Busted (9 page)

17

I
t's been two months since I've seen my dad, although he only lives twelve miles away. Like most realtors, he shows open houses on the weekends, and I can't say I've felt much of an urge to see him, anyway. Until now, that is.

Over the last two weeks my life has taken several strange turns for the better, but I can't share the good news with the two people I talk to the most: Mom and Abby. They'd both freak out and they'd both hate me and I'd still have to face them every day. This is just the kind of situation where absent, adulterous fathers come in handy.

He's supposed to pick me up at lunchtime, but lunchtime comes and goes and we don't hear from him. Mom pretends that nothing is out of the ordinary because she tries not to badmouth Dad to my face, but by four o'clock I call his cell phone to tell him that she's dropping me off at his house. He doesn't answer, which means he's ignoring me because he always keeps his cell phone on. I leave a message telling him I'll be there in half an hour.

I know it kills Mom to have to drive me over to his new home. It's actually his girlfriend's house, but by the time he admitted to his extracurricular activities, he'd pretty much moved in there already. It's in a new, suburban gated community for middle-class people who believe that everyone's out to get them. Dad must feel quite at home.

When we pull up to the gates, I'm surprised to see that he's already waiting for me. He waves halfheartedly and wanders over to our car. Mom gets out before I can stop her.

“Hey, Kevin,” says Dad. “We'll be heading right out, okay? Things to see, people to do, you know.” He laughs at his own wit. “Hello, Maggie.”

He swoops in to peck Mom on the cheek, but as he does she sniffs the air suspiciously.

“Have you been drinking, Darrell?”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Just drop it, okay?”

“No, I won't drop it. You know I don't like you driving when you've been drinking.”

“It's just one drink—”

They continue to bicker, but I've already heard enough, so I pick up my bag and let myself into the passenger side of Dad's car. Mom doesn't realize what I've done, but Dad notices and as soon as I'm inside he waves goodbye and hustles over to join me. Before Mom can protest further, we're pulling out into traffic.

“Christ, that was annoying.” Dad slaps the steering wheel for ef
fect.

“Well, we haven't had many of these family reunions yet. Maybe it'll get easier over time.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts. “And maybe she'll buy herself some clothes that actually look decent, and dye her hair like every othe
r woman.”

I laugh in spite of myself. I suppose I'd never realized that Mom's appearance bugged him too.

Dad notices me laughing and looks over. He has a wicked grin on his face. “See, we both know some things'll never cha
nge.”

“I guess not.”

“I know not.”

Dad looks different than I remember. He's dyed his hair black, and there seems to be more of it than before. He's even wearing a new tan leather jacket, which makes him look trendier, more youthful. I'm glad that at least one of my parents is taking care of themselves.

We pull into an ugly, concrete apartment complex, where an ostentatiously large sign proudly proclaims that these are The Grovington Apartments. A part of me wants to know what w
e're doing here, but another part of me certainly doesn't, so I remain mute and follow him out of the car. Dad steps up to the nearest first-floor apartment and unlocks the door with one of the keys on his chain. He walks in and
beckons me to follow.

“Ta-da!” he booms, as though I'm supposed to be impressed by the stain
ed, cream-colored walls and the worn sofa facing an ancient TV propped up on a beer crate.

“Um, what's going on, Dad?”

Dad shoots me a confused look. “It's my new place,” he explains with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“But Mom took me to your new place … that gated community.”

Dad shakes his head and smiles. “No. Things didn't work out with Kimberly, see?”

I'm trying to process this, but it requires some serious work. He left his wife of twenty-two years for this woman, and now, barely eight months later, he acts like it's no big deal that it didn't work out.

Dad pulls a couple cans of beer from a crate beside the sofa and hands one to me. I wait for him to take it back, say he's kidding, but he's already focused on his own. I hold the can tightly in both hands—it's warm, but it's beer so I'll drink it anyway.

“Does it bother you that things didn't work out?” I ask finally.

“Not really, no.” He forces a laugh. “Kimberly was a total bitch.”

I try to hide my shock, but “bitch” certainly wasn't part of Dad's vocabulary when he lived with us. Seems as though his drastic makeover wasn't limited to clothes and hair.

“So . . . well, what happened?”

“I'll tell you what happened,” he mutters. “I mistook Kimberly for a smart woman—someone who'd let me be myself, without judging me the whole time. Stupid, aren't I? First your mom, then her. I'm batting 0-for-two. Not a good average.”

“So what's next?”

He swigs his beer and frowns. “Well, for one thing, I'm not going to get trapped again. See, I realize now that wom
en are all about trapping guys. They talk about lack of commitment and stuff like that as if it's some big character flaw, and so you feel all guilty and before you know it—BAM, you're engaged, or married, and it's all over.”

He chugs the whole beer and so I chug mine as well. Immediately my body erupts in a belch and tears sting my eyes. Dad barely seems to notice as he pulls out two more.

“See,” he continues earnestly, “there's nothing wrong with being in a relationship
per se
, but you've got to stay on at least even terms, know what I mean? Like, if you want to have some girl, then have her.”

“I do,” I tell him, although it feels like it's someone else saying it; the beer is already working its magic. “Twice this week I had dates with different girls.”

Dad raises his beer and knocks it against mine as a kind of masculine toast to my burgeoning libido. “That's excellent, son. What're they like?”

“Well, Paige is hot as hell, and Jessica's kind of ditzy but she's cute as well. Come to think of it, they're both really sexy.”

I can't believe I'm actually saying these things, but it feels good to open up at last, and I couldn't ask for a more appreciativ
e audience.

“So if this Paige girl is so hot, why'd you want to go out with Jessica?”

Hmmm, tricky one that, since I'm not exactly sure myself what happe
ned there.

“I guess I didn't want to get pinned down by her,” I say, improvising. “Although I must admit that I did feel kind of bad going out with Jessica so soon afterwards. And I didn't have the guts to tell Paige that it was all over.”

“Hey, forget the guilt, okay?” Dad's wagging his finger at me and looking stern. “It's not like they wouldn't put one over on you if they could. You know it.”

“Um, maybe.”

“Yeah, so … ” Dad polishes off another beer but this time I don't think I can keep up with him. “So Paige wasn't exactly Little Miss Perfect, huh?”

“No. She's kind of vapid and self-obsessed—”

“Oh, you've got to watch the self-obsessed ones. They're the worst. One moment all you can think about is how hot they are, the next you're wondering why they completely rule your life. Take my advice—get whatever you want from whoever you want, then move on.”

“But isn't that kind of cruel?”

He's wagging his finger again. “Forget cruel. I played the part of dutiful husband for two decades, and let me tell you something, they don't hand out any medals.” He shakes his head. “No sir, they weren't lying when they said that nice guys finish last. So I say, stop trying. Just accept that it's in a man's nature to sow his oats.”

What has this man done with my father?

“Look,” he continues, gaining momentum with every sip of beer, “I've been reading this book that proves how men are genetically programmed to seek multiple partners; it's all about evolution and survival of the fittest. So it's really not our fault, 'cause it's just in our nature to play the field. To deny that is to deny what makes us hum
an.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “You wouldn't want to deny what makes you a man, would you, Kevin?”

I hesitate. So much of what he's saying is confusing, if not downright freaky, but I can't deny that it's reassuring to have my own experiences rationalized and justified.

“No, Dad. I wouldn't want that.”

The corner of Dad's mouth twists into a wry smile. “You're a good kid, Kevin. I know I can trust you not to make the same mistak
es I made.”

“Um, thanks.”

He nods vigorously, like he's proud of me, like I impress him. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel wonderfully empowering.

I smile right back.

18

O
ver the next hour I consume my second and third beers, and discuss my conquests in greater detail. Dad is activ
ely engaged the whole time, encouraging me to realize that the only thing I did wrong was to settle for kissing and a grope when I could probably have haggled for more. I'm not sure about that, but he seems absolutely positive, so I promise to move faster and more decisively the next time.

I'm about to ask him for some advice about sex when he leaps up from the sofa and says it's time to head out for dinner. I suggest we stay in so that we can continue talking, but he just laughs and points to the kitchenette, which looks like it hasn't been used in years.

As we head outside, I can feel the beer dulling my senses, slowing my reactions. I have that blurry feeling of my legs being disconnected from the rest of me, although they carry me forward in roughly the right direction.

Then something kicks in—maybe a sixth sense. In any case, it warns me that we shouldn't be getting into Dad's car.

“Um, Dad? I don't think we should be driving.”

“Don't be stupid. Get in.”

“Seriously, I don't think you're legal.”

Dad looks off into the distance and shakes his head. “Not you too. I figured it was just your mom, but I guess you're going to act like her, huh?”

“No, no.” Before I know it, I'm fumbling for the seat belt, hoping he can see more clearly than I can.

Dad seems to drive okay, although I'm hardly a reliable judge of what counts as straight. Three beers really shouldn't have this much effect on a person.

I want to ask him what's for dinner but I'm having trouble forming words, so I just sit back and close my eyes and dream of making out with Paige, or Jessica, or Paige
and
Jessica—

“Are you coming or not?” Dad shouts from just outside the passenger's side window.

I hadn't even noticed that we'd stopped moving, but I pull myself out of the seat and stumble across the parking lot to the restaurant entrance. We walk inside and a cute woman with bleach-blond hair says, “Oh hello, Darrell. Your normal table?” and Dad says, “Yeah, Daisy,” and then I notice that her enormous boobs are barely contained by her cheerful Hooters top, but something tells me not to mention this to her.

“Damn, Daisy, that top ain't gonna hold 'em in if they get any bigg
er,” Dad says.

Daisy smiles wanly and deposits us at our table before striding away.

“Why are we at Hooters, Dad?”

Dad narrows his eyes like he's examining an alien life form, then points to a sample of the waitresses sauntering around the room.

“Use your eyes, son. This is the kind of view eyes were made for.”

I look around, but all I see is a collection of Daisy-clones—phenomenally well-endowed women with fixed smiles and tight shorts.

A waitress makes eye contact with me to indicate that she'll be right over. Moments later she scuttles to my side.

Then she sees Dad.

“Oh, it's you, Darrell,” she says like she's just lost a game of spin the bottle. “Would you like your usual?”

“I would, thank you, Amber. But my … brother might like to order as well.”

I can't believe he just said that, and neither can Amber. She rolls her eyes. I can tell she can't wait to leave our table.

“And you'd better bring us a couple of beers each,” says Dad.

“Fine, but I'll need to see some ID for your … brother.”

“That's okay,” I say. “I don't want any.”

I order a burger and fries and spend the next twenty minutes listening to my father identify each of the waitresses. I get the feeling they know he's watching them, because they all cast disgusted looks in our direction and move quickly out of sight. As each one disappears, Dad asks me if I can guess their bra size, and even though I can I don't want him to know it, so instead I listen to him talking me through each answer like it's a math problem that requires serious consideration.

Unfortunately the beers arrive before the food, and Dad digs in. He gets louder as he knocks them back, and his bust-estimates become public knowledge. When Amber finally brings the food he never takes his eyes off her breasts, directing his thanks to the left breast and his request for more beer to the right. The moment he stops talking, she seizes the opportunity to leave.

“D'ya see how she completely shoved them in my face?” he says, his speech slurred.

I don't know what to say, so I stuff my mouth with fries and shrug.

“Yeah, I think she wants me,” he confides in a voice that easily carries across the room.

Some guys at the next table laugh loudly, but Dad seems oblivious. The effects of the beer are wearing off me now, and as things come into focus I can't help feeling a little embarrassed to be here with him.

“You don't really believe that waitress finds you attractive, do you?” I ask, hoping that this display is all part of some elaborate self-effacing joke.

“What are you talking about? Every time I come here she remembers my name. And you've seen the way she stands right next to our table.”

“'Cause she's a waitress. And she probably remembers your name because you tip well, or because she thinks you're old and fatherly.”

Dad wields a chicken wing menacingly. “That's got nothing to do with it. She thinks I'm good-looking, and she doesn't know I'm older than her, so don't go blowing it for me.”

I almost choke on my burger. “What … you're not thinking o
f asking her out on a date or anything, are you?”

“Yeah, of course I am. That's why we're here. Talking to you this evening finally made me realize that I've got to seize the bull by the horns, and there's no time like the present, and all that crap.”

“But … but … ” I gasp, struggling for words. I feel suddenly sober, like someone's doused me with ice water. I know that I can't let him ask her out or she'll probably have him arrested for stalking, or indecency, or being inappropriately old. But what can I do? I try to concentrate, and all the while Dad chugs beer, his movements cumbersome and his voice booming. I have the feeling all eyes in the room are on us, even though I can't bear to look around and check.

“Next time Amber comes by, I'll ask her,” he says, clearly delighted with this foolproof plan. “I bet it'll make her night.”

I twist around to look for her, but she's nowhere to be seen. I have to prevent this from happening. I know I do. I'd die from embarrassment, and I'm not sure I'd ever be able to speak to my father again.

“Can we go, please?”

“Don't be stupid. I'm waiting for Amber.”

Okay, so Plan A just failed. Time for Plan B.

“I'm just going to the bathroom,” I say.

As Dad washes down another chicken wing with his beer, I hurry over to the hostess' desk at the entrance. Daisy is still there, but she doesn't seem thrilled to see me. I guess it's guilt by association.

“Um, I know this is weird,” I stammer, “but I really need to get us out of here right now.”

Daisy tilts her head and puts her hands on her hips. “And I'm supposed to care?”

“No, I guess not. What do I need to do to make sure Amber doesn't come back to our table?”

“Hmmm,” she muses, leaning against her desk. “Well, you could just settle the bill.”

Before she can say another word, I pull out the emergency credit card Mom gave me, and Daisy disappears with it. A minute later she reappears with a credit slip for sixty dollars and suggests that a generous tip really helps the waitresses look charitably on some of their more “deplorable” customers. She says it just like that, and I'm surprised to hear a busty woman with bleach-blond hair use such big words. But then I imagine what Mom would say to me if she knew I'd thought such a thing, so I add a twenty dollar tip and hightail it back to the table.

Dad's looking around the room vacantly, wondering where his beloved waitress has gone. His beer bottles are empty, but I don't think he needs any more—he looks like he's about to pass out.

I wrap an arm around him and drag him across the restaurant, to the amusement of the other diners. All the way, he keeps protesting that Amber will be over soon and he needs to speak to her. A couple of the neighboring tables cheer as we leave; when even Hooters patrons recognize how profoundly desperate Dad sounds, I know things are grim.

We step outside, and the cool air feels refreshing. Dad reaches for his car keys, but there's no way I'm letting him drive. I don't know the way to his apartment, so I hail a taxi that's hovering nearby. The driver pulls up and I open the door for Dad, who crashes in.

“I ain't taking no drunk dude,” the driver says. “I'd need an extra ten bucks to take him.”

I say that'll be fine, and I tell him the Grovington Apartments, and he looks at me like I must be kidding. Dad mumbles the address, then l
oses consciousness.

The driver pulls up at the apartment and I hand him the credit card, and he informs me that there's a five dollar surcharge for credit cards. It bugs me, although I guess I should be grateful he only asked for five. I'd have paid twenty if that's what it took.

I take Dad's keys and open the door. The apartment looks even more squalid than it did earlier.

“Where's the spare bed, Dad?”

He points to the sofa and chuckles. I pull it out and notice it still has dirty sheets on it.

“Where are you sleeping?” I say.

Dad points to the sofa bed because it's the only bed in the apartment.

Ten minutes later we're lying side by side, and his snoring is making the walls shake.

When I wake up the next day, Dad's already left to do an open house. A spare key is taped to the TV along with a note saying there's a coffee shop down the street where I can get breakfast. He'll be home around five
,
it says.

I'm tempted to call Mom for a ride home so I can spend the day doing something enjoyable, but I know I shouldn't—one glance at Dad's squalid apartment and she'd be moved to stage an intervention. Besides, the way Dad's been behaving
this weekend, I don't think her help would be appreciated. So I find the coffee shop, then go to a second-run movie theater next door
, and finally hang out in a book store.

At five o'clock I'm back at the apartment, but Dad's not there. I watch the Discovery Channel for another couple hours, but he still doesn't show. Finally, I call Mom to come and pick me up, only I don't really know where I am so it's hard to give directions.

At eight o'clock she knocks on the door. I turn the lights out so she can't see inside, and we walk to the car in silence. We don't talk all the way home, because she doesn't want to criticize Dad and I don't want to relive the weekend.

But I must admit that it wasn't a complete waste of time, because I've learned a valuable lesson: lusting after sexy girls is only cool when you're young.

Which is why I'd better enjoy it while I can.