My father loves ritual and ceremony but has very few things to be ritualistic or ceremonial about. Now he had this play, and these tickets. He couldn’t help himself. First he went out and picked up Chinese takeout—General Tso’s chicken and shrimp fried rice for everyone.
He sat us all down at the very small table in our kitchen. We never eat at the table, because it’s cramped with more than two people sitting at it. That night, though, he insisted we eat together as a family. He even served us himself, which is a thing that had never happened before. To my mom he said, “See? I got paper plates so you don’t have a bunch of dishes to wash up later.” He said it with a perfect American accent.
My mom didn’t respond. We should’ve taken that as a sign.
As soon as we were done eating, he stood and held a plain white envelope up in the air like it was a trophy.
“Let’s see what we have for dessert,” he said. He made, and held, eye contact with each of us in turn. I watched as my mom cut her eyes away from him before he moved on to Peter and then to me.
“My family. Please do me the very great honor of coming to see me perform the role of Walter Lee Younger in the Village Troupe’s production of A Raisin in the Sun.”
Then he opened the envelope slowly, like he was at the Academy Awards announcing the Best Actor category. He took out the tickets and handed one to each of us. He looked so proud. More than that, he looked so present. For a few minutes, he wasn’t lost in his head, or a play, or some dream fantasy. He was right there with us, and he didn’t want to be somewhere else. I’d forgotten what that was like. He has this gaze that can make you feel seen.
There was a time when my father thought the world of me, and I really missed it right then. More than that, though? I missed the days when I thought the world of him, and thought he could do no wrong. I used to believe that all it took to make him happy was us, his family. There are pictures of me from when I was three wearing a MY DAD IS THE COOLEST T-shirt. On it there was a father penguin and a daughter penguin holding hands, surrounded by icy blue hearts.
I wish I still felt that way. Growing up and seeing your parents’ flaws is like losing your religion. I don’t believe in God anymore. I don’t believe in my father either.
My mother kissed her teeth when he gave her the ticket. She might as well have slapped him. “You and you foolishness,” she said, and stood up. “You can keep you ticket. I not going anywhere.”
She walked out of the kitchen. We listened as she walked the twenty steps to the bathroom and slammed the door with all her might.
None of us knew what to say. Peter slumped in his chair and hung his head so you couldn’t find his face under his dreadlocks. I just looked at the space where she’d been. My father’s eyes disappeared behind his dreaming veil. In his typical denial-of-reality way, he said:
“Don’t worry ’bout you mother. She don’t mean it, man.”
But she did mean it. She didn’t go with us. Even Peter couldn’t convince her. She said the ticket price was a waste of her hard-earned money.
On the night of the show, Peter and I took the subway alone to the theater. My father had gone ahead to get ready. We sat in the first row and didn’t mention the empty seat next to us.
I want to be able to say now that he was not good. That his talents were only mediocre. Mediocre would explain all the years of rejection. It would explain why he gave up and retreated from real life and into his head. And I don’t know if I can see my father clearly. Maybe I’m still seeing with my old, hero-worship eyes, but what I saw was this:
He was excellent.
He was transcendent.
He belonged on that stage more than he’s ever belonged with us.
Area Teen Pretty Sure Day Can’t Get Worse, Is Wrong About That
My dad’s with a customer when I walk in. His eyes tell me that he will have many things to say to me later.
I might as well give us some more to talk about.
It’s just after the lunch rush, so the store’s pretty empty. There’s only one other customer—a woman looking at blow dryers.
I don’t see Charlie cleaning or restocking any of the shelves, so I figure he must be slacking off in the stockroom in the back.
I’m not even nervous. I don’t give a shit if he beats my face in, so long as I say what I have to say first. I drop my jacket outside the stockroom door and turn the handle, but it’s locked. There’s no reason for it to be locked with him in it. He’s probably jacking off in there.
He pulls the door open before I can pound on it. Instead of his usual sneer, his face is a combination of tired and defensive. He must’ve thought it was my dad trying to get in.
As soon as he sees it’s just me, his face goes into full superior asshole smirk. He makes a show of looking over my shoulder and around me.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” He says girlfriend like it’s a joke, the way you would say a word like booger.
I stand there looking at him, trying to figure out not how we’re related, but why. He pushes past me, deliberately bumping into my shoulder.
“She dump you already?” he asks, after taking a quick look down a couple of aisles to verify that she’s really not here. His shit-eating grin is firmly in place.
He’s baiting me, I know. I know it, and still—I’m letting the hook pierce me like some dumb fish that’s been hooked a billion times before and still hasn’t figured it out yet that hooks are the enemy.
“Fuck you, Charlie,” I say.
That catches him off guard. He stops smiling and takes a good look at me. My tie and jacket are missing. My shirt’s untucked. I don’t look like someone who has the Most Important Interview of His Life in a couple of hours. I look like someone who wants to get into a fight.