What My Father Doesn't Know

When I was young and frightened by my imagination in the late hours of the night, I would often seek comfort from my father. I would crawl out of bed, dash down the stairs, and quietly tip toe into the basement where I would usually find him. He’d be sitting there at his desk in deep thought; his face would be wrinkled into concentration, his hand would be yanking at the strands of his knotted hair while the other hastily wrote things down, his foot would be tapping with impatience, and his lips would be moving slightly, pronouncing mumbles. Crumpled papers of attempted songs would be strewn all over the floor, his acoustic would be laying by his agitated foot, and right next to him on his desk would be baby Joey in his infant car seat, either finally caving into sleep or stubbornly crying.

I hated to disturb him, to interrupt his train of song like thought into a severe wreck just because I was afraid of something my mind conjured up. But whenever I would whisper, “Daddy,” and let tears roll down my rosy cheeks as I nervously played with the last button of my pajama shirt, he would not sigh in annoyance but smile up at me with adoration.

“Look at you,” he would say, pulling me into his lap as he would wipe tears away and kiss me on my forehead. “You have been gifted with my wild imagination, baby. This is the fourth time you have been scared this week.”

It sounded like he was trying to make a point of how tired he was with my problem, but instead he chuckled. It was like he enjoyed my interruptions, like he was happy to see me. Whenever I would run to him, he would always be eager to show me his work, or teach me how to play his newest idea of a melody, or even sing to me. On occasion, if I begged him enough, he would tell me the story of how I came to be.

“Once upon a time,” he would always start out, making it easier for a three year old to comprehend the tale. “There was a man who lived for his art. Ever since he was a child, he had been surrounded by the diverse beauty of music; from the strokes of piano keys when he was five, from the beats of his father’s drums, from the pitches of his mothers soothing sing-song voice, from his very first guitar. Music turned out to be his only outlet, the only thing he really understood in the whole wide world. Eventually, he came to make exactly that. Music, and he wanted everyone to hear.”

This beginning would always catch my attention, even at my tender age, and I would anxiously wait for him to delve right into the rest. I could always imagine everything clearly whenever my father told me stories; they were like movies projected on my mind. As I got older, I started to understand and picture the stories even better. I would lose myself with every word he spoke and before I knew it, I would no longer be in the common surroundings of my home, but back in Minnesota in a small, hot, smoky club.

“He wrote his very first song at the age of fourteen, and from then on, he continued to write. He would grind out all sorts of songs; songs about life, songs about change, songs about feelings, and of course songs about love. But he never wrote such a love song until he met the young woman that was destined to be his soul mate.

“It was there in that dinky club where he first set his eyes on her. He and his band that he came to form were on their very first tour. They toured all over the states, wherever they could play, driving from gig to gig in a clunky old van. That night they played in the twin cities of Minnesota; it was a summer Sunday night, and not many people had showed up to see them. But that didn’t matter at the time for the man; after he caught her eye, he only wanted to sing to her.

“She couldn’t have been human, she was too beautiful. Her hair fell far down on her back in dark dreadlocks, her skin withheld this creamy white radiance, and her eyes were like black emeralds that he swore would twinkle in the light. He almost lost his voice at the sight of her down in the front, bopping up and down to the music and flashing a breath taking smile that was outlined in red lipstick. For the rest of the show he remained numb, only seeing her in his vision.

“Immediately after the small concert, he desperately searched for her. He wondered if she felt the connection he had felt when their eyes met. He wound his way through all of the show comers; nonchalantly shrugging off the compliments and pats on the shoulders he received for his performance. He was so focused on finding the girl with the black dreads and gleaming eyes that not even the new fans that they had recently won over could stop him. When he finally did spot her over in a corner with a group of her friends, he stopped dead in his tracks. The room was full yet it felt like it had emptied, and when she turned to glance casually around the room in a moment of laughter, her eyes halted directly on him. The young man made an attempt to make it look like he was just taking a stroll, but he couldn’t move any longer. She was gazing at him across the room, a look of awe about her face, and all of a sudden she began to strut towards him.

“Then, the goddess spoke. “Do you know where I could find your record?”

“The question had barely broken through the surface of his thoughts. He was mesmerized by her, so captured by her beauty even more now that she was only inches away from him. The man quickly caught himself though, and replied that unfortunately their album had not been released yet.

“He expected that a disappointed look would creep upon her flawless face at his reply, but she smiled instead. She dug into her purse for a pen, grabbed his hand, and then scribbled something down on his palm. The man’s heart was racing at the feel of her soft, warm fingers wrapped around his, and in a clouded state of admiration, he bent down slightly to smell her hair before she finished writing. It smelled of a subtle sweetness, like roses, and it was a scent that would come to frequently remind him of her. The lady had given him her phone number, and then shyly asked for his in return. Of course, he gave it to her.”

At this point in the story I would find that my father had veered off into remembrance. His eyes would slightly glaze over, he would add in more details, and he would completely forget that I was the one he was telling the story to. I didn’t mind though, it made my walk down memory lane last longer.

“That encounter was the dawning of a beautiful relationship. The lady turned out to be just as gorgeous in the inside as she was on the outside. He adored her personality, was fascinated by her intelligence, and was permanently infatuated with her. She understood music the way he did, and that was his favorite thing about her.

“She felt the same about him as well. She often told him that she was amazed by what he could come up with, and so short in the time. She told him that he was gifted and that one day everyone would listen to his music, just like he had wanted. He believed her, and after he wrote his famous song about her called ‘Two-thousand Light Years Away’, they fell in love.

“The two got married after only five months of dating. They had fallen in love rather quickly, but they knew that it was meant to be together. The music had brought the lady and man together, and whenever music played they would feel as if they were one. The wedding took place in her best friend’s back yard; it wasn’t much, but at the thought of belonging to each other, it was all worth it. And before they knew it, they were expecting a baby. That is how you came to be.”

My father would now snap out of his daze, and the sparkle would return to his eyes. He would then tickle me out of my attentive and quiet state, lift me up into his arms, and tell another story of when I was a baby.

“When you were born, my world completely changed,” he would say while staring deeply into my eyes, a proud smile appearing on his tired face. “I never knew I could’ve loved anything as much as I love you.

“You were the very first baby of Green Day, and everyone showered you with attention. You were just a little being, something many of us had never experienced before. Nobody could resist you with your big, curious green eyes, your tufts of black curls, and the character you grew into. To this day you are irresistible, and I am more thankful than any other father out there to have you!”

An eruption of giggles and smiles would come from me after he would tell me this, and my father would laugh as well. But then we would quiet down, the mood would become serious, and a very father-daughter talk would come about.

“The first time I held you in my arms and stared into your precious face, I made a promise to you. I promised that I would try and be the best father to you; to always watch over you, to guide you, and to make sure that you don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

It was the same things that most fathers would tell their children, just a knee-jerk obvious saying. I knew that my father was being honest, and I know he was trying his very best, but there were just some things he couldn’t protect me from.

“I’m still keeping that promise, and I always will,” he would tell me, ending the story. I’d be pretty sleepy by then, and he would kiss me on the forehead and lead me to my bedroom and tuck me back in. He would then forget he left baby Joey alone in the basement and run downstairs while I faded into sleep.