My second story.
This one is a first draft so feel free to tear into it, any problems, inconsistencies, likes/dislikes, let me have it.
I don't even have a title for it yet, but here it goes. Also, if you haven't checked it out yet, go two posts back and read Walking With Your Eyes Closed, pretty please.
Today I am meeting my new stepfather for lunch.
This would be much easier to handle if maybe I was a twelve year old. If I was a child this would just be a simple lunch with a well meaning man who wants to play dad. This would not be so weird if I wasn't thirty-seven years old, if I didn't have an eight year old boy of my own.
Last night my mother calls me, tells me she has good news. She met someone, a man. It's been thirty years since my dad died and she hasn't even look at a man since then. All of a sudden she meets a man and they start dating. On a whim they get married. She's old, she tells me. She doesn't have time for an engagement.
My new stepfather is sixty-five years old. My mother told me he made a lot of money off of investments a few years back. I don't know if he wants to give me money, but I know the last thing I need is a father. My son, he's the one who needs a father.
I didn't want to come, being here is the last place I want to be. I don't need some old man to tell me he's my new dad.
The lunch hour crowd starts to arrive, plenty of people to overhear our conversation. Maybe I'll get up to go to the bathroom and someone who was listening will follow me in and make some joke about me an my new dad. Some overweight guy eating alone is going to come stand at the urinal next to mine, invade my privacy and say something like why don't you go play catch with your new daddy?
I've already ordered a vodka tonic. It's barely even noon but my nerves are shot. My leg keeps shaking and my fingers keep fidgeting. I'm even acting like a little kid I can't keep still. I want to smoke a cigarette and I don't even smoke. Maybe pop a valium and wash it down with some vodka. That way my new stepfather could tell me whatever he'd want and I'd sit there with a drugged up grin on my face struggling just to sit upright.
Anything but this.
This is my first time meeting the man. My mother sent me a picture of them on some Caribbean beach. I have to admit, she did look happy. When I looked at him all I could think was, you're not my dad.
My wife is the one who pushed me to come meet him. She said that even if I didn't like him we're probably set for when our son goes to college. She kissed me on the cheek and put her hand around me, running her fingers through the hair on the back of my head. I caved, like I always do and agreed to the meet but made no promises.
My stepfather is almost twenty minutes late, already he's making a bad impression. The vodka tonic is running low and I don't want to order another one. I'm the good dad, the responsible dad. The dad who shows up on time. My son has a father, a luxury I never had. I never got to do all of those father-son things with my dad so I make sure my son gets to at every chance. Baseball games, fishing, camping. I do it for him as much as I do it for myself, it's a learning experience for the both of us.
Twenty minutes late exactly and he walks in, chatting up the hostess. I can see from across the restaurant that he's wearing a white suit with a pale blue dress shirt. I've never seen anyone in a white suit before except at weddings when the wife insists on a white tux for the husband.
The hostess points in my direction and he starts walking toward me. I take the last sip from my vodka and brace myself with a warm, greeting smile. I figure it's only polite to start off lying.
He approaches the table, reaching out his hand.
"I'm Gregory Archibald Amherst and it's a pleasure," he says to me. Not standing up I put my hand in his and give a firm shake. For a man of his age his grip is surprisingly tight. He speaks with a hint of a German accent.
We start with small talk. The waitress comes by, he orders a drink, brandy, and I order water. Silence as we look at our menus and then we order food.
"Your mother says wonderful things about you. She says you own your own business?" He sits with his elbows on the table, hands clasped, resting his chin on his hands. I tell him I used to own a business. A friend and I invested in a restaurant and when things were going good I sold my share.
He tells me I have a keen eye for business. He actually uses the word keen. We go back and forth like this for a while and I can tell it's the only thing he's really interested in talking about. He's attentive while I talk about a risky stock market investment I made that eventually led to the house my family now lives in. He wants to give me the number of his broker but I have to refuse him twice before he lets it go.
The food arrives and I'm getting tired of small talk. I know he didn't come here to talk investments all afternoon.
"Why did you marry my mother?" My gaze is clear and direct. I want answers and I want to leave.
"She's an amazing woman. We met on a golf course down in Palm Springs. I saw her and I knew we were meant to be together."
"Shouldn't a man like you be chasing around twenty year olds with rich fathers?"
"Yes, if I'm foolish. My playboy days are behind me. I'm not looking for just a good time. I was looking for love, a companion, someone to share these last years with. I know this isn't easy for you but your mother and I are in love."
He hasn't touched his food and I'm quickly losing my appetite for mine. I notice he has rings on his finger, the kind of big gaudy rings you expect to see on Jersey mobsters. The stones are so big I want to ask if they're rubies. The top button of his shirt is undone and a tuft of silver hair pokes out. A thick silver chain wraps around his neck and disappears into his shirt.
"I know what you're thinking, you think I want to be your new father. You've had a father, your mother told me, and I could never replace him, nor would I want to. I will not refer to you as my son or even my stepson. You are the son of my wife and nothing more." This throws me off. I was expecting something different, something more along the lines of him wanting to be part of the family, mother, father and son. I start to regret not ordering that second vodka tonic.
He continues, "Your mother is a fantastic woman and has a real taste for enjoying life. She's so vibrant, a quality that so few women her age have. She wants to see the world, it's a passion she's always had but the complications of family have kept her from doing so her entire life."
I'm confused. "What are you getting at, are you two going on a trip, is that was this is all about? A honeymoon or something?"
"A honeymoon, you could call it that. I know this is going to be alarming. I'm going to give your mother her dream, something she could never do before. We're going to travel the world but not just a simple honeymoon weekend. We plan to be gone for months, years maybe."
My appetite has left completely and my food is still untouched. I drop my fork onto my plate and it lands with a loud clatter. I take the unused napkin from my lap and wipe my mouth even though I haven't had anything to eat. What I'm doing is stalling, anything to keep me from having to talk to this man.
"Excuse me for a moment," I say. I get up and walk with urgency to the bathroom. I don't even have to go but it was the quickest getaway that came to mind. I stand at a urinal and try to go anyway. A man comes in, overweight and balding. He's probably here alone and he probably followed me because he thought of something snappy to say. He even stands at the urinal next to me. I stare straight ahead at the tiled wall, too nervous to go to the bathroom. A nervous sweat starts to bead on my brow and I want to tell the guy to get it over with so he can have his funny moment and go back to eating alone. He flushes, doesn't wash his hands, and leaves. I stand for a moment, holding myself, feeling my body relax little by little. My face relaxes last and I can feel the blood rushing back. I zip up and wash my hands.
On the walk back to the table I notice the man from the restroom. He's seated with a family. Him, a wife, two children. I want to go up and apologize, that I got him all wrong. I want to tell his infant children that they have a good father even though I know nothing about him.
Gregory is still seated, taking small, careful bites of his food. Maybe he has dentures and he doesn't want them popping out in the middle of chewing his food. I imagine him as any regular old man. Beneath the rings and fancy suit is just any old guy with fake teeth, a problem with gas and an erection he can't get without pills.
He's also the old man who is stealing my mother. I grew up without a father and now I have to grow old without a mother.
I sit down and place the napkin on my lap even though I'm still not hungry.
"I'm not trying to be rude. I'm not stealing your mother from you. This was all her idea really. She just wanted to spend some time doing something that she wanted. You should respect your mother for that. Think of how your mother feels. You may have grown up without a father but she raised you without a husband. She did the work of both parents and you turned out beautifully. She deserves the break, you should respect that."
Part of me wanted to yell at him, to stand up and create a scene. Everyone in the restaurant gazing with a voyeuristic pride. I'd yell, "you're not my dad," and storm out of the restaurant, Gregory looking like a fool, a restaurant full of people looking at him with disappointed eyes as if they all feel exactly the same way I do.
The other part of me agrees. My mother has never been on vacation, not until this year when she moved to Florida to one of those active senior communities. Even I tried to stop her from doing that. I wanted her close to me and my son. I couldn't imagine a life without her to guide me along.
Gregory sits upright, classy, a man who knows his manners and follows them at all times of the day. He looks at me like he's waiting for an answer. He wants to know if I approve or not. Maybe if I say no he'll agree and not go globetrotting with my mother.
"She's always needed a break," I say. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy for me, but it's not my decision. If my mom wants to see the world I'm not going to get in the way." The words sting a little as they come out. My mother's new husband is taking her away to the far reaches of the globe and I'm giving it my blessing. There's a bad taste in my mouth that I think another vodka tonic would clear up.
It becomes clear to me why my mother wanted me to meet him so bad. She didn't have the heart to tell me that she was going away, that she was leaving me to follow a dream of hers. I know she'll be in Italy, France, Spain, and she'll send me postcards with famous landmarks on the front. She'll write about how happy she is, how she feels alive and free. Each time she'll say she loves me and my family. Who am I to tell my mother what to do?
This man is not my father. He is not my stepfather. There is a marriage license that says he is my mother's husband but he has nothing to do with me and wants nothing.
I go to reach for my wallet but Gregory stops me and offers to pay. I put up no argument. I lie and say my son has a baseball game and that I can't miss it. He nodded, maybe sensing that I was just looking for a way to get out. I want to say something. To tell him to take care of my mother, maybe something threatening like if he hurts her I'll track him down. I have enough trouble finding the dog when he runs out of the backyard let alone finding some German halfway across the world.
I give him a pathetic wave goodbye and make my way for the door.
I want to rush home, to take my wife and son into my arms, hold them tight, and tell them that I will never leave them.
This one is a first draft so feel free to tear into it, any problems, inconsistencies, likes/dislikes, let me have it.
I don't even have a title for it yet, but here it goes. Also, if you haven't checked it out yet, go two posts back and read Walking With Your Eyes Closed, pretty please.
Today I am meeting my new stepfather for lunch.
This would be much easier to handle if maybe I was a twelve year old. If I was a child this would just be a simple lunch with a well meaning man who wants to play dad. This would not be so weird if I wasn't thirty-seven years old, if I didn't have an eight year old boy of my own.
Last night my mother calls me, tells me she has good news. She met someone, a man. It's been thirty years since my dad died and she hasn't even look at a man since then. All of a sudden she meets a man and they start dating. On a whim they get married. She's old, she tells me. She doesn't have time for an engagement.
My new stepfather is sixty-five years old. My mother told me he made a lot of money off of investments a few years back. I don't know if he wants to give me money, but I know the last thing I need is a father. My son, he's the one who needs a father.
I didn't want to come, being here is the last place I want to be. I don't need some old man to tell me he's my new dad.
The lunch hour crowd starts to arrive, plenty of people to overhear our conversation. Maybe I'll get up to go to the bathroom and someone who was listening will follow me in and make some joke about me an my new dad. Some overweight guy eating alone is going to come stand at the urinal next to mine, invade my privacy and say something like why don't you go play catch with your new daddy?
I've already ordered a vodka tonic. It's barely even noon but my nerves are shot. My leg keeps shaking and my fingers keep fidgeting. I'm even acting like a little kid I can't keep still. I want to smoke a cigarette and I don't even smoke. Maybe pop a valium and wash it down with some vodka. That way my new stepfather could tell me whatever he'd want and I'd sit there with a drugged up grin on my face struggling just to sit upright.
Anything but this.
This is my first time meeting the man. My mother sent me a picture of them on some Caribbean beach. I have to admit, she did look happy. When I looked at him all I could think was, you're not my dad.
My wife is the one who pushed me to come meet him. She said that even if I didn't like him we're probably set for when our son goes to college. She kissed me on the cheek and put her hand around me, running her fingers through the hair on the back of my head. I caved, like I always do and agreed to the meet but made no promises.
My stepfather is almost twenty minutes late, already he's making a bad impression. The vodka tonic is running low and I don't want to order another one. I'm the good dad, the responsible dad. The dad who shows up on time. My son has a father, a luxury I never had. I never got to do all of those father-son things with my dad so I make sure my son gets to at every chance. Baseball games, fishing, camping. I do it for him as much as I do it for myself, it's a learning experience for the both of us.
Twenty minutes late exactly and he walks in, chatting up the hostess. I can see from across the restaurant that he's wearing a white suit with a pale blue dress shirt. I've never seen anyone in a white suit before except at weddings when the wife insists on a white tux for the husband.
The hostess points in my direction and he starts walking toward me. I take the last sip from my vodka and brace myself with a warm, greeting smile. I figure it's only polite to start off lying.
He approaches the table, reaching out his hand.
"I'm Gregory Archibald Amherst and it's a pleasure," he says to me. Not standing up I put my hand in his and give a firm shake. For a man of his age his grip is surprisingly tight. He speaks with a hint of a German accent.
We start with small talk. The waitress comes by, he orders a drink, brandy, and I order water. Silence as we look at our menus and then we order food.
"Your mother says wonderful things about you. She says you own your own business?" He sits with his elbows on the table, hands clasped, resting his chin on his hands. I tell him I used to own a business. A friend and I invested in a restaurant and when things were going good I sold my share.
He tells me I have a keen eye for business. He actually uses the word keen. We go back and forth like this for a while and I can tell it's the only thing he's really interested in talking about. He's attentive while I talk about a risky stock market investment I made that eventually led to the house my family now lives in. He wants to give me the number of his broker but I have to refuse him twice before he lets it go.
The food arrives and I'm getting tired of small talk. I know he didn't come here to talk investments all afternoon.
"Why did you marry my mother?" My gaze is clear and direct. I want answers and I want to leave.
"She's an amazing woman. We met on a golf course down in Palm Springs. I saw her and I knew we were meant to be together."
"Shouldn't a man like you be chasing around twenty year olds with rich fathers?"
"Yes, if I'm foolish. My playboy days are behind me. I'm not looking for just a good time. I was looking for love, a companion, someone to share these last years with. I know this isn't easy for you but your mother and I are in love."
He hasn't touched his food and I'm quickly losing my appetite for mine. I notice he has rings on his finger, the kind of big gaudy rings you expect to see on Jersey mobsters. The stones are so big I want to ask if they're rubies. The top button of his shirt is undone and a tuft of silver hair pokes out. A thick silver chain wraps around his neck and disappears into his shirt.
"I know what you're thinking, you think I want to be your new father. You've had a father, your mother told me, and I could never replace him, nor would I want to. I will not refer to you as my son or even my stepson. You are the son of my wife and nothing more." This throws me off. I was expecting something different, something more along the lines of him wanting to be part of the family, mother, father and son. I start to regret not ordering that second vodka tonic.
He continues, "Your mother is a fantastic woman and has a real taste for enjoying life. She's so vibrant, a quality that so few women her age have. She wants to see the world, it's a passion she's always had but the complications of family have kept her from doing so her entire life."
I'm confused. "What are you getting at, are you two going on a trip, is that was this is all about? A honeymoon or something?"
"A honeymoon, you could call it that. I know this is going to be alarming. I'm going to give your mother her dream, something she could never do before. We're going to travel the world but not just a simple honeymoon weekend. We plan to be gone for months, years maybe."
My appetite has left completely and my food is still untouched. I drop my fork onto my plate and it lands with a loud clatter. I take the unused napkin from my lap and wipe my mouth even though I haven't had anything to eat. What I'm doing is stalling, anything to keep me from having to talk to this man.
"Excuse me for a moment," I say. I get up and walk with urgency to the bathroom. I don't even have to go but it was the quickest getaway that came to mind. I stand at a urinal and try to go anyway. A man comes in, overweight and balding. He's probably here alone and he probably followed me because he thought of something snappy to say. He even stands at the urinal next to me. I stare straight ahead at the tiled wall, too nervous to go to the bathroom. A nervous sweat starts to bead on my brow and I want to tell the guy to get it over with so he can have his funny moment and go back to eating alone. He flushes, doesn't wash his hands, and leaves. I stand for a moment, holding myself, feeling my body relax little by little. My face relaxes last and I can feel the blood rushing back. I zip up and wash my hands.
On the walk back to the table I notice the man from the restroom. He's seated with a family. Him, a wife, two children. I want to go up and apologize, that I got him all wrong. I want to tell his infant children that they have a good father even though I know nothing about him.
Gregory is still seated, taking small, careful bites of his food. Maybe he has dentures and he doesn't want them popping out in the middle of chewing his food. I imagine him as any regular old man. Beneath the rings and fancy suit is just any old guy with fake teeth, a problem with gas and an erection he can't get without pills.
He's also the old man who is stealing my mother. I grew up without a father and now I have to grow old without a mother.
I sit down and place the napkin on my lap even though I'm still not hungry.
"I'm not trying to be rude. I'm not stealing your mother from you. This was all her idea really. She just wanted to spend some time doing something that she wanted. You should respect your mother for that. Think of how your mother feels. You may have grown up without a father but she raised you without a husband. She did the work of both parents and you turned out beautifully. She deserves the break, you should respect that."
Part of me wanted to yell at him, to stand up and create a scene. Everyone in the restaurant gazing with a voyeuristic pride. I'd yell, "you're not my dad," and storm out of the restaurant, Gregory looking like a fool, a restaurant full of people looking at him with disappointed eyes as if they all feel exactly the same way I do.
The other part of me agrees. My mother has never been on vacation, not until this year when she moved to Florida to one of those active senior communities. Even I tried to stop her from doing that. I wanted her close to me and my son. I couldn't imagine a life without her to guide me along.
Gregory sits upright, classy, a man who knows his manners and follows them at all times of the day. He looks at me like he's waiting for an answer. He wants to know if I approve or not. Maybe if I say no he'll agree and not go globetrotting with my mother.
"She's always needed a break," I say. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy for me, but it's not my decision. If my mom wants to see the world I'm not going to get in the way." The words sting a little as they come out. My mother's new husband is taking her away to the far reaches of the globe and I'm giving it my blessing. There's a bad taste in my mouth that I think another vodka tonic would clear up.
It becomes clear to me why my mother wanted me to meet him so bad. She didn't have the heart to tell me that she was going away, that she was leaving me to follow a dream of hers. I know she'll be in Italy, France, Spain, and she'll send me postcards with famous landmarks on the front. She'll write about how happy she is, how she feels alive and free. Each time she'll say she loves me and my family. Who am I to tell my mother what to do?
This man is not my father. He is not my stepfather. There is a marriage license that says he is my mother's husband but he has nothing to do with me and wants nothing.
I go to reach for my wallet but Gregory stops me and offers to pay. I put up no argument. I lie and say my son has a baseball game and that I can't miss it. He nodded, maybe sensing that I was just looking for a way to get out. I want to say something. To tell him to take care of my mother, maybe something threatening like if he hurts her I'll track him down. I have enough trouble finding the dog when he runs out of the backyard let alone finding some German halfway across the world.
I give him a pathetic wave goodbye and make my way for the door.
I want to rush home, to take my wife and son into my arms, hold them tight, and tell them that I will never leave them.