End Up Here

I didn’t mean to end up at the bar, especially not at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. When I walked through the doors, I steeled myself for the familiar smell of stale beer and fried food. It still made my stomach churn.

When I had finally arrived in the small town of Hollow Way, Ohio earlier that day, I couldn’t make myself go to the place I had originally intended. It’s like my mind checked out and my body took over. 

Now, inside, I ducked my head and made a beeline for the barstools. I sat alone and ordered a water, then promptly avoided looking at the glasses of cocktails and beers around me as if just glancing at the alcohol would be a sin. The bartender eyed me while he polished some glasses.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” he said. “I’m Buck.” He looked at me expectantly, apparently waiting for a reply. 

“Trevor,” I said shortly, then shoved my hands in my pockets. 

He looked like he wanted to say more but was trying to figure out how to say it. Finally, he said, “How long?”

I didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. My nerves made it too obvious.

“Three years,” I said, then took another gulp of my water. I realized I was sweating.

The bartender nodded appreciatively and continued polishing. He was a big guy with an impressive auburn beard, one I could never even dream of achieving. 

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he said, “but three years is a long time, you know?”

I knew what he meant. I nodded back at him and left it at that. I didn’t have the energy to explain to him that I wasn’t my father, that I wouldn’t break my sobriety and find myself wasted and stranded at the bar. 

But then why was I there? 

Although I wouldn’t admit it to myself, I think I liked the familiarity of going to a bar. It had once been a place of comfort to me, or at least a place for me to forget about my worries for a bit. 

“Daddy issues,” a woman three stools down from me said to the bartender. I choked on my drink and nearly spit it out.

“You okay?” she asked, her eyebrows pulling together in concern.

“Fine, fine,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “I think I heard you wrong.”

“You probably didn’t,” she laughed. “Daddy issues. It’s what the drink is called.”

I needed to get a grip. I was a grown man afraid of seeing my own father, if that’s what I could call him. A father who took to the bottle every night until I was six years old, then up and left. 

My mother had told me stories about him. Nasty, terrible stories. I think she wanted me to stay away from him, to never try and track him down. And it had worked, too, for a while, anyway.

But now that I was older and wiser, I wanted him to see me. To see the man I had become. It took me years to work up the courage, and I was finally ready. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t ruin my life, that I had made something of myself despite his lack of parenting. I wanted to hurt him like he had hurt me.

I came armed with pictures of my children in my wallet: two beautiful blonde boys with blue eyes and missing front teeth. 

Next to them was my business card. I was promoted to Lead Car Salesman at Allen’s Automotives just last month. I could use that against him too.

I stared down at my kids’ photos and wondered how much of me other people saw in them, how much of my dad people saw in me. The people in the bar might have been able to pinpoint whose son I was just by looking at me. It was a small town, and I’m sure they all knew my father. 

Unfortunately, I inherited a lot from him, from his green eyes to his alcoholism. But I wasn’t going to become him. Despite the fact that he had passed on his issues, I was thriving. Sure, I was a car salesman, but it was good money. And even though my wife had left me two years ago, we had two great kids together. 

I downed the last bit of my water and slid the glass over to the bartender. He raised his eyebrows like he was asking me a question. 

I shook my head and steeled myself. I needed to do this. I needed to go now or I never would. 

On the drive over, I turned on the radio and flicked through the stations. I heard somewhere that singing could help ease your nerves, so I was hoping to find a song I liked, or at least tolerated. Most of the stations, however, had obnoxious radio hosts gossiping about the latest celebrity news.

I switched off the radio and sat in silence the rest of the way there.

When I finally pulled up to 402 Greenfield Lane, I immediately thought I had the wrong house. A woman I didn’t recognize came outside with a bag of garbage, heading to the trash cans at the end of the driveway.

Damn. Now how was I going to find him? This was the last address my mother had for my father.

Something that might have been relief flooded through my chest. A release of tension in my muscles. I had an excuse not to face him. I could go home with my head held high and say I tried.

But before I could leave, a man came outside and caught up with the woman, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently grabbing the bag from her. He was shaking his head and saying something I couldn’t hear.

Then the woman smiled shyly and let him take the garbage bags. As he walked to the trash bins, I studied him.

His hairline was further back than I remembered and he was about 30 pounds thinner, but it was definitely him. His features reflected mine: the round nose and square jaw. There was no mistaking it. 

I took in the view of the house. It was small, like all the others on the street, but it was nice. The lawn was well-kept and there was wicker furniture on the front porch. I couldn’t remember ever having patio furniture as a child. 

I also wondered about the woman who had walked outside. Was she his girlfriend? Maybe even his wife?

I couldn’t shake the way he gently took the garbage bag out of her hands to take them to the bins himself. When he was with my mother, he never lifted a finger. 

He was clearly taking better care of himself, too. His beer gut was gone. 

I shook my head, confused. This wasn’t the man I remembered as a kid. Had I been remembering him wrong all this time? Had he actually been a decent guy and my child's mind exaggerated the drinking? 

No, that couldn’t be right. My mother had told me those horrible stories, after all. 

I glanced back at the man I shared DNA with. He looked happy. Healthy. 

I was envious. Was his life better than mine? Did he have to move away from me and my mom in order to be happy?

I sat with the car idling, having an internal battle. Was my father’s happy ending at the expense of mine?

No, I was happy. Right? My kids, my job…. Suddenly my need for retaliation felt like a need for validation, instead. 

I should go tell him, I thought. I should go tell him that he didn’t ruin my life, that I let him go a long time ago. That I didn’t even think about him anymore.

But before my father turned around to walk back to his house, he saw me and we locked eyes. It took a second for him to place me, but then he knew who I was. I could tell. At that moment, it felt like he knew a lot more truth than I did. 

My face flushed. Out of embarrassment or anger, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both. 

I stared out the window for a few moments and tried to piece together my thinking. My dad was only a few feet from me, but instead of the burning rage I expected to feel, I felt ashamed, suddenly afraid that he knew why I was there. 

He gave me a faint nod, and I knew I wasn’t going to get out of my car. I might have known it all along. If I was trying to earn his approval after all these years, this small gesture felt like an affirmation. It also meant that I was reevaluating the man I thought I was. 

I tucked the pictures of my kids and my business card back into my wallet. 

Then, I gave my father one last look and put the car in drive.