Death of a Salesman

Death of a Salesman

It was never easy to one-up Father Mine. He was always so quick with his witty quips, gags, jokes, and one-liners. On rare occasions when I was older, sitting around his Sunday dinner table, I’d trip him up or render him speechless and there’d be a glean of ‘ya got me’ in his grin, most times a quick red flush in his cheeks. And then, without missing a beat, he’s ten laughs ahead. Most times I think he thought me nine cents short of a dime, maybe I was. But, if I was, he was too. Apples and trees, you know? They don’t fall far.

I remember the first time I stumped him. Like it was yesterday. It wasn’t a witticism or any kind of a yarn, but a tried and true stump. As in, there had to be a blue moon hanging in the sky because he was at a loss for words. If you knew Father Mine, or of him at least, you know full well he always has something to say, about everything.

Father Mine wanted to, instead of our usual quick weekend trips to McDonalds or Lawtons to scout the magazine rack, take me overnight. I was wary of the offer at first because at that time, Father Mine didn’t have a place of his own and was staying with a friend and his family. He said he was house-sitting for someone from work so I could come and spend the night. That made more sense, so I accepted. He’d make dinner and we could see a movie together or maybe go for ice cream. He picked me up, I was armed with my brand-new rainbow book bag full of pens, paper, and other arty things to keep myself occupied in case he had work to do or something or other. Before we left Cow Bay, we made a pit stop at the Cow Bay Moose, took a few pictures and drew in the cool almost winter air. The one-bedroom apartment, situated in Woodside, a stone’s throw away from the Halifax Harbour, was bright and keenly kept. You could have eaten straight off the floor. I don’t think I had ever been in a house that was so tidy. Father Mine and I settled in at the evening’s abode after a quick casserole for supper and a random show or two on television. I had my heart set on a movie at the actual theater but as predicted, he was continually hauled away by urgent work calls. I didn’t mind so much because at least we were together. In proximity, anyway. Me in the living room scribbling in my notebook, and he, nestled in the crook of the kitchen counter with a heavy receiver to his ear, talking in a hushed voice. I missed my Mother in that moment but at the same content he was near. It’s the one thing I envy my siblings, having both parents in the same place, as a family. That isn’t something I had or what I did have I was too young to remember. Nothing stopped me from daydreaming about it though, all eight of us, in our varying ages and hairstyles, cordially passing a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes around the table while yammering on about our day.

I laid awake most of the night listening to him saw logs, missing my own bed, missing home. The next morning, I got up early and nosed around a little. The apartment looked different in the light of day. Father Mine padded sleepily into the bathroom to as he put it – shit, shower, and shave. He put the television on for me and told me to help myself to a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I sat with good ol’ Captain Crunch and listened to him sing while the shower ran. Father Mine emerged, fresh as a daisy and plugged in the kettle when I asked, “What’s your friend’s name anyway?” He stumbled a little on his heels reaching for the milk from the fridge. He muttered something but it was anything but a straight answer, “Just a friend.” I almost let it go, “Why does your friend from work only have women’s clothes in his closet?” Father Mine almost swallowed his tongue in shock. It never occurred to me the tidy pad belonged to :: gasp:: a woman. The primary occupant, with the sweet-smelling sheets, would eventually become my stepmother.

Father Mine was a car salesman. He could sell a tall ice-cold glass of water to a drowning man. I spent a lot of time at the dealership on Saturdays with him. I never did like, nor do I still enjoy, that new car smell. It makes me queasy. I attribute it to all those weekends waiting around for him to close a deal, complete paperwork, or finish long behind-closed-doors phone calls with his feet up on the desk. I only know that because he had an office just off the showroom walled in glass. His boss was the nicest man in the whole entire world. Big Boss was a white-haired distinguished gentleman, and I mean that in every sense of the world. He was warm spirited and giving. I found that out quite by accident. Father Mine told me to stay where he could see me this one day, but my ears were probably plugged and I soon found myself halfway down a long hallway, office doors on each side. Big Boss’s door was daringly propped open. I waltzed in, uninvited. Everything was made of dark wood or covered with wine covered leather. His heavy desk was grand with not an office supply out of place and the obligatory cheery family photo propped up in the corner just beyond the telephone. Brazenly, I climbed up into his high back leather chair, shoved my arse right into the back, stretched my sausage legs out straight, and wiggled my feet in victory. It felt forbidden and powerful all at once. I was so pre-occupied with play pretending I was the boss, barking orders at my make-believe employees I didn’t notice a tall figure darken the door, “And what are you doing, young lady?” Uh oh. Big Boss. I stammered to answer. Father Mine was going to tan my hide for getting into things I was told not to. Big Boss advanced into the room and lorded over me in the chair. I held my breath, convinced he was going to give me a rampant what for. Instead, he leaned down and slid one of his grand desk drawers open to reveal a treasure trove of candy, “Go on, help yourself.” From then on, I’d sneak into his office, wriggle myself comfortably in his chair, and nibble on caramels, peppermint patties, even hard rum-flavored candies. One time, he even left me a whole Oh Henry chocolate bar with a little note – a sweet for a sweetie. When I was five, before I was truly aware of his presence, he gave me a shiny white Christmas bulb with Santa faces all over. It has become most beloved heirloom and each year when we put up our Christmas tree, that is always the first ornament to go on, in homage, and with love.

I used to also love sitting behind the impressive reception desk, the nerve center of the operation. That’s where Ms. Myra sat each day and controlled the switchboard. I thought of her as sleek administrative astronaut, steering the whole ship. I used to call Father Mine at work every day after school, for years. Ms. Myra was always the one to direct my call. We formed a mutual admiration society. So much so, that if she knew I’d be coming to the showroom with Father Mine, she’d leave me a box of Smarties on her desk. She’d ask Fridays, and if I said yes, without fail, there was always a little treat waiting.

And then there was the waiting room full of fancy leather chairs where people would wait for their vehicles to be serviced. I liked it in there best. Just on the other side of the wall was the body shop where Brother Bear toiled to mend dents and scrapes. But the wall itself, it housed professional head shots of all the salesmen and women. Father Mine’s was always in or near the top right position. I don’t know if it meant he was the best that week or month, but in my books, he was always aces, a head above the rest.

And, he wasn’t just a salesman, Father Mine was a natural born entertainer. He and his musician friends would play all the kiddie Christmas parties at the Buffalo Club and his outward goofiness used to fill me with equal parts pride and jealousy. Pride because he was my father and was so incredibly impressive and jealousy because I had to share him with all those other kids when I hardly had any time with him. A few friends told me recently those parties meant the world to them because it was the closest thing to a Christmas they had. Father Mine filled them with joy, lifted them up. And, I because if only I’d been aware then, if only I hadn’t been so envious and shy, I could have linked arms with my peers and wailed my silly guts out too when they pulled out their show-stopper, “I love my rooster, my rooster loves me, I cherish my rooster beneath the old oak tree, my little rooster goes cock-a-doodle-do do-de-do-do-do-do-do-de-do-do-do-do …” For all the time I craved with Father Mine, some of the time I did get with him I was inhibited and cautious. Too afraid to embarrass myself in front of him. I idolized the ground he walked on. And yet, I felt like there were a million miles in between us. He was exceedingly good to me. To my friends. But I had a heart full of spite. I remember a cousin of mine, the same age as me, and he’d tell me he bought her a new winter coat or new sneakers. Or she’d gloat and tell me Father Mine took her for a hamburger and bought her all her school supplies. I spent so much time turning myself inside out over it only to grow up and learn it was because she didn’t have a winter coat, not even an old one and he couldn’t stand the thought of her going without a jacket. I saw his kindness in a light I aimed to emulate.

We talked at length about it near the end of his days. He in his hospital bed, me sitting on the chesterfield next to him. The conversation started with him, choked up, apologizing to me for not being there enough for me, for not doing enough, or being there when he should have. It busted me up inside. I assured him that even though I felt all those things, the confusion of him leaving when I was so young, to being shy and droopy, and jealous as hell of my cousin, I couldn’t have asked for a better person to father me, to follow. In that moment, and as I write it now, even though I wish I’d been able to be more open-hearted and fun-spirited, if I’d changed it, that beautiful conversation would never have taken place. We bore our souls to each other. Talked openly about our feelings. Laughed. Cried. Laughed a little more. It was a first for us. Except this one time, when Way Cooler Big Sister was about to make a whopper of a mistake and had Father Mine out of his mind, he came to my work and asked if I could take a break to have a coffee with him. He needed to talk. We sat on a sunny patio next to the water. I sipped a cup of hot tea while he, exasperated, spilled his guts, and then asked me, me, for my opinion. Also, a first. I’ve kept that little rare tete-a-tete to myself all these years. He sat across from me fidgeting, ringing his hands, sitting on the edge of the wire chair that gave me serious waffle butt, his leg bouncing as he talked. I had his full attention. He needed me. Finally, I had something I had always wished for.

***

This little piece, for my Dad, which in the future, will likely be extended, is his little early Father’s Day gift. I know it isn’t as funny as previous pieces but not all memories are laced with humor, right? I do still vividly remember him being aghast when I asked him why his friend’s closet was full of women’s clothes. It’s like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. I don’t think he thought I was observant enough to take notice. He underestimated me, the last of the litter. It’ all I did, watch. Listen. Assess.

I miss him. So very much. My heart ached while I typed away. I feel so bad because I wanted to be around him all the time and there were times when all I’d be is obstinate. It was confusing for a lot of my younger years to waver between my parents with messages. I worked through anger phases that I didn’t get to have them together like my siblings did. My entire world looked completely different than theirs. I think it’s why I’ve spent the better part of my life being a peacekeeper, standing as Switzerland, an active ear, and somewhere for the people I love to lean on. Nothing make me happier than to be around my family. Then and now.  No matter what shape it has.

If you still have your Dad with you, hug him for me. For you. For him. Talk. Reminisce. Be honest. Be loving.

In propinquity,

Nic