Saturday's Storyteller: Father's Day

by Belinda Roddie

It wasn't much different each year - save for, perhaps, the type of beer he ordered, or his selection of sauces to go with his buffalo wings, or the brand of cigarettes he smoked outside while waiting for me to pay the check. Sometimes, on the drive downtown, he'd choose the radio station instead of me, or he'd hold off on using my cup holder as a makeshift ashtray until after we ate. Besides slight changes, it was always the same routine: Dinner at Langford's, before grabbing a six pack from the 5th Street Drugstore and making our way back to his condo.

We were always pretty casual for Father's Day. We liked it that way. My father would have refused anything else. He was never a fancy guy, but that wasn't a bad thing; not everyone appreciates the formal shit. I sure as Hell didn't, so we fit right in at the corner booth close to the bar, ignoring the latest sportsball game while I had my typical Bleu cheese burger and my dad ordered his naked wings.

"No blonde tonight," he told the waiter one year, referring to one of the many varieties of wings one could order at Langford's. "I've already got a naked blonde waiting at home."

This, of course, made the waiter feel incredibly awkward. I found it amusing. My dad never brought women home anymore.

This year, we sat at the bar, which was, again, another typical alteration from time to time. Sometimes, my father and I preferred to chat with each other out of the sides of our mouths, rather than staring at each other dead on like we were squaring up for a sheriff's duel outside the saloon. It was also earlier than we usually went out - 4 PM, and still hot as balls out on the asphalt. I was already nursing my second beer, my eyes focused on the brass spigots toward the back of the bar. My father was perusing the menu - an obvious ruse, given that he already knew what he was going to order - and was filling me in on a porn video he had watched online two nights before when he was feeling lonely. His synopsis was crass, sharp, and to the point - much like how he was as a person. And he was also being very, very loud.

"So, get this," he was telling me. "The woman in the video - beautiful, by the way, with a gorgeous badonkadonk - say, do the kids use that term anymore, by the way? Badonkadonk?"

"Dad, I'm thirty-seven." I took a long swallow of my stout. "Also, no."

"Well, what do they say, then?"

"I dunno. Just 'ass,' I guess?"

"Well, anyway. The woman lets this plumber in, and she decides to do a little laundry in the other room. Strips down to nothing when she's in there and dumps her clothes into the washer, because plot."

"Right. Because plot."

"So," my father continued, using air quotes, "she 'accidentally' leaves the door open, 'cause that's what beautiful bimbos like her do in these videos, right? And in comes the plumber, with his tool box and everything, and he's got the fiercest hard-on I ever did see in my life. I mean, either the prosthetic they got him was amazing, or he was hiding an anaconda in his fucking shorts."

At this point, the waiter interrupted us to take our orders. I got my Bleu cheese burger - medium rare, like I always liked. My dad got the buffalo wings with ranch this time. He told the waiter he was in a "ranch mood," whatever that meant. Then he called for another round and got back to his porn summary.

"Oh, yeah," he added, "the dude was wearing shorts. And just right there, in that little laundry room, they go to fucking town."

"Definitely sounds like a setting in a porno," I sneered. "'Fucking Town.'"

"Right. And they are doing everything, very enthusiastically. While the washer is running, too. So that sexy girl gets propped up there and has a seriously good time."

"I wonder if the washing machine did a better job than the plumber did."

"It's a simple plot. Leaves room for viewer speculation, I guess."

This was a conversation I was accustomed to having with my dad. My mom had died four years ago, so I figured the man was pretty lonely. Still, he never wanted to remarry. He spent time with his guyfriends who worked with him at the car shop, worked on his models and his old automobiles in front of his condo, and called me occasionally when it wasn't Father's Day. And, of course, he watched a lot of adult films. I wasn't going to judge the 72-year-old man next to me when I clearly had my own nonsense to deal with. The recent news: My divorce was finalized, and I got weekend visits to see my son, which was more than I could have ever hoped for.

The food came out quickly, which was something I always liked about Langford's, and my father and I ate in relative silence. Even today, I was amazed at how white my dad's hair had gotten. Still, it was incredibly long and thick, tied back in its usual ponytail, a few separate strands mingling next to his stubble-starred jawline. He was halfway into his array of chicken wings by the time I had three bites of my burger. His metabolism was something I was always envious of - the man never got fat. Come to think of it, he looked thinner than when I had last seen him, which was Christmas. Paler, too. Like he hadn't gotten a whole lot of sun.

It was true that I didn't see my father as often as maybe I should have. To be fair, I had a lot to deal with: My wife leaving me, my kid wanting nothing to do with me, my friends abandoning me because they took my wife's side instead of mine. It wasn't that I was a bad person or a drunk or a do-nothing - my wife and kid were just more sympathetic to people. And while a couple of my buddies stuck around, I felt like it was mostly because they didn't know my family that well. The divorce had been consuming me for two years by this point, and I had almost lost my job over it because of all the stress and anxiety. Now it was over, and now I could possibly spend more time with the guy who cared enough to aim properly while having fun with my mother.

Yeah, I could be as crass as my dad, too.

"So, look," my dad suddenly spoke with a mouthful of poultry, which startled me enough to nearly drop my burger. This was new. He usually never said anything until there were only bones on his plate. "You and me gotta talk."

"Sure. We were talking earlier."

"No, no, hon," said my dad. His face was solemn now. Again, something new. "I mean we gotta talk. About something important, you know."

"Something important" could have meant a number of things in this situation. Sometimes, the important thing was a new car show that my dad wanted to invite me to, so we could argue over whether or not the T-Bird or the Mustang was a better product from Ford. Or he was going to ask me about money, since he always seemed to think I needed it. Whatever the important thing was, it was easily resolved most of the time, or he dropped the chat when he sensed that I didn't want to talk about it anymore. It was similar to last year, when he asked about the divorce. I was not in the mood to go into detail at that point in time.

"Okay," I said, reaching for my half-finished third beer. "What's up?"

My dad was now staring straight ahead. His voice was low, for once, as it slipped out of the side of his mouth. "Have I ever shared my will with you?" he asked.

My pint glass stopped inches away from my lips. I gave my father a confused look. Above my head, screams from the TV signaled a goal or a touchdown or a home run extravaganza. I wasn't paying attention.

"I don't think so," I replied. "Why?"

"We may as well go over it," said my dad. "After dinner. There are a few things I need to evaluate. Like my condo, and its market value. As well as the cars and the other antique stuff with your sister..."

"Whoa, Dad, hold up," I interrupted. "Why are we talking about your will?"

Now it was my father's turn to look at me. He had been averting his gaze as if he were ashamed or nervous, and now, I was beginning to realize it was more about resignation than worry. His eyes looked almost crystalline in the light from the ceiling lamps.

"C'mon, kiddo," he murmured. "I think you know why."

And that was when he told me. He told me as the early dinner rush began and the bar started getting busier. He told me as his food got cold, and I lost all sense of appetite. He told me as he drank his beer and scratched at the nape of his neck - bony now, I realized. And I tried to absorb it all, but it was difficult.

He told me everything. But quietly now, almost too quiet for me to hear without leaning closer to him. When he was done speaking, he picked up the rest of his IPA and drained it. Then he beckoned for the bartender to come over.

"Do me a favor," he said. "You got any good whiskey?"

"Sure, we got a ten year old Scotch."

"Pour me and my kid two highballs," my father commanded. "We'll pay whatever the charge."

The bartender went to fetch the bottle, and in the meantime, I was struggling to piece everything together like a clunky, dark puzzle. I felt my dad's hand settle on my shoulder. Every callus and scar and bump chafed the bare skin of my arm.

"So," he said. "I'm obviously gonna ask you to find me a plot. Nothing too pricey - your mother wouldn't want that. But I ain't going through cremation like she is. Bad for the environment, you know."

I felt my mouth go dry. "You're thinking about the environment right now?"

"At this point," my dad retorted, "it's easier to think about anything else but this."

The bartender set down two glasses of murky Scotch in front of us. It smelled like oak dipped in acetone, but I drew that odor into my nose like it was incense. We picked up our glasses and held them up.

"Six months," I uttered. This was definitely a different Father's Day. The last one, too.

Then, to his credit, my dad grinned. "Let's make this Father's Day the best one I've ever had."

Then we each took a sip of whiskey, and we felt the little worlds inside our stomachs burn.

This week's prompt was not provided by anyone; rather, I decided to go with a Father's Day theme. Of course, none of this is autobiographical - my father is healthy, happily married, and not exactly a big whiskey drinker (though he does like his bourbon). He's one of the best men I've ever known, and I'm grateful to be celebrating another Father's Day with him.

That being said, I'm sure you're all aware of the horrors going on in the United States as migrant children are being separated from their parents at the border. The atrocity of this policy, combined with the fact that neither the orange maggot nor his administration will own up to it, has moved me to tears and made me realize that I cannot take my own father or family for granted. I will be celebrating with my father tomorrow, but I will also be spreading awareness of this issue and ensuring that if you want to help, you can.

Voting blue in the midterm elections this year, in every state, is vital to ensure a Congress that can hold this bigoted and heartless administration accountable for their actions. You can also help by donating to or volunteering for organizations who assist deportees and their families. Click the link here to see a list of resources and groups to connect to so you can make a difference.

Regardless of how you feel regarding illegal immigration, no family deserves the pain and suffering of being separated from their child with no way of knowing if they will ever see them again. This is the United States as its ugliest, and that's saying something, considering its history. We may all be emotionally drained and exhausted by the horrors we've witnessed. But we cannot, and will not, give up.