One Hundred Twenty Seconds: It's the Only Difference

Exactly twenty-two years to the day I was born on his birthday. December 31, 1991. My dad, Alexander Daikos Galatas I, entered the universe on December 31, 1969. Not only were we born on the same day twenty-two years apart, but we were also nearly born within the same two minutes. But, we were afforded a tad more distance. My dad was born at 11:29 PM and I came into the world at 11:31 PM. Yes, we shared the same birthday almost exactly. Only one hundred twenty seconds separated us. Two people, divided, yet locked in perpetuity by opposing sides of the same minute. A day later my parents signed my birth certificate – Alexander Daikos Galatas II. At least I had “II” at the end of my name.

             When I was six weeks old, my mother passed. Hit by a drunk driver while crossing the street. I had no other grandparents, except for my mother’s mother, Nevaeh. (Nă-vī-a). It was the name she had chosen to be called as my grandmother. Nevaeh is heaven spelled backwards. She had said, “Grandchildren are a touch of heaven here on this earth.” I loved her for that and because of my mother’s early death, we became quite close.

I grew up in my father's diner, The Daedalus. As soon as I could stand, speak several hundred English words and many fewer Greek words, I was put to work at The Daedalus. Everyone who came in to eat was welcomed by my father. I would toddle next to him and he would proudly pass out the menus and say, “Μυ σον! Μυ Μίνι με!“ Or, to those who couldn’t speak Greek, “My son! My Mini me!”. He would tousle my curly, sandy hair. I would look up, way up, with my dark brown, almost black eyes, and smile with adoration. At three, I wanted to be just like my father. So much so that once, when I was five, I took the white oil paint my grandmother was using as part of the breaking ocean waves in her picture and squeezed it into my hair. My father was prematurely gray. When I walked out of Nevaeh’s painting studio, she did not find my behavior funny. She called my father, I could hear his booming laughter through the landline. My grandmother wrapped my head in a towel and brought me to The Daedalus. 

“Here you go.” She gently pushed me towards my father. “Alexander number one, you get the oil paint out of Alexander number two’s hair. I have a painting studio to clean.” She walked out the door and left behind my still laughing father, and my oil-haired self.

My father looked at me with his chestnut eyes and put his hand on my shoulder. “Ah, I needed her help tonight.” He shrugged. “But better that I should have you.”

  That was the first time I realized I didn’t like working at the Daedalus. With the paint still in my hair I brought plates of food to customers we knew. My father explained to each table we went, “You see my Alexander Daikos Galatas II? He wants to be just like his old man. He does.” My father smiled and, chuckled and the patrons laughed as my father told the story with a little embellishment each time. Early in the evening he told a table of friends that I had wanted to paint my hair because I thought it would continue to grow in that way, just like his father’s. Later he told a table that I took a picture of him off the living room table because he wanted to try and emulate him. Each time he told a story about me everyone laughed. They thought I was “cute”, “adorable”, “sweet”, and one woman with bright red (or orange) hair decided that my father was the best of all fathers, since I clearly wanted to be just like Alexander Daikos Galatas I! I was embarrassed that my father himself, and his friends, laughed at me. That's when I decided that if I didn't work at The Daedalus no one could laugh at me. I loved my father, but sometimes I felt more like I was someone for him to get a good laugh from. And so, I no longer enjoyed going to The Daedalus as I once did. But, I didn’t want to hurt my father’s feelings either. I loved him.

It wasn’t until late that night when my father finally had me sit outside on a chair. “Ramon!” He bellowed. “Shave my son’s hair.”

“No Papa! I don’t want it cut!” I began to cry.

“My son.” He patted my shoulder. “Being a man is not to simply put paint on your hair. In time, you will look like me. You are my son. You have my name, and one day, you will have the diner.”

“But Papa.” I wanted to tell, "I don't want to be exactly like you. I want to be me."

He interrupted. “Quiet my son. It is late. Let Ramon finish so we may go home.”

It was best to keep quiet. I’m not even certain I could have explained what I was feeling. Not my five-year-old self. At least I could not have explained without hurting his feelings.

Time passed and I grew into a young man – a young Alexander Daikos Galatas II. By the time I was sixteen I rode my bike to The Daedalas every day after school. I learned many classic Greek dishes, such as, – tzatzki, falafals, dolmades, moussaka, or spanakatapita. By the time I was eighteen I was taught to recreate paidakia, koulouriakia, moussaka, and so much more. Often, I was called to a specific table who enjoyed my food. I was given many compliments. Most of them offered the compliment by telling me how well my father taught me, or that I was a good learner and my father a good teacher. Although, I could not help but feel more than a little delighted that I was able to bring a smile to the faces of our patrons,; I was always a little squashed inside because it was not really my compliment. It was always a shared compliment. One might think I was a happy youngster, following in my father’s footsteps. But truthfully, Alexander Daikos Galatas I, and Alexander Daikos Galatas II had little in common.

The great poet William Arthur Ward said, “Happiness is an inside job.” I believed Ward’s quote, but I did not believe it represented me. Who could be happy when one does not have the opportunity to live the life we were meant to live? Who can be happy when one is not given the opportunity to experience all that life can offer? Who could be happy living a dream deferred? Who could be happy living the dream of another?

I wanted to go to college. “What do you need that for?” My father asked.

“Let him go.” Nevaeh tried, to no avail.

“What do you want to go for?”

I fidgeted with my fingers. “Uhm . . .”

“What?” Clearly aggravated. “Finance? Business? Cooking?” He looked at me and counted out what he thought were my options on his fingers. “I know all that stuff. And now you do too. Almost. You just need a few more years. Maybe eight?” He shrugged. “Then I can retire and it’s yours. All of it.” He spread out his arms to indicate the amount that I would be given. “You don’t even have to wait till I retire. Who gets something like this?” He walked up to me and with his thumb and forefinger under my chin he squeezed and lightly shook my head back and forth. “I’ll tell you who. My prince. My prince Icarus.” His light brown eyes smiled. “You haven’t burned your wings yet. I trust you won’t.”

I smiled. What could I say? The truth? “You’re right Dad.”

“But Alexander.” Nevaeh tried.

I held up my hand. “No Nevaeh. Dad’s right.” I lied through my smile.

And so, some-odd years later, Christmas week, I was working at the diner when one evening a few of my old high school friends stopped in at The Daedalus. It was only nine o’clock or so, but people were tired from their shopping, cooking, and entertaining. The Daedalus only had a few tables.

They called to me. “Alexander! Come join us old friend!”

I looked around. There were only three tables that were filled, and I called to Franco and my father. “Hey you two got this?” They smiled and nodded. Franco throwing his washrag over his shoulder.

I went over to my friends’ table and took their orders first, and then added mine to the list. I handed it Franco and went to my friends. “Hey, let’s go to the back. There’s a big table and has ten chairs.”

Finally, we all seated and began catching up. What I noticed most was that all of them went to college. ALL of them. Sergio was an attorney, married, and had a daughter. Frank worked for Avon as a scientist. He created scents, but also worked on anti-ageing creams, and hand lotions. Victor was an accountant with a son and two daughters. Michael had a dual degree in philosophy and theology and at that time was attending seminary school to become a Catholic priest – his passion. Then there was Arthur. Arthur had two sons and a degree in history. But couldn’t find a job in his field, or in anything he liked, for that matter. He decided to try his hand a becoming a certified personal trainer and a certified life coach. Within his first year he made in the low six figures and that night at The Daedalus he was making enough to build a four thousand square foot home in Tuxedo, NY, and buy himself Mercedes SUV.

They asked me about myself, and I readily lied. Lying about my happiness came easy to me. I had been doing it for much of my life. I told them that Nevaeh had sold a few of her oil paintings and had her first show coming that spring. I told them my father was only working three days a week now and that I now owned The Daedalus. But inside I began to hope, just a little. If they could do something they wanted, maybe, just maybe, so could I. My tiny hope began to grow a quick as a summer squash.

My father came by and refilled our wineglasses. He poured one for himself and sat.

“Hey Mr. G! Alexander says you’re working three days a week now. Good for you!” Victor offered.

My father raised his eyebrows and nodded his head in pride. “Alexander always wanted to take over the business. You know after Alexander’s mother, Sophia, died, I thought maybe he was doing it ‘cause I was lonely. He was all I had left of her. Sure I had Sophia’s mother, Anna, but it’s not the same. You understand.”

“Of course.” Sergio leaned in a little closer.

“I’m grateful for Anna, of course. Without Alexander having his Nevaeh living with us, maybe he would’ve turned out different. I’m lucky God gave him to me. He’s a good boy, my Alexander. Always wanted to be just like me.” My father had tears in his eyes. “Always wanted to be just like me. He’s a gift from God I tell ya. I gift from God.” He lifted his glass and we all followed. “To my son Alexander Daikos Galatas II. God’s gift. My joy, my love, and my pride. I love you my son.”

Victor slapped me on the back. “Alexander! Looks like you got everything you ever wanted.”

“Yeah,” Sergio added. “You were the only one who knew what he wanted to be when we were growing up. I always envied that!” He smiled broadly; my other friends agreeing.

I decided then and there to bury my squash. To cover it with dirt and never water it again.

“Yassou!” My father said and put his arm around me.

“Cheers!”

“To your health Dad!”

I wondered if I could get too close to the stove. To burn my wings. 

Written by:

Cheryl E. Martin