Starting from Scratch (Starting from 2)

I pushed my hair behind my ear and shot a no-BS look at my dad. “What do you want from me?”

“What kinda question is that? I don’t want anything from you,” he huffed before falling into a worn leather recliner.

“You’ve been after my attention for months. Probably ever since I joined Zero. You can’t call like a regular parent. You have to ask other people to guilt me into contacting you while you concoct some elaborate plan involving a pseudonym and a writing gig for a blog to trash my band publicly. And since when the fuck are you a writer anyway?”

“Since always,” he replied in a bored tone. “I wrote for the Calendar section in the LA Times back in the day. It wasn’t a weekly gig, but the extra income helped when my band wasn’t playing.”

“Okay. That’s great. So, I repeat…what do you want? Did you just want to ensure a front row seat when I fail, or do you have another motivation? I’m done with the games. I want you out of my head once and for all.”

He stared at me for a moment, then gestured toward the lumpy sofa. “Take a seat. Want some coffee? I’d offer you booze, but I’m off the sauce. Been clean and sober for four years.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I perched on the edge of the sofa and waited for him to start talking. “Well?”

“I’m not playing a game. It’s like I told your boy toy. I’m teaching you a lesson. You’re fuckin’ stubborn, though. You don’t learn easy. You go out of your way to do everything you can to fuck up your life. You choose unsteady work, dangerous hobbies, and now you’re screwin’ a guy. Jesus Christ. I’m on my deathbed here and this is the legacy I’m leaving behind.” He threw his hands in the air and shook his head in disbelief.

“Are you really sick or is this part of the game?”

“I’m well enough,” he said with a careless shrug before picking up his remote. “Want to watch Wheel of Fortune?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t really want anything to do with you. If you’re ill, I’m sorry. If you’re suffering, I’m sorry for that too. But the rest…you need to let go. I’m not you. I’m not making your mistakes or reliving your life. I’m not gonna be a banker or a lawyer to make you feel better. I’m gonna fail and maybe, Dad…maybe I’m gonna fuckin’ succeed. This strange compulsion you have to parent your twenty-eight-year-old son through sabotage is just…fucked up. If your intention is to hurt me, it won’t work. I’m numb to this shit. But if your intention was to make me doubt that I might actually have something worthwhile to offer…congratulations. You’ve done it.”

“Oh, brother. Offer what? To who? The queer? That guy is very disrespectful. You know, he told me he’d have me arrested?”

“Good.”

My dad furrowed his brow. “So you’re really gay now? Did that stick? I thought it was a phase in high school.”

I let out a humorless half laugh and shook my head. “I am who I am. Accept me or don’t. I’m not going to change to please you. And I’m not going to jump through hoops or listen to lies to get your attention.”

“But you’re here now, so it worked.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t come here for you. I came for me. I need to take my life back. If you need something from me, you can call or text me. It’s the only way I’ll communicate with you. But if you hurt the people I love, I’m not going to respond. It’s about respect. It’s not a birthright. You have to earn it just like everyone else, Dad,” I said as I headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“I have nothing else to say to you. We’re finished.”

“No. Wait. You just got here.” He shook his head as he stood, moving slowly, the way someone twenty years older than him might.

I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob and studied the deep creases around his mouth and between his brows. They marked years of hard living and unhappiness. The grooves of disappointment cut his skin like a jagged knife wound. That was what a life of bitterness did to you, I mused. I couldn’t remember him smiling or joking around with my mom or Karly or me. I remembered being afraid of him and then hating him. And now…

“I feel sorry for you,” I said without thinking.

That stopped him. The creases at the corner of his mouth deepened somehow. “I don’t want your fuckin’ pity.”

“Too bad. It’s all you get.” I pushed my hand through my hair and pursed my lips before continuing. “You know, these games you play are fucking sick. There’s no humor, no joy in them. No one else is in on the joke. You manipulate, you contrive. You create these huge waves to make everyone notice you and when you get the attention you crave, you have nothing to offer. Keep your words of wisdom, your fucked-up life lessons, and your bitter advice. I don’t want to be anything like you. And it’s crazy, ’cause once upon a time, you were my fuckin’ hero.