Dad Leaves
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: A father makes his own bad luck.
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I think childhood is, generally speaking, a preparation for disappointment. – Seamus Heaney
My Dad was making his last visit before he left for Rochester. He claimed he had a great job lined up there, but Mom didn’t believe him. She gave him permission to see my brother and me before he set out for a place that sounded far off and exotic to us. Almost 6 months had passed since she’d thrown him out of our apartment for drinking, and we’d only seen him twice since then.
We’d spotted Dad down on Baskins Street coming out of a bar. He was half in the bag but caught sight of us before we could hide. Neither Chris nor I wanted to be around him when he was on the bottle. The other time we saw him was on Easter. He came by with a big basket of hard boiled eggs that he said he’d won playing darts over at Muldoon’s Saloon. Mom said it was the only time he came out of that gin joint with something besides empty pockets. But later she threw them out saying that only God knew how old they were.
When Dad showed up to say goodbye, he was sober, and we were really happy about that. We knew Mom would blow her top if he even smelled of booze. He had on a clean white shirt and smelled of Old Spice Aftershave. That scent is something I always liked and still do today, although I don’t wear it myself––too old world . . . and cheap. At least that’s how I think of it. My wife says that when drugstores stock men’s cologne they do so as a quick fix for customers who’ve been up to no good. Indeed, she and Mom saw eye-to-eye on most things.
“Hey, there, Billy and Chris. Whoa, I think you guys grew a foot since I saw you,” said my Dad, ruffling our hair as we stood in the doorway.
At first, we both felt a little awkward around him, but we were still glad to see him.
“So, you going to invite me in? Your Mom wants me to visit you here instead of going out some place. Where is she, by the way?”
Mom said she didn’t want to see him, so she stayed in her room during the visit. We escorted Dad into the front room and sat on the couch across from him.
“She can really be hard-headed . . . that woman. Well, who needs to see her anyway, right?” said Dad, with a half-smile.
We didn’t respond, and, to our relief, Dad changed the subject. We didn’t like him saying stuff about Mom, any more than when she said stuff about him. But they nearly always ended up saying something mean about each other.
“Well, your old Dad has got a great new job and is leaving this afternoon on the Greyhound. Not crazy about living in upstate New York, but it’s a good opportunity.”
“How long does it take to get to Chester, Dad?” asked my little brother.
“Rochester, Chris. Oh, I’d say about six hours, depending on how many stops the bus makes.”
“Will you come back to visit us?” I asked.
“Heck, yes. I wouldn’t abandon my boys. Did your Mom say I wasn’t coming back? Don’t listen to her. You’re my sons, and I’m not going to just disappear on you.”
“Can we come see you in Ches . . . I mean, Rochester, Dad?”
“Sure, maybe when I get situated. Haven’t got a permanent place there yet. But as soon as I do, I’ll talk to your Mom about coming out. It’ll be up to her though. She’s not too keen on me being alone with you boys. I don’t know what she thinks will happen. I’m not going to drink anymore, if that’s what she’s all riled up about.”
“Mom doesn’t like you to drink, Dad,” said Chris.
“We don’t either,” I added.
“Well, I’m not. And you can tell her that, since she won’t see me so I can tell her myself.”
For the next half hour, we exchanged small talk, mostly about what we’d been up to and his new job selling tires at his friend’s store.
“You remember, Bernie? He was here last year. He gave you boys money when the ice cream truck came around.”
I did recall that, but mostly what I remembered was my Dad and his friend getting pretty loaded and my mother being really pissed about it. A few months later, my Dad moved out while we were sleeping.
“He’s opening a second store, and your old man may manage it . . . if all goes according to plan.”
My brother and me nodded our approval, and while I figured Chris was genuinely impressed by the prospect of our father being a big deal boss, I couldn’t help but think that this would not go according to plan. Nothing really ever went according to plan with him.
“Well, I guess I better get going so I don’t miss my bus.”
“Where’s your suitcase, Dad?” I asked.
“Left it in a locker at the depot instead of carrying it around,” he answered, rising from his chair.
I wondered if he even had a suitcase, because he had a leather shaving kit with him, which I figured would have been stored in the locker, too. Despite my doubt, I said nothing, and walked him to the door.
“Now you guys be good for your Mom. Don’t get in any trouble. Won’t be able to visit you in jail, if you do.”
It was at that point my little brother began to cry.
“Hey, fella, no blubbering, okay? I’m not going forever. Billy, you tell your Mom I’ll be back to visit real soon. And tell her to let you guys come and visit me in Rochester. Would you like that, Chris?”
“Yes,” he gulped, wiping the tears from his cheek.
“You take care of your little brother, Billy. You’re the man of the house while I’m gone.”
The sound of the word gone made me choke up a little, too, but I didn’t let on that I was also upset that he was leaving for a place I was certain I’d never see.
“I will,” I said, putting my arm around my brother to console him as much as to console myself.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you soon . . . all right, you two?” he said, patting both of our cheeks.
“Bye, Dad,” mumbled Chris, backing away.
“Tell your old lady I’ll be in touch with her soon.”
With that he left. Just two months later he was back saying the job in Rochester didn’t work . . . according to plan.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A father makes his own bad luck.
_____________________________________________________________________
I think childhood is, generally speaking, a preparation for disappointment. – Seamus Heaney
My Dad was making his last visit before he left for Rochester. He claimed he had a great job lined up there, but Mom didn’t believe him. She gave him permission to see my brother and me before he set out for a place that sounded far off and exotic to us. Almost 6 months had passed since she’d thrown him out of our apartment for drinking, and we’d only seen him twice since then.
We’d spotted Dad down on Baskins Street coming out of a bar. He was half in the bag but caught sight of us before we could hide. Neither Chris nor I wanted to be around him when he was on the bottle. The other time we saw him was on Easter. He came by with a big basket of hard boiled eggs that he said he’d won playing darts over at Muldoon’s Saloon. Mom said it was the only time he came out of that gin joint with something besides empty pockets. But later she threw them out saying that only God knew how old they were.
When Dad showed up to say goodbye, he was sober, and we were really happy about that. We knew Mom would blow her top if he even smelled of booze. He had on a clean white shirt and smelled of Old Spice Aftershave. That scent is something I always liked and still do today, although I don’t wear it myself––too old world . . . and cheap. At least that’s how I think of it. My wife says that when drugstores stock men’s cologne they do so as a quick fix for customers who’ve been up to no good. Indeed, she and Mom saw eye-to-eye on most things.
“Hey, there, Billy and Chris. Whoa, I think you guys grew a foot since I saw you,” said my Dad, ruffling our hair as we stood in the doorway.
At first, we both felt a little awkward around him, but we were still glad to see him.
“So, you going to invite me in? Your Mom wants me to visit you here instead of going out some place. Where is she, by the way?”
Mom said she didn’t want to see him, so she stayed in her room during the visit. We escorted Dad into the front room and sat on the couch across from him.
“She can really be hard-headed . . . that woman. Well, who needs to see her anyway, right?” said Dad, with a half-smile.
We didn’t respond, and, to our relief, Dad changed the subject. We didn’t like him saying stuff about Mom, any more than when she said stuff about him. But they nearly always ended up saying something mean about each other.
“Well, your old Dad has got a great new job and is leaving this afternoon on the Greyhound. Not crazy about living in upstate New York, but it’s a good opportunity.”
“How long does it take to get to Chester, Dad?” asked my little brother.
“Rochester, Chris. Oh, I’d say about six hours, depending on how many stops the bus makes.”
“Will you come back to visit us?” I asked.
“Heck, yes. I wouldn’t abandon my boys. Did your Mom say I wasn’t coming back? Don’t listen to her. You’re my sons, and I’m not going to just disappear on you.”
“Can we come see you in Ches . . . I mean, Rochester, Dad?”
“Sure, maybe when I get situated. Haven’t got a permanent place there yet. But as soon as I do, I’ll talk to your Mom about coming out. It’ll be up to her though. She’s not too keen on me being alone with you boys. I don’t know what she thinks will happen. I’m not going to drink anymore, if that’s what she’s all riled up about.”
“Mom doesn’t like you to drink, Dad,” said Chris.
“We don’t either,” I added.
“Well, I’m not. And you can tell her that, since she won’t see me so I can tell her myself.”
For the next half hour, we exchanged small talk, mostly about what we’d been up to and his new job selling tires at his friend’s store.
“You remember, Bernie? He was here last year. He gave you boys money when the ice cream truck came around.”
I did recall that, but mostly what I remembered was my Dad and his friend getting pretty loaded and my mother being really pissed about it. A few months later, my Dad moved out while we were sleeping.
“He’s opening a second store, and your old man may manage it . . . if all goes according to plan.”
My brother and me nodded our approval, and while I figured Chris was genuinely impressed by the prospect of our father being a big deal boss, I couldn’t help but think that this would not go according to plan. Nothing really ever went according to plan with him.
“Well, I guess I better get going so I don’t miss my bus.”
“Where’s your suitcase, Dad?” I asked.
“Left it in a locker at the depot instead of carrying it around,” he answered, rising from his chair.
I wondered if he even had a suitcase, because he had a leather shaving kit with him, which I figured would have been stored in the locker, too. Despite my doubt, I said nothing, and walked him to the door.
“Now you guys be good for your Mom. Don’t get in any trouble. Won’t be able to visit you in jail, if you do.”
It was at that point my little brother began to cry.
“Hey, fella, no blubbering, okay? I’m not going forever. Billy, you tell your Mom I’ll be back to visit real soon. And tell her to let you guys come and visit me in Rochester. Would you like that, Chris?”
“Yes,” he gulped, wiping the tears from his cheek.
“You take care of your little brother, Billy. You’re the man of the house while I’m gone.”
The sound of the word gone made me choke up a little, too, but I didn’t let on that I was also upset that he was leaving for a place I was certain I’d never see.
“I will,” I said, putting my arm around my brother to console him as much as to console myself.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you soon . . . all right, you two?” he said, patting both of our cheeks.
“Bye, Dad,” mumbled Chris, backing away.
“Tell your old lady I’ll be in touch with her soon.”
With that he left. Just two months later he was back saying the job in Rochester didn’t work . . . according to plan.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com