Dan Crawley

You Need To Tell My Dad That

by Dan Crawley

When I walk to the end of the street, I see a man holding a stack of books near the opened trunk of a small blue car. This car is parked catawampus on the driveway of the corner house, where Independence Street intersects with Freedom Way. It’s as if the driver, maybe this man with the books, skidded to a stop without straightening up.

“How’s it going?” the man holding a stack of books says. He is built like an upside down Aztec pyramid.

“Not so good,” I say. “I need someone to pay me to do something.”

“But what do you do when no one wants to do that?” The lamb chops on both sides of his face is reminiscent of earlier times.

“No one feels obligated to help out anyone.”

“That is exactly what I tell my father,” the man with the books says, “but he’s an old-school bastard who thinks I’m not trying hard enough. When no one calls, no one calls. He thinks landing something these days should be as easy as it was in his day. Hey, come here.”

My gait is plodding. But if I stop now, the little momentum I do have might be lost and my route, down Freedom Way a few blocks to Memorial and then a long stretch by a park and a small strip center, where multiple units have for lease signs taped on their glass doors, might take longer and will probably be more strenuous than usual. I’ve been walking all this week. I started that same day I found out my older brother is coming for a visit. He requested from our parents the use of the guest room, where I’ve been sleeping for months. Monte owns a San Francisco condo and drives this luxury SUV. My car is parked in the driveway. I’ve no money to replace the cracked radiator or even afford a new battery because it’s sat there for so long. So I’ve found walking takes a bit of the edge off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see someone in a bear costume pass by the open front door of this corner house. Without meaning to, I stop. Now: only beige carpeting and white walls.

“Over here.” The man with the stack of books whistles like a dropping bomb. He winces. “I’ve been substitute teaching,” he says, his voice going high, “but I’m getting no calls. They’ve started this new phone computer system. I miss calls, and I can’t tell if jobs are already taken or not after I’ve given up, and it’s driving me batty. How can I control this computer system that’s obviously broken? I tell my dad this, but you think I get understanding? Now there are no jobs at all. My girlfriend thinks the district ran out of money for the rest of the month.”

“I think I saw her. She’s a bear.”

“That’s all she could find for some cash. You know how hard it is to spin a sign in full costume? With humongous claws? In ninety degree heat? I would fall over and never get up. I overheat easily.” The man’s enormous black shorts drape to his shins. Sweat beads across his wide forehead like translucent cobblestones. “I don’t know how much longer we can live here. I go nutty most days, frequently in the morning when I first wake up and realize what’s what. We might just have to leave it, which we don’t want to do, of course.”

A woman jogs by the corner. “You see a lot of people our age out running at this time of day, instead of working at an office or waiting tables or—”

“Yes.” A beefy finger points out from under the books. “You need to tell my dad that. What you just said. He needs to hear how bad it is from someone besides me. He doesn’t believe me. You okay with your house?”

“I don’t own a home.” I hesitate, and then say, “I live with my parents.”

“I can’t do that. Especially with my dad, obviously.” The books are hefty volumes, literature anthologies or texts on jurisprudence. “I wish I could count on him. He doesn’t want to help me, and I don’t want his help, honestly. But a genuine offer would be appreciated. That might be enough some times when I’m emptying out buckets of my angst-ridden heart over the phone, you know?”

Now my button pushed, I come forward a few steps. I tug on the front of my shirt. I lift my cap and comb back my damp hair and readjust my cap. I wasn’t planning on saying anything about my circumstances. I say, “Parents should listen to their children in distress. No matter how old they are.”

“Absolutely.”

“The plan was I’d stay with my parents temporarily, after I moved here. That was six months ago, and I’ve had only one interview so far, with no call back. Then came an email weeks later, with thanks for interviewing, so many great candidates, blah, blah. And now I’m getting kicked out of my bed at the end of next week. My older brother, who has a job and house and money in the bank and stocks and whatever he has, is visiting and wants to stay with his parents. They only have the one guest room, so I’ve got to move out all of my stuff—a whole storage unit’s worth—and sleep on the couch. I know you might think, ‘So, sleep on the couch. It’s just for a few nights while he visits. At least you’re not homeless—’”

“No, no, no,” the man with the stack of books says. “I’m not saying that at all, brother.”

“It’s the principle of…everything.” I look up and down the empty street. “At least your dad still talks to you. My whole life my parents see me as an afterthought. Monte is the go-getter. They only noticed me because Monte wants the room.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m down to basic needs. I mean, for now, that guest room is my only home.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “It just feels like another hit. How many more hits can I take?”

“Abso-preach-it-brother-lutely.” He moves the books toward me as if giving a gift. One of his square hands emerges from under the stack to shake my hand.

“You need to tell my dad that,” the man says and sways and rams like an ocean liner loose of its mooring against the trunk of the sedan. He holds the books with one hand and rummages around the pocket of his massive shorts, retrieving a cell phone. “Tell him that you aren’t getting any calls and how you’re getting kicked out of your only home and about seeing people out running when they should be off at some job. Tell him how hard it is out there for all of us.” The man’s fat thumb goes to work on the phone. The heavy books balance on his other hand. I wonder why he doesn’t just put them down.

I take a few steps back. “I don’t know your dad or you.”

“That’s why it’ll work. Pretend it’s your dad who’s kicking you out of your only home in the world. Let him have it.”

Last night, my parents sat watching T.V. while I paced in their kitchen. When I came into the living room and mentioned how upset I was about having to move all of my boxes and clothes, my mother became all weepy because she didn’t want to pick between her two only children. I told her Monte could afford a hotel room. A whole floor of hotel rooms. She cried to my father that I was making her choose between her two boys, and I pointed out she already made her choice. My father didn’t say a word, but brought his fingers up to his face and pinched his nostrils. I asked him what he was doing. He said I was stinking up the place. So I stuck my fingers in my ears at them and left for a late night walk.

The man says into his cell phone, “Listen to this, Dad.” He tosses the cell toward me in a high arc. Reflexively, I stumble forward and catch it with both hands. I don’t have to lift the phone to my ears; I can hear the loud voice clearly. The man is back to holding the stack of books with both hands. He makes a face. He can clearly hear his father’s voice, too.

“No, I’ve heard enough from you. Now it’s my turn.” The loud voice says, “You’ll listen for a change. So you think I’m a bastard, huh? That I don’t care about what you’re going through right now? Was I a bastard when you quit that great job at that fancy seafood place I got you when you were just out of high school? I was thinking about this today. How worried I was for you back then. How worried I am for you now. How you constantly do things that only makes your life harder. Like that job you quit for no reason. I know you remember that seafood place in Redding. The manager, he was my friend, at that nice seafood place by the river and then you up and quit after one day.” This father’s voice sounds like his son’s, the same soaring register. “You worked at that dishwashing job one day. I dropped you off the next day and you waited until I was out of sight and just left. No explanation to the manager, my good friend.” The man looks down at the cover of the massive volume on top of the stack and mouths something. “You decided just to walk away. Walking all the way across town, over that bridge, thinking you wanted to jump into the Sacramento River. That’s how upset you thought you were. You walked all the way to the downtown mall where your mother worked at that children’s clothing store. The last person you thought you’d see was your dad, sitting there on a bench, waiting for your mom to get off work. And what did I do? What did this horrible bastard of a father do when I saw you? You, on the other hand, spun right around and practically ran away down that mall. You ran out that big glass mall door and didn’t even bother to look back. And when I saw you later on at home, do you remember what I said to you? How I showed you some generosity because your mom told me how you’d called the children’s clothing store from a pay phone, saying you wanted to jump into the Sacramento River. Are we back there again? Do I have to worry myself silly over you these days? Are you hearing me? Tell me you’re hearing me.”

I quickly lift the cell and say that I am.

Dan Crawley's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of journals and anthologies, including Wigleaf, apt, North American Review, SmokeLong Quarterly: The Best of the First Ten Years, matchbook, and Heavy Feather Review. He is a recipient of an Arizona Commission on the Arts creative writing fellowship and has taught fiction workshops at Arizona State University, Northern Arizona University, and other colleges.