130 Days with Dad

February 2^nd:

My son moved back home today.

I couldn’t believe it when I saw him rolling down the driveway in the passenger seat of his roommate’s car. The thing was packed to bursting with cardboard boxes. Unfolded shirts and clothes hangers stuck through holes in them like cheese through a grater.

I met Joseph as he got out of the car. His caramel-brown hair was tied up in a messy bun. That was new. We exchanged pleasantries, and he introduced me to Mark, who'd offered the use of his car while Joseph’s was getting some bodywork done. Mark kept calling him ‘JT’ for some reason, but I decided it was best not to bring that up then. The basement door was locked, so I had to rush inside and open it for them. I’d forgotten in all the excitement.

By the time we finished unloading, I was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Bags and boxes were stacked atop several plastic bins. Against the far wall was Joseph's bike, a newer one I hadn’t seen before. He told me it was a custom model he’d built for competitions. I wasn’t aware there were any competitions around here.

I offered the boy his room back, but he said the guest room in the basement was fine. He wasn’t planning on staying long.

February 8^th:

I left the school around 6:00 PM. It’s a lot easier for me to grade there than at home.

When I did get home, there were cars in the driveway. One was in my space next to Joseph’s freshly painted El Camino, and the others were packed all the way down to the road. I ended up parking in the ditch.

Raucous laughter was coming from the basement. I made myself a sandwich and grabbed a glass of water before turning on the TV. The occasional shout echoed through the house, so I turned up the volume.

Eventually, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Joseph emerged and grabbed a few beers from the fridge before retreating into the basement. I asked if those were his friends downstairs. He laughed and said they were. He apologized for the racket and promised they would keep it down. They wouldn’t be here much longer, he said. I could smell the cheap alcohol on his breath from across the room.

I got into bed around 9:30. Homeroom started early, and I needed some time to water my garden first. Periodically, a noise rose from the depths of the house, but I tried my best to ignore it.

After thirty minutes of failed attempts to sleep in various positions, I texted Joseph: Please keep the noise down. I’ve got work in the morning.

I checked the text 10 minutes later. Unread.

A shattering sound came from downstairs. I sighed and rolled out of bed. That would be a bottle no doubt. I didn’t trust the boys to clean it up properly without hurting themselves, so I grabbed a broom and dustpan on my way down.

The lights stung my eyes as I opened the door to the basement. I could hear Joseph and his friends jabbering back and forth. One of them spotted me and pointed me out to Joseph while the others turned back to the basketball game on TV. Crushed beer cans, pizza boxes, and bags of chips littered the wooden floor. Joseph met me halfway up the stairs. He lost his balance a few times as he rushed to intercept me.

I tried to identify what had produced the noise I had heard. I leaned over the staircase past Joseph and, despite my weariness, spotted the back of a picture frame. I immediately knew which one it was. I became… agitated, let’s say.

He promised they were about to go. I wasn’t so quick to believe him this time. I asked him to tell them to leave now as I had work in the morning and needed sleep. This home was not meant for drunkards. If they wanted to party, they could do it elsewhere. Joseph begged and pleaded, but eventually, he relented. He was not happy about it. Neither were his friends.

In the morning, I found a penis spray-painted on the side of my car.

February 9^th:

Dad was not happy today. Apparently, somebody tagged his car last night, and he was stuck cleaning it off which made him late.

I would’ve done it for him or at least helped him, but he wouldn’t let me. I caught him running back and forth between the house and the car with water and soap and rags, but when I asked what he was doing, he just sighed and said it was nothing. His clothes were soaked. I texted the group chat to find out who did it, but nobody would fess up.

When Dad got back, I apologized and asked if he wanted me to make dinner for him, but he insisted on doing it himself. The man has mastered the cold shoulder; I’ll give him that.

I spent the day cleaning out the basement and reformatting my resume. I need to buy a new picture frame too. Or maybe I can get the broken one repaired? I’ll figure something out.

He really scared me last night. I think he thought the picture of us and Mom at the pumpkin patch when I was a kid got damaged. I caught him staring at it the other day when I got back from a bike ride. He was holding it all tight in his hands like he might never see it again if he let go.

I’ve been trying to see if there are any marketing positions available around here, but I haven’t had much luck. That fast food place around the corner is probably my best shot at a paycheck for now.

I don’t want to burden Dad any more than I already have.

February 14^th:

Dad finally let me make him dinner tonight.

I think he was just too tired to do it himself. He came in the door talking on the phone with somebody. I think it was Uncle Luis, but he went to his room before I could be sure. When he came out, I asked if I could make him dinner for the seventh time, and I guess the old man got tired of saying no.

I fixed up some spaghetti and meatballs. Mom’s favorite. An appropriately romantic dish for two bachelors on Valentine’s if I do say so myself.

We didn’t talk much aside from the standard how-was-your-day type stuff. I told him I had an interview at the fast-food place on the corner. He nodded a little and offered a small verbal acknowledgment before returning to his food. He doesn’t like to talk about work at home apparently, although it could just be that he’s out of practice.

I suppose I’ll take small talk and silence over micromanaging every aspect of my life if I must, but I’m not sure it’s much of an improvement. At least he cared before. Maybe he cared a little too much, but he did care.

When we were done, I cleaned the dishes and watched him shuffle off to bed.

He didn’t use to shuffle like that.

March 6^th:

It’s midnight, and Joseph still isn’t home. I haven’t heard from him either, despite my best efforts. The boy’s probably out with those friends of his again. I understand what it’s like to be a young man with the world stretched out in front of you, but I also know how dangerous that world can be. I thought Jill and I taught him that, but it seems the boy forgot somewhere along the way.

He mentioned something about looking to trade his El Camino for a Plymouth Barracuda now that it’s all cleaned up, so maybe he’s doing something with that. He’s been working on that old thing for a year or two in hopes of reselling it, but I couldn’t tell you what all he’s done to it. I’ve never been too car-savvy.

When he was a kid, he was always asking to go to car shows. We went to quite a few, but I never absorbed much of the lingo. Joseph was like a sponge though, always talking about pony cars and how many cylinders were in each car’s engine based on nothing but a glance. Now, he just comes inside covered in sweat and grease and doesn’t say a word.

Headlights pierced the window around 1 AM. I’d passed in and out of sleep several times by then. Bonanza was playing on the TV, and old Ben was talking about his wife, but I’d lost track of which one.

Joseph came in the room looking more than a little sheepish. Evidently, he went out drinking with his friends at a sports bar and his phone had died over the course of the night. The game had gone into double overtime, and by the time he made sure his friends got home safe, it was already past midnight. He still looked a little unkempt.

With what little energy I had, I told him that as long as he was living here, he needed to keep me in the loop. I couldn’t do this every night, and while I appreciated his consideration in not hosting a party in my basement, I still needed him home at a reasonable hour. I couldn’t sleep otherwise. It was affecting my ability to teach.

He wasn’t pleased with this arrangement. He’s coming home earlier, but he’s started avoiding the front door and coming in through the basement instead. I see him do it sometimes when I’m out working the garden. He glances in my direction but stays silent. I wonder where he learned to do that.

March 13^th:

I got the picture frame repaired. It was more expensive than I thought it would be, but it looks pretty good. There’s a small seam on the left side of the frame where it broke when it hit the ground, but you can only really see it if you’re looking for it.

Curfew sucks. I gotta text Dad by 9 to let him know what I’m up to and that I’ll be back soon, or he’ll throw a fit. I don’t even go out that often; I just don’t want the old man breathing down my neck all the time. I’m almost 30. What I get up to on my own time is none of his business, even if I am living here temporarily.

He really hasn’t changed much. When I was a kid, he was always trying to get me to join clubs and sports teams at school. He went to every PT conference and was always asking about my grades and how classes were going. Planning for college started before I even hit high school. Mom did her best to temper him, but he was relentless. Maybe that’s why he’s in the garden all the time.

A customer threw a milkshake at me today as a prank. I didn’t find it that funny. I mean, it was a little funny, not exactly original though. This old guy who works there, Allen, helped me get cleaned up. He said I remind him of his grandson and offered to cover the rest of my shift for me. Nice dude. At that age, it seems like you either become the softest person in the world or the hardest. I hope I’m like Allen when I get to be that old, assuming I live that long.

Dad doesn’t know about the milkshake. I’m not sure we’ve spoken more than two words to each other since last week. I think we’re both just waiting for the other to break the silence.

March 16^th:

I found a note on the counter when I got home today. It sat next to what looked like a couple hundred dollars.

Dad’s handwriting was sloppier than usual. The note read: “Aunt Cathy is in the hospital again. The doctors are saying she doesn’t have long. I don’t know when I’ll be home. Please water the plants.”

I called his cell, but he didn’t pick up.

March 26^th:

Dad rang the doorbell at 9:57 PM.

I sprinted upstairs and opened the door for him. He looked terrible. The bags under his eyes had become dark pools. He lumbered into the house without a word. I asked him if he was okay and how Aunt Cathy was, but he just said he was too tired to talk and went to his room.

I checked on him 15 minutes later. He was lying on top of his sheets fully clothed, fast asleep. I gently slid his shoes off his feet and placed them by the door. I wasn’t sure what else to do.

April 6^th:

Dad’s been real quiet since he got back, like scary quiet.

I want to say something to him, but I’m not sure what. I guess I’m just hoping there’s a magic incantation of words I can string together that will make him okay, but I’m not sure he could accept them from me even if I did know the words.

When I come home from work, I usually find him in the garden out front, but I haven’t seen him there since he got back. Nowadays, he’s either reading in the living room or absent-mindedly watching TV. I’ve continued watering the plants, but the garden is already starting to look a little worse without Dad’s hands to nourish it. I guess mine will have to do in the meantime.

May 1^st:

Big news! I got a job with an insurance company as their marketing director!

Well, I’ve got an interview, but the guy I talked to said it’s just a formality, so I basically have a job. I should be able to move out soon if I find the right place.

I told Dad about it. He smiled and congratulated me which I found kinda surprising. It’s always been hard to get a grin out of him, but he seemed genuinely happy as far as I could tell. I thought he might ask me to stay a little longer. I think he’s been having trouble eating lately. I can see it in his face. I hope this will be the thing to bring him out of his funk.

Maybe it’s just me, but it’s so weird to think that your parent and your aunts and uncles grew up together. It just feels like they’ve always been the way they are. It’s even weirder to think that one of them is dead.

It must be worse for him.

May 9^th:

Dad joined me in the garden today. I was having trouble with a particularly deep-seated weed, and he helped me yank it out. He asked if I wanted any help, and I was happy to oblige him. Gardening is no joke I’ve come to realize.

The way he tended to the plants was completely different from the way I did it. He talked to them and tenderly brushed their leaves. It was kinda beautiful in a way, watching a man who had lost as much as Dad take care of something that needed him.

He asked me if I’d lined up any deals. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he clarified that he was talking about the Barracuda. I was surprised he remembered what it was called. I told him there was a guy about an hour away who was willing to trade his for my El Camino. We hadn’t set a date yet, but it would hopefully be within the month. In response, he just nodded and said “Cool,” before getting back to work.

Y’know sometimes—emphasis on sometimes—my old man is kinda cool.

June 3^rd:

It’s the end of the school year. Dad’s looking a little better now, although he constantly has this bittersweet look on his face that he always has this time of year when his students graduate. I’m not sure why, because most kids that age are insufferable. Maybe it’s like the garden; he just sees things in a way I can’t.

We’ve been having dinner together. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Last night, Dad actually expressed interest in going cycling with me sometime. I told him he’d have to get his own bike because mine wasn’t built for two, and he laughed and laughed.

My job’s been going well, although my boss insists on including puns in every campaign I pitch. The pay’s been more than adequate for me to move out and to tolerate the boss’s quirks. I’m planning on moving into the new place on Sunday. My friend Jared is gonna go 50/50 on rent with me.

Much like when I left for college, it’ll be nice to be out of Dad’s hair and his line of sight, but—though I hate to admit it—I might just miss him this time. That is one thing I did not expect to pack up and bring with me when I first showed up here.

June 5^th:

My son drove away in his El Camino for the last time today.

He was gone most of the afternoon, taking his boxes and bins and that awful man-bun with him. But around 9 PM, just as I was getting ready to turn in, headlights burst through the windows. There in the driveway sat a shiny clean first-generation Plymouth Barracuda.

JT hopped out and ran up the steps to the house. I opened the door, and he held up the keys with a mischievous smile. “Wanna try?”

I’ve never been very car-savvy, but something must have possessed me that night because right then, the only thing I wanted to do was get in that car and drive with my boy until the sun rose.