousand contrasting pictures sitting right on top of each other, battling for space. Some seemed bigger, more pronounced. Some were in colour, others shot in black and white and were grainy and out of focus. Abstract. Obvious. Bizarre.

Most times I tried not to think about the past, just blew it off and figured I was as normal as the next kid. On my block, I was. No one had a father. And the ones that did, wished they would leave. The two-parent kid who envied the single mother pleasantries. Now, that isn’t normal. But, for me it was. In our world father’s only appeared in sun damaged photos and alongside child support attorneys.

Growing up, I brushed those memories to the side…put them right next to mom’s needle point collection, somewhere I never went. The past to me, was finished. I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t make things better by playing it over in my mind or wondering what a real Thanksgiving would be like. One that didn’t involve an argument or flying turkey slices. Because, in the end it wasn’t that bad. He left. That was it. He didn’t beat me or touch me or put his cigarettes out on my forearm. He drank. He used drugs. He pawned mom’s stuff and got arrested from time to time. And he left. That’s all.




The last person stepped off the bus. He had taken his time. But it wasn’t procrastination that made him waddle to the front, blasé. He just didn’t have a hug waiting outside, or maybe he knew the schedule to the city bus and had time to kill.

“Ok, well…you getting’ off or what?” The driver shouted, not looking back.
I stood up. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.” He removed his hat, his fingers finding a trail through his matted hair. He looked tired, but not irritated. His shift was over, a sit down meal and a hot shower on the cards.

I could smell the cigarette smoke at the door. “Thanks.” I said, stepping down.
Pause. “That’s alright son, you look after yourself now.” He smiled, nodding.


Passengers huddled around the under carriage, smoking like they have gone without for days. I stood back. I wondered where he was, if he was watching me from a distance with the same trepidation, working up the courage to come over. Or wondering what he should say. 'Hug or Handshake?' 'John or Son?' 'I’ve missed you or It’s good to see you?'

I grabbed my bag, didn’t look around. I knew he would find me. I was waiting for that same deep voice to make an appearance. I leaned against the bus. The crowd died down and I couldn’t see that cowboy of a man he once was. I was sure I would be taller than him by now. I didn’t expect a cowboy. I didn’t know what to expect, really. It had been seven since I had seen him, and for all I knew he was in a wheelchair, or missing a lung with canisters attached and plastic tubes running from his nose.

I pick up my bag. I walked towards the lobby, each step cautious and light. And my legs shook, right down to the toes with nerves that jiggled the cartilage through the thigh muscles and into my calves. Maybe he is inside, I thought. Who is with him? The German. Surely The German is with him. I’d seen pictures of his new wife. I heard she had a thick accent and would cook foods with sprouts of all sorts and strange ingredients I couldn’t pronounce. Lots of potatoes and Lamb. Who eats lamb? Not me. And I wasn’t going to start now. Big words like sauerkraut and shlausenburger my brother would say, his best ‘Hollywood’ interpretation of Duetche falling short of an Oscar. I was sure he made some of those words up. I had met The German once, briefly; and she was pleasant, just smiling and saying the bare minimum required when meeting the new boyfriend’s son. She had these caving dimples that made her homely face appear somewhat attractive. And she dressed funny; that’s all I recalled. She seemed normal enough. But I was sure she must have been crazy. Only a crazy woman would love my dad. And marry? Well.....



People evaporated with family and friends. Or flocked to the toilets to splash water on their face or brush their teeth. The luggage compartment was closed. Few lingered about. I sat down. Car doors slammed shut. One after the other, like a stampede of metallic. Bang! Bang…bang, bang….BANG! Luggage piled into trunks and back seats like a puzzle pieces and motors started, yellow lines appeared on the black asphalt and it looked far different than ten minutes ago. It was quiet. I looked around. Where is he, I wondered, leaning against the dusty wall. I felt like I was ten years old again, waiting outside the principal’s office. That lonely wait of uncertainty.

I stood up. I figured if my father was around he would spot me. Maybe not. He may walk straight past. It had been awhile. And I wouldn’t say my father had a great memory. Not photographic anyhow. He was great at remembering when the liquor store closed and who was working, how much things would be after the sales tax and who had the remote last. Or where the Raiders were playing and why the weather conditions cost them a ‘ring’ twenty years back. But when it came to making promises or the night before, it was as if it didn’t happen.

I imagined him walking around with one of those sketch composite things they do when some kid is kidnapped. The kind that looks like the ten year old, but has bigger cheekbones, more definition in the face, and fuller hair. The eyes stay the same, and the smile, but their calculations are usually well off the mark. That is, if they ever have the opportunity to compare pencil to flesh. He would stare down at the sheet of A4, comparing it to everyone pre-thirty:

‘Hey mom…MOM! This old ass man outside just gave me a hug. Call the police.’


Maybe he wasn’t coming at all, had a change of heart and decided it wasn’t healthy for me after all. That I had come this far without him and it was best to quit while we were ahead. He could have got arrested, I thought, finding a spot on the cold bench. I heard he just got out just last year, did a few months in County for possession. I wouldn’t be surprised. And if he was in, I was sure he wouldn’t be sending a telegram or little white dove with a note attached. I stared at the blank parking lot. It was getting dark. The cars were hard to make out. I could tell they were too new for anything my father would drive. These ones had curves and paint that came alive from the reflection of street lights. There were no old Lincolns or Ford Mavericks, nothing pre Eighties but new enough not to be vintage. And, I didn’t see one car with some sort of putty or fiberglass filler on it.


“Hellooo Son.”

Startled, I turned around. The deep, Southern draw stood at the door. It was him. Older and heavier than I remembered. And tired. He looked real tired. He took another step closer, his sandals clapping his heals. I stood up. He took another step. Clap. I stared at the same horseshoe mustache that tickled my stomach and scratched the side of my face and caught the froth after each sip of beer.
We could hear each other breathe. So close, if I rubbed a balloon on his arms out hairs would tangle like weeds and hiss. My father stared at me. As if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just stared with these eyes that spoke a language I was too young to grasp. Eyes that had chapters, thousands of them and they were as beautiful like I remember. Green. A warm hazel colour that would capture a room, demand attention.

“Hellooo, Son. Well, you sure done grown up on me.” My father smiled, his face coming alive with lines and bumps and droop.

“Hi.” I said, hesitant.

Pause. “Well…c’mon now..give you ol’ man a hug.” His smile was more natural and his arms stretched, effortlessly.

I put my arms around my father. One over the shoulder and one by the waist side. I patted his back, nervous. He drew me closer, drawing me into his chest.

“I’ve missed you son.” He said.

It wasn’t the chest that I remember as a child. It was weak and it sunk into his belly. “Yeah, its’ been a long time.” I said.

He dropped his head, his chin touching the back of my neck. He smelled nice. A rich aftershave that didn’t smell like alcohol or cigarette soaked his face and it felt different this time. It felt real. There was something in his grasp that told me he loved me, that he missed me, that he was sorry for what he did and what he created. It was a hug that new it was too late, begged for a chance to salvage whatever was left. Anything. Something. But for me, it had to start over. There was nothing there. I think he knew that.


****


“So…tell me, son. What’s new?” Glance. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He reached over, opening the glove compartment. He fumbled through the stack of papers and empty cigarette packs and registration forms.

“Oh…well…”

“Son, can you see if there is a green lighter in there for your old man.” He pulled back, put both hands on the wheel.

It was just as I remembered. The way he would multitask when driving, even refer to himself in the third person now and again. As if he had to assert some sort of authority or establish his role as a father for reassurance. “Sure.” I said.

I passed him the lighter. “Thanks son.” Flick. He dropped the lighter in the center console, put his hand on my knee and squeezed. “Sure good to see ya son.” He smiled, his words seeping around a bouncing Viceroy 100.

“Yeah, me too.” I was glad he let go. It felt uncomfortable. It felt like a stranger was touching me and I had nowhere to run. Pause.” Oh, hey…I wanted to tell you something.” I said.

He looked at me. “Ok…well, go on then.” He winked. “You know…I’m still your father.”

“Yeah, I know.” I could feel my face getting flush. “I’m joining the Marines dad.”

He smiled, found that look in his eyes he had back at the depot. “I know…I know! I was waiting for you to tell me yourself.” He flicked a pile of ash from his shorts.

“What? You know? How do you know that?”

“Well, I do talk to your mother from time to time.” He said.

“You do?”

He slapped my knee. “I sure do son. I call to check up…see how my boys are doin’.”

“Oh. So she told you?” I stared at the cracked upholstery around the dash. It had faded into a light cerise colour, almost pink, and the plastic bits that substituted for wood didn’t add to the car’s appeal. “What did she say?” I asked.

“Well, she just said you signed up…that you goin’ to Boot Camp in a couple months. Son, I am real proud of you.” He looked at me. “Real proud. You turn out to be a fine young man, I tell ya.” He lost his smile, shook his head in thought. He reached for the radio.

“Yeah, it will be different.”

“It sure will. I was in the Merchant Marines. You know that…but nothing like what you will be.” The light turned red. He stopped, turning to me. “My son: the Marine. The United States Marine.”

“Yeah, sounds pretty cool huh?” I smiled. It was the first time I felt relaxed.
My father bobbed his head to the country rock coming through waves of static. “Semper Fidel? Is that what they say? Means to have faith, right?”

“Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. That’s like…their motto, I think.”

“That’s right.” He looked for better reception. “Hey, I didn’t ask…you hungry son? You wanna’ go to The Waffle House? Get somethin’ to eat on. You must be starvin’.” Creedence Clearwater Revival battled with Johnny Cash and Spanish news. Neither really won.

“Waffle House? Oh, I remember that place. They are everywhere, those things. It’s like Denny’s right? I asked.

“Yeah. You can get breakfast 24 hours. And, they got the best fried chicken I tell ya’.” He rubbed his stomach, smiled.
“No, no, no. NO fried chicken, dad.” I shouted. “That’s all you guys eat. Everywhere we stopped, that’s all they had. Fried chicken. If I eat another piece I might start growing feathers.”
My dad laughed, clucking his head back and forth. He looked ridiculous. The same dad I knew: cigarette number three, doing something stupid without a care in the world. “Yeah I miss them burritos son.” He laughed. “That’s the one thing about California we just don’t have here.”
I agreed. “Yeah, burritos are good. Best bargain in town…way better than this fried chicken stuff you guys eat.”
“Hey…hey. Tell me, what’s new around the neighborhood?” He asked, animated. Like he couldn’t resist any longer. “Is Muscle Rick still workin’ at the liquor store? How bout your mom’s friend Rachel, the Morrocan lady. How’s her health?” He looked my way, eager.
I chuckled. Out of all things, my father asks about The Cellars. “Naw. Rick, I ain’t seen him for years. Some Afghan family owns it now. They are cool though. But, It’s called EZ Liquor now. Indians had it for awhile, but now this new family owns it.”
“Oh…your kiddin’…no more Cellars? That place is an icon. EZ Liquor…that sounds like sumpin’ that should be out in Hunter’s Point. EZ Liqour? Christ all mighty.” He shook his head, adjusting the rear view mirror.
“Yeah, your favorite hangout. If we couldn’t find you, we knew where to look, that’s for sure.” I stared out the window. It looked different than I remembered. Track housing and warehouses sprung up everywhere, steel and freshly dug foundations replacing green and plowed fields.
“How about Rachel, son”? He changed the subject.
“Hmm? Oh, she is alright. I still help her with her groceries once and awhile.” I said. I couldn’t help but think about the liquor store. The way he would just sit in that low level corner shop for hours, reading car magazines and swapping trucker’s talk. It was worse than a god dammed barber shop, that joint. He would even help them out from time to time, stocking shelves, filling the cool room. He had a family next door, and he was sliding twelve ounce cans down an inclined freezer chute. That was my dad.
Pause. “I remember that Moroccan stuff she used to whip up from time to time.” He scrambled for conversation. “That rice with all them spices. Now that’s how to do rice.” He took a deep breath. He could still smell it, even now.
I stared out the window. I started to remember this place. The way the trees were different and the houses, the way everything look new and cheap. And the trail of strip malls that catered for every off ramp, with boutique shops and mega marts, a surplus of empty parking spaces that always had some chain restaurant on the fringe.
There was something about strip malls that made me feel empty. Maybe it was how half of the shops seemed closed or vacant altogether; or how they were strangled by fields and they just seemed out of place.
It was silent. I could almost handle the uncomfortable banter. But not talking made me think. I thought about my dad. I thought about what it was he was thinking and what would be different this time around. I didn’t expect much. But I was ready for anything. I figured I could handle whatever was thrown my way. I didn’t anticipate some great camping trip or long drives. I figured I would be happy if he didn’t get drunk and sleep the afternoons away. Or spend the day down the street somewhere, doing something with someone that nobody really knew existed.
I thought about what Leonard said: ‘Always channel your energy with no expectation…at the same time, expect everything.’ I laughed. I think I understood what he was trying to say. Like being open minded or something- no high hopes, but ready for anything. If I didn’t have any expectations, how could I be disappointed? And if I was prepared for the worst, things could only get better. That’s what he meant. I Got it.
“So..you decided what sort of field you want to work in.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack with his mouth. Flick.
“Well, I signed up to be an infantryman…”
“Infantry!” His face tightened.
“Yeah…infantry.” I said, proud. “I was thinking machine gunner. I can choose from a few different things once I finish boot camp.” I cracked the window. Even the car smelled as I remembered: a thick, bitter cloud of shit

.“Cause’ I was thinking…” My face lit up. “…the recruiter said I would travel a bunch and see all kinds of different places. And he said it would be hard work…real hard, but all the other fields respect you, and I never thought I would go to another country or anything.” I teetered on the edge of the seat, the frayed seatbelt strangling my chest. “You know, I always wanted to travel. I’m sick of doing the same stuff… seeing the same people day in day out.” I leaned back.
A storm of ash sprayed the gear shift. “Well, you know you have my support.” Dad said, adding to the pool of cigarette butts. He coughed, his face and eyes jumping about. He reached for the radio. Cough. “Damn thing.” He shouted, at war with the obsolete set up.
We slowed- bumper to bumper with a Confederate flag and chrome bull bars. He looked over. I didn’t want to look, just stared at that flag that stretched the full length of the pick-up’s tailgate. I didn’t know exactly what it meant: the two diagonal stripes and the stars running up. But, the ‘Go Home we’re Full’ bumper stickers that usually accompanied them told me it didn’t symbolize family values or a liberal ideology. Or emancipation. It was a far cry from the Green Peace stickers I was used to. And the Jesus fish with the line running through. But, this was the South. I’m sure anyone who promoted evolution by slandering something as sacred as the Jesus fish wouldn’t make too many friends at the local bingo parlor.

We settled for silence and talk radio. I sat there thinking about the last three days, all that time I spent on the open road, tucked into a space so small I could still feel my body’s resentment. I thought about all the interesting people I met, the cities I wandered, things I saw that were so different than California -street signs and foods, the way people looked and dressed and how they smiled at you with this courteous curiosity in the rural back towns.
I mean…I couldn’t coax a smile out of California if I tried. We were open minded people, we voted Left for the most part and there were a lot of lateral thinkers where I came from. We boasted our creativity and social conscious. But smile: no. If you smiled, people crossed the road, figured you had some sort of premeditated motive- one that involved leather whips and six inch heels. Or lobotomies and tainted drinks. It didn’t take much. Just a smile. I wasn’t used to it. For all I knew, I was overseas, learning language and culture and ancient custom. I loved it. People that smile? Who would have guessed?
I looked out the window. Fields and soon-to-be neighborhoods barreled past, and I could feel the suburban pinch. There was something about a cul-de-sac that got me at the nerve; top it off with that sectional grass they lay down, and I struggle. Who buys grass by the cubic meter?, I thought as we passed these manufactured, village-like settings. It seemed like one big Nativity scene, laid out for display purposes, seasonal.
“Man..it all looks so bland out there dad.”
“Bland? Yeah, I suppose you right.” He looked right, then left. “All this new stuff they puttin’ up… all looks the same as the next.”
“Yeah, there is something to say about them old Victorians and the way they each have their own style.” I said.
My father looked over. “True, son. Individual…that’s what they are.” He pointed, at the passing estate. “You see…it’s all about money now. They build em’ cheap these days, cut costs wherever they can. They use that cheap ol’ plastic weatherboard stuff now. Ain’t nothin’ full brick anymore and forget about oak or hard woods.”
“Yeah…well, they look cheap. They’re not fooling me.” I laughed. “ I bet they do that on purpose now, build stuff that doesn’t last, so people keep having to spend money. It’s all a scam.”
My father looked over, his eyes swollen, nodding. “You’re a smart young man John, a thinker.” He laughed, tapping his finger against his temple. I could see his tongue working the gaps in his teeth, his cheeks flaring back and forth and his upper lip full with movement. “So how was it?”
“What?” I asked
“Your trip…how was it, you see a lot?” He reached over, turned the radio down. “What was your favorite place?”
“Oh, well…it was good. I saw a lot of cities. Probably my…”
“Dallas?” He interjected. “You go through Dallas? I been to Dallas a long time ago.” He looked over. “I’m sure it’s changed though.”
“Yeah I went to Dallas, went to that place where Kennedy was shot. On that hill with the book place in the background.” I said.
“Dealy Plaza. Yep, I remember that day like it was yesterday.” His eyes tightened, leaning back. “The book depository…
“Yeah, that’s it.” I thought about the tour guides and those fancy headset microphones they used. I could still see the souvenirs scattered on cheap, retractable card tables, and the ‘historians’ that looked more like used car salesmen or ‘three card monty’ sharks. “It was interesting…the whole setup.”
“Yeah?” My father looked down, pulled his smokes from his breast pocket. “You see a bit of the desert then, before Dallas… in Arizona and New Mexico?” Flick.
I cracked the window. “Yeah, it was like an old Western film.” I said. “But, El Paso was probably the most interesting out of the rest.”
“El Paso, huh?” He looked over his shoulder, indicated and merged. “Never been there before. That’s hugs the border with Mexico, right?”
“Yeah…I didn’t know that until I got there.” I said. I could still see it. A fence so big, it had no end. It just kept going, disappearing into the dry, baron earth and it was covered in a million biographies. “I had a couple hours, so I got up high, on top of this building. This lady told me I could see the border if I climbed up this rooftop parking lot.”
“What an eye opener that would be.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” I thought about the other side of that fence, the way it looked thirsty and tired. And how I could only see shades blacks and browns. No colour. Not even a flower or splash of paint looked back at me. Sitting next to my father I could still hear their whispers and laughs and screams coming from that fence. But, I didn’t see anyone. I never did. “I wish I brought a camera dad, so I could show you that place. It was something else. I was right there, between two worlds.” I looked over. My father seemed to be breathing heavy, like there was something lodged deep in the back of his throat. “Hey dad, you alright?”
He smiled. “ Yeah…yeah. It’s just the weather. “He rubbed at the chest.” I get a bit tight with this humidity, that’s all.” His elbow nudged mine. “ I got a few more years left son…don’t you worry! God willing.”
God willing? When did God ever come into play? I laughed to myself. This was a guy who would listen to the game while the Pastor spoke of temptation and garden utopias. And those cryptic, Old Testament stories that were far from merciful and forgiving. He would put on his best God fearing façade and nod as someone killed someone with a sacrificial lamb over some alter. He would sit, his hand resting at his ear:
Jumping up, his hands raise like a goal post. ‘Touchdown…TOUCHDOWN!!’ The congregation turns around. It’s silent. He thinks. Pause. He waves his right arm, palm opened. ‘ Touchdown…the Lord has t-o-u-c-h-e-d d-o-w-n on me, I tell you. AMEN!!’ He straightens his brown, corduroy suit, sits down.
God Willing? I figured I would let that one sit right where it was.
“Chris will sure be glad to see you.” Dad said.
I visualized a giant Bratwurst dripping in mayonnaise, and a little laced apron with an overlap of material at the top. “ Yeah?”
“She sure is son. She’s got dinner going as we speak. Cookin’ up something real special for you.” He turned, winking.
The giant sausage just grew legs and was speaking to me from the plastic dinner plate. “Great, sounds good. I’m pretty hungry.” I said. I prayed they had an excess of Ketchup. Ketchup and a deep breath usually did the trick.
“Boy, will she be glad to see you!” Dad got all giggly. Like a schoolboy looking at porn behind the gym for the first time.
The German. I wondered if she lost that brut accent of hers. I wasn’t in the mood for active listening techniques, trying to pick up each word through of mouth full of phlegm. From what I could remember, she always smiled, never stopped. She was an optimist at the worst of times. Then again, I only met her once, and I was only little; everyone tries to be pleasant around kids.

I looked out the window. I knew we were getting close. Things looked more rural outside and the houses were old, each different than the next. Even the air smelled different than before. It was that fresh, unhampered country air filling the car. I breathed in. It smelled nice. It smelled a world away from the factories and train yards and liquor stores back home. It was a lonely smell. It was distinct and authentic, and I could identify its’ sources. I loved it. I leaned back, closing my eyes. I didn’t know what to expect from this trip. But, I was ready.