The day I met my father it snowed from early morning until sunset. I worried that my mother would change her mind if the snow made it difficult to drive. But the salt trucks enabled our trip to be taken despite the flurries, and she kept her word. She always keeps her word.
People had begun putting up lights and a wide variety of
decorations on their front lawns to celebrate the Christmas season. I was particularly fond of the giant
inflatable characters recognizable from my favorite holiday cartoons. Two years earlier when my mother was
temporarily out of work and could not afford the presents I had asked Santa
Claus to bring, she confessed that he was only make believe. There was no man from the North Pole who gave
well behaved children whatever they desired.
The gifts I received were purchased with the money my mother worked hard
to earn. I could tell she would have
preferred for me to believe in Santa Claus a little longer, but there was no
way to avoid disappointing me in one way or another. I was not too young to understand that she
often sacrificed in order to provide for me.
It was obvious that she loved me very much, enough for two people, the
mother who took care of my needs and the father who was little more than a
rumor. That is, until the day I finally
met him.
I was nervous and excited and frightened and thrilled about
the idea of my first encounter with my father.
My mother rarely spoke of him, other than when I raised the
subject. On those occasions she would
pause for a few seconds before responding to my queries, unless they were the
kind that could be answered without judgment, such as how tall was he, or did
he wear glasses like I did. There were
no photographs of him in our house, so I would imagine what I thought he might
look like, then run to my mother for confirmation. She said I most strongly resembled my father
when throwing a temper tantrum, but I did not do that very often.
When replying to questions of personal opinion, I could tell
that my mother was being selective with her words. She did not have many nice things to say, but
did her best not to speak poorly of him either.
Sometimes I saw anger in her eyes, other times sadness, but she was
usually able to keep these feelings from her voice.
It did not take long to sum up all that I knew of my father
up until the day I set eyes on him at last.
I had been told that he was usually out of work and low on cash. My mother did not receive money from him for
my well being. In my nine years she had
given me four gifts that were said to be from him – a football, a basketball, a
baseball bat, and a Playstation video game.
I cherished each one of these items because they were seen as proof that
he loved me, and that one day we would be together like a father and son are
supposed to be. When I did not receive a
Playstation game system for my birthday, rendering the last of my father’s
gifts of little practical use, my mother was treated to one of my infrequent
tantrums. The sports stuff caused less
trouble, although I much preferred to draw superheroes or watch dinosaur movies
than play sports. This is something my
father would have known if he was around, or at least bothered to ask about my
interests. Despite such evidence that he
did not bother to find out much about me, I continued to inquire about him,
adding to my collection of information bit by bit.
I knew that he and my mother dated for six months, a period during
which she was unknowingly pregnant for half that time. Her announcement of my pending arrival
hastened the end of their frail relationship.
His various other girlfriends had been unhappily tolerated by my mother,
but the news that he would soon become a father was unacceptable to him. I like to pretend that the vegetables on my
dinner plate are pieces of chocolate in order to make my way through them. It almost works sometimes. Perhaps my father pretended that my mother
and I belonged to a vivid dream that he could put behind him when the sun was
out.
Some men are not comfortable around babies, according to my
mother. This was a notion I could sort
of understand. Babies frequently cry and
they’re pretty much helpless. They can’t
walk or talk very well, they need to be fed and dressed and cleaned up after. Babies are a great deal of work, especially
to someone who prefers to avoid having a job.
As I grew older and my curiosity about the ways of the world grew
stronger, I wondered with increasing frequency why my father did not visit me
now that I was big. My mother was either
unwilling or unable to answer this question for me, and although I prayed like
I was taught to in Sunday school, I did not learn what I wanted to know that
way either. As a last resort I took the
inadvertent suggestion of my best friend Pedro, who happens to be the smartest
kid in our class. He told me that
whenever he was trying to figure something out that nobody he asked knew, he would
go online and enter the appropriate search words into Google. Since he lives with both of his parents plus
three older brothers and four older sisters, Pedro has plenty of resources to
go through before heading to the internet.
My own set of circumstances being far different, at first opportunity I went
on my mother’s computer and tried to discover why my father continued to remain
at a distance from me. I received a
number of hits that appeared promising and printed out several web pages. Sadly, reading through them led to nothing
fruitful. Or so I thought. Three day later my mother sprung an enormous
surprise on me. We would be taking a
trip to
I eventually learned that my mother spotted the pages I had
printed out, reviewed, and tossed in a waste paper basket with much frustration. She realized what it was I had been trying to
find out through my Google search. It
was not the Santa Claus I once wrote letters to, the God I routinely prayed to,
or the internet I had desperately surfed that came through for me in the
end. Years later I would ask my mother
if my impatient desire to meet my father had hurt her feelings. She told me not to be foolish, that of course
she understood my longing. It was for
that reason that she went against her instincts and took me on a long car ride
as whiteness descended around us. I
would come to learn that this was the most difficult decision my mother ever
made. I would also understand one day
that innocence is precious first and foremost because it can only be lost once.
He took his time answering the doorbell. I feared he had changed his mind about
meeting me. Each second passed slower
than the one to precede it. I stared so
hard at the door that it was a wonder I did not succeed in looking straight
through it. Then suddenly it opened and
there he stood before me.
I have nearly every word my father spoke to me that day
committed to memory, which is not really saying much, because as it would turn
out, he did not have a great deal to say.
“Your mother says you wanted to meet me. Well here I am, in the flesh. What do you want to know, boy?”
I wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. There was too much information for me to take
in all at once. Instead of launching an
immediate interrogation, I scanned the small studio apartment for clues. I thought that his home might tell me a
little about who he was.
His furniture consisted of a shabby sofa with stuffing
spilling out of it and a coffee table that tilted to the right side. On the coffee table lay a scattered
collection of porn magazines, three long needles like you might find in a
doctor’s office, and an overflowing ashtray.
His television was playing with the sound barely audible and the picture
obscured by bars of static. The show
being broadcast appeared to be an old episode of Friends. Next to the sofa,
which I assumed doubled as his bed, an aquarium stood on a rusty stand. I had a goldfish bowl at home on my
nightstand. Our first common interest
seemed to have been found, but it did not strike me as being a worthy
conversation starter. That was because
my father’s ten gallon tank was half filled with greenish brown water, and four
dead fish floated on top of the muck.
Several half eaten Happy Meals from McDonalds were littered
about in every direction there was to turn, some of the remnants being dined on
by cockroaches. The room stunk like I
imagined Hell must smell like in the summer when the air conditioning wasn’t
working.
“You gonna say anything or what?”
I had envision that he would have an athletic build on
account of the sports related gifts he had sent me, but he was exceptionally
skinny. He wore a snug fitting tank top
and loose pair of jeans. His arms were
tracked with markings that I correctly guessed to have come from the carelessly
placed needles. My mother would later
explain that he regularly poisoned himself with heroin. Apparently the drug made him incapable of
staying hungry long enough to finish a Happy Meal.
“You momma has gotten her act cleaned up,” he said. “But ooh boy, back in the day she sure knew
how to have a good time. How about
giving me some sugar for old time sake, Natalie?”
“You will not kiss, or touch, or hit me ever again,
Jarvis. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah, I got it.
Can’t blame me for trying though.”
With his attention focused on my mother for the moment, I
allowed himself a long hard look at his face.
The shape of his mouth reminded me of my own when I stared in a
mirror. As far as I could tell, this was
all I owed him. It seemed unnecessary to
be grateful for such an arbitrary trait, and with this realization, my
curiosity evaporated. I now knew
everything I needed to know. He was
responsible for my existence, but this had become irrelevant to me.
“Merry Christmas, sir.
Can we go home now, Mom?”
“Yes, we certainly can.”
After waiting nine years to take a road trip of over two
hours, we left my father after a mere five minutes spent in his presence,
returning to the blanket of white that would accompany us home. I have not seen him since, nor have I had any
desire to. Just as I understood that the
seemingly unending snowfall would eventually cease and melt away completely in
time, I also realized as I stared out the car window that the things a boy
chooses to believe will not all become what he accepts to be true as a man.
I am sixteen now, and in three weeks I will become a
father. It does not take much to become
a father, as I have learned.
Considerably more effort has been required on my part to handle the
stress of the situation. Yet Jasmine and
I have managed to remain together and grow closer. When I first laid eyes on her sitting at a
window booth in Burger King, my father having permanently turned me off of
McDonalds, I sensed she would change my life.
My mother has always told me to trust my instincts, and on that day they
were dead on.
Perhaps Jasmine and I will get married someday, but we’re
taking one hurdle at a time, with diaper changing about to become the next one. I have not made the future any easier for
myself, but nonetheless, I do believe that I’m prepared for whatever lies
ahead. My mother has educated me well
about what it takes to be a decent and responsible man, and that should take me
pretty far in this world. As much as I
have learned from her up until now, I know there is still much she has to teach
me. I will absorb her lessons faithfully
and pass them down to my son. This
strikes me as being a solid plan.
I learned a great deal from my father as well, and it took
hardly any time at all. He showed me during
his brief presence in my life what not to become, even though it was what I
came from. For the remainder of my life
I will have no trouble remembering in perfect detail the day I met my father,
for it was also the day that I decided to let him go.
@mudhousebooks #ComingSoon #MattersOfConvenience #AudioBook #Amazon #booktok ♬ Listen to the Music - The Doobie Brothers
R.I.P. legend. Before I switched to rooting for the perpetual underdog #Jets - it seemed the only teams to choose from were either America's team Cowboys, the blue collar Steelers, or the Raiders if you fancied yourself a rebel. I chose the Steel Curtain b/c of guys like Franco. https://t.co/T5b1A1Xnk2
— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) December 21, 2022
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