“Hi. It’s me.”
The person on the line speaks in a flat, raspy tone. I have no doubt who’s speaking, though I hadn’t heard the voice in 10 years.
“Hi Dad,” I reply.
The last time I heard Dad’s voice, he was backing out of the driveway of our ramshackle house. He rolled down his window and leaned out. “Sayonara suckers!” he yelled. Mom and I watched as he gunned the engine and roared down the street.
As I wait for him to say something else, other memories flood in. When I was six years old, he bought me a BB gun. Mom had a fit and threatened to shoot him, but he shut her down. “I’m not planning on bringing up a sissy boy; I’m going to teach him to shoot.” That summer, we spent hours every Saturday morning shooting can, birds, and everything else that moved. Fortunately for the wildlife, I missed more than I hit.
My father worked as a mechanic in a run-down machine shop. He barely made minimum wage but could fix anything. Our car was a rust bucket rescued from a local junkyard, but it ran. My father would let me hold tools as he lay under the car, tightening and loosening whatever was required to keep the car in one piece. When we finished, he would drive down to the convenience store for $2 of gas and a 6-pack of Budweiser. I sat in the front seat, window down, and my head hanging out like a dog. Any seat belts had disappeared years before.
A half-forgotten song comes into my head, and I hear my father’s fine, baritone voice.
This world is full of trouble and woe.
This world is full of trouble and woe.
All I see is trouble everywhere I go.
I’m going to sing the trouble that I know.
This world is full of sadness and tears.
This world is full of sadness and tears.
I asked him once why he always sang that song, and he just shrugged. He wasn’t much of a talker, my dad.
Toward the end, things got bad between him and my mom. I remember early on when they would sit on the couch, me between them, and rock back and forth. Mom would say something funny about Mrs. Johnston, our mean neighbor, and Dad would slap his leg and nod.
But after he lost his job, my mom quit telling jokes. Dad would disappear for days, and when he returned, he wouldn’t tell Mom where he’d been. There was shouting and door slamming, and then he was off again.
Once, he returned and caught Mom and Mr. Turner in their underpants. Mr. Turner sure scooted fast out of the house without even pulling up his pants all the way. That’s when Dad packed up his clothes and left for good without even telling me he loved me.
Dad’s voice finally comes back on the line. “I just want you to know I’m dying and that I’m sorry for leaving you.”
I start to speak, but the phone goes dead. I stare into the receiver for a while and then walk into the kitchen for a Budweiser.
— opelikakat
The person on the line speaks in a flat, raspy tone. I have no doubt who’s speaking, though I hadn’t heard the voice in 10 years.
“Hi Dad,” I reply.
The last time I heard Dad’s voice, he was backing out of the driveway of our ramshackle house. He rolled down his window and leaned out. “Sayonara suckers!” he yelled. Mom and I watched as he gunned the engine and roared down the street.
As I wait for him to say something else, other memories flood in. When I was six years old, he bought me a BB gun. Mom had a fit and threatened to shoot him, but he shut her down. “I’m not planning on bringing up a sissy boy; I’m going to teach him to shoot.” That summer, we spent hours every Saturday morning shooting can, birds, and everything else that moved. Fortunately for the wildlife, I missed more than I hit.
My father worked as a mechanic in a run-down machine shop. He barely made minimum wage but could fix anything. Our car was a rust bucket rescued from a local junkyard, but it ran. My father would let me hold tools as he lay under the car, tightening and loosening whatever was required to keep the car in one piece. When we finished, he would drive down to the convenience store for $2 of gas and a 6-pack of Budweiser. I sat in the front seat, window down, and my head hanging out like a dog. Any seat belts had disappeared years before.
A half-forgotten song comes into my head, and I hear my father’s fine, baritone voice.
This world is full of trouble and woe.
This world is full of trouble and woe.
All I see is trouble everywhere I go.
I’m going to sing the trouble that I know.
This world is full of sadness and tears.
This world is full of sadness and tears.
I asked him once why he always sang that song, and he just shrugged. He wasn’t much of a talker, my dad.
Toward the end, things got bad between him and my mom. I remember early on when they would sit on the couch, me between them, and rock back and forth. Mom would say something funny about Mrs. Johnston, our mean neighbor, and Dad would slap his leg and nod.
But after he lost his job, my mom quit telling jokes. Dad would disappear for days, and when he returned, he wouldn’t tell Mom where he’d been. There was shouting and door slamming, and then he was off again.
Once, he returned and caught Mom and Mr. Turner in their underpants. Mr. Turner sure scooted fast out of the house without even pulling up his pants all the way. That’s when Dad packed up his clothes and left for good without even telling me he loved me.
Dad’s voice finally comes back on the line. “I just want you to know I’m dying and that I’m sorry for leaving you.”
I start to speak, but the phone goes dead. I stare into the receiver for a while and then walk into the kitchen for a Budweiser.
— opelikakat
Oooh, well done. That "Budweiser" at the end is an awesome touch. A really good capture of a type of family and person that I'm pretty sure you, the writer, are not. I could be wrong, though. What I also like is the absence of sentimentality. I mean, there are the memories that "flood in," but they are presented very simply. And the moment of silence on the part of the dad matches perfectly the rush of memories, or so it would seem. Also, it's either the phone service that's terrible, or the dad's communication skills have not improved in those ten years. There's a lot IN THIS PIECE!!! ---Macoff
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