Keep in Touch

I don’t really clam up around people that often. It’s not hard for me to go up to a stranger and strike up a conversation, no matter how weird they find me. There’s one person who I just can’t talk freely to, though. I haven’t seen him since I was eighteen years old and leaving for college, and since then I felt no need to keep him in my life – not even for money. That person just so happens to be my dad.

I’m twenty-five, I’m a University of Chicago alumni with a degree in visual arts, I’m getting my comic book made into a cartoon on a huge network, and I’m the lead singer of a goddamn rock band. My father is also five inches shorter than I am. And yet for some reason, as I sit here at a booth in probably the dullest neighborhood restaurant in all of Chicago, the thought of him walking in here and sitting down with me is the most terrifying thing ever.

Of course I was spanked as a kid. What person my age wasn’t? He never went beyond that, though; he never slapped me across the face or punched me. What he did to me was emotional. He’d rip up my drawings when he caught me doodling on my math homework, he’d get rid of our TV for months at a time, and at some point in junior high he gave me an ultimatum: I’d either stop drawing cartoons and start drawing “fine art,” or else I’d have to drop art altogether and focus on something “useful” like science.

Before I went through puberty, my dad seemed tall to me. That was why I was scared into doing realism all through junior high until high school art class gave me the opportunity to draw cartoons and make good grades for ‘em. Of course, throughout high school, it wasn’t any different – he’d get pissed at me for sticking to my guns and would continue to threaten me if I did shitty on the “more important” subjects.

He’d always wanted me to be an engineer.

Well, Mom always wanted him to be sober, and look where that ended up. I haven’t seen my mother since I was six. That’s a whole other pity party that I thought about way too often when I was younger, but the matter at hand is that my fucking dad added me as a friend on Facenook a week ago and promptly asked me out to dinner.

At first I said I was too busy. I’m in a band, for Christ’s sake. We just had a hell of a year and the springtime hasn’t been a lot less action-packed.

I laughed about it to my best friend Anthony, casually bringing it up in conversation one night. He was one of the only people who knew about my roots, along with the rest of the band, and he knew how much it hurt, but when I told him about what my dad said and how I told him I was too busy, he just looked over at me with the deadpan look he was so good at.

And he told me, “Andy, it’s literally been seven years. You can cut him out again at any point.”

To that, I groaned like a baby and whined, “But I don’t wanna. I even regret accepting his friend request…”

“It’s a little late for that now.” He brushed his hair back. “If he pulls any of the asshole shit he did when you were in high school, just text me and I’ll come up with an evacuation plan.”

Good old Anthony.

So somewhat reluctantly, I took his advice, and that’s why I’m sipping Fountain Dew through a straw here and trying to look insignificant. Every so often I’ll pull out my phone and look distracted while people walk past and give me second looks, as if they think they recognize me but just can’t place a name to a face. I get that a lot. It’s kind of cool.

Right as I put my phone back in my pocket, I get a clear view of my dad walking through the double doors of the restaurant in a tacky button-up shirt and khakis. His balding head shinier than I ever remembered, he talks to the hostess for a few seconds before she looks back at me and nods, pointing.

I don’t want to smile right now. It’s the last thing I feel like doing. There’s nothing in the world I’d love more than to be back at the flat, sitting in my underwear while watching movies and eating ice cream with my band.

My dad puts on a mask for me and opens his arms as soon as we make dreaded eye contact, and right at that moment, his obnoxious New York accent shines through and I’m reminded of the Italian/Irish heritage that spilled over to him from our disjointed family tree.

“Andy, son!” he grins, looking like a toad. The boisterous nature of his voice is so fake it makes me want to die.

Not wanting to look like a dick, I get up from my seat and pull the sleeves of my hoodie down, hiding my lightning scars. I fake a smile just like he’s doing, but there’s no way in hell I’m giving him a hug. When he comes closer, I hold my hand out for just a handshake.

He still has his arms spread.

I haven’t said a word, but I don’t have to. I just look at him and he rolls his eyes, going back to his condescending nature before exaggerating the effort taken to just shake my hand.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, trying to be as casual as possible.

“How the hell are ya, kid?” he responds, taking his rightful spot in front of me at the booth. Following his lead, I sit down too.

I don’t bother starting the conversation. It was already painful enough to have to look at the man I worked so hard to rise above and to never have to see again. It’s not even five minutes into our dinner and I already want to text Anthony to get me out of here. So I shrug and press my lips together, hoping not to seem overwhelmed.

“Christ, it’s been seven years,” he laughs heartily. “The least you could do would be to tell me you’re happy to see me.”

If he’s baiting, I’m not biting.

“And what’s with the shit all over your face, Andrew?” he prods, squinting while still smirking, being a dick under the guise that he’s being funny. He even uses my full first name, and God knows it’s the first time I’ve heard it in years.

It’s true, I didn’t bother shaving today. He wasn’t worth the effort of shaping my hairy face into the normal chinstrap I wore. “I’m trying to go for a rugged look.” (That’s a lie.)

The waitress comes over and asks what he wants to drink, and just as I predicted, he orders a beer. There’s no way in hell I’m driving him home if he gets drunk, though I bite my tongue and refrain from telling him that.

She gives us a few minutes to decide what we want to eat.

My dad takes advantage of that to flip open the menu and continue the grilling, much like how the tasty-looking Hawaiian chicken breast on the second page looks grilled to perfection. “God knows you need to look like less of a pussy, that’s for sure. That band of yours? What the hell is up with that? You guys all look like a bunch of hockey-team rejects.”

The first string inside of me snaps, and that’s when my first smartass comment shines through. “Well, good thing none of us give a shit.”

He looks at me like I just stepped on a puppy, like he didn’t hear the words that just came out of his mouth. “Listen, I don’t need your little snarky comments.” He gurgles it with a half-smirk.

When I was younger, I knew what the consequences of “snarky comments” were. Back then, he’d burn sketchbooks if I got less than a B on any tests. Back-talking resulted in him ripping up my VHS tapes or snapping my DVDs, if we’re talking high school. But now it didn’t matter – I was so far above him, and that gave me the strength to be a cheeky asshole right back to him.

I sip my pop and raise my eyebrows, purposely looking like a bitch.

He grunts and thumbs through the menu. I do the same, but I already had decided on what to get before he even got here: a good old cheeseburger, slathered in steak sauce and served with a shit ton of fries. (I really do love eating.) My dad’s glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, drooping down as he stares down at the mediocre menu.

The waitress comes by again after we say a whole lot of nothing. My dad orders a steak. I tell the waitress my choice, and my dad sighs and rolls his eyes yet again as she picks up our menus and scurries off.

“Now what are you rolling your eyes at?” I ask, a little harsher than I intended.

“A burger? Really? You think you can afford to eat like that when you’re a frontman?” he nitpicks. Fucking seriously? It’s like he’s accepted the success I’ve gotten from not following his every word, and now he’s trying to poke holes in it. “You already inherited my stockiness.”

“Except I don’t have a beer gut,” I say before I can filter out the dig. For a second I regret it. Then I think to myself, why the hell should I regret telling the truth to this guy when I grew up hearing the same things from him?

He gives me this incredulous glare, and all I can do is smile oh so sweetly.

Then he shakes his head, putting both hands behind his neck and closing his eyes. “Andrew,” he hisses, “let’s not do this. Okay? All I wanted was to have a nice dinner with you and catch up a little bit. Fuck, you’re my son and I haven’t seen your face on anything other than a music video or that one magazine in years.”

Why the hell would he watch our music videos? “I don’t know, you kinda started it.” Childish, yes. True? Definitely.

“There you go again,” he continues. “Let’s just change the subject.”

“Fine by me.”

I wonder if he’s caught on to the fact that I don’t want to see him.

“Tell me what’s new in your life,” he gathers, his voice gravely with a New Yorker twist. (I was only born and raised in Chicago because that’s where Mom lived.)

There are so many directions I can take with that command, but there are just certain things I want to protect from him. I made a lot of awesome friends recently, and my band’s got a new rush of hype. I’m about to add on to my list of lived-out-dreams because Cartoonigans just gave the go-ahead to a series based on my comic Johnny Cool and the Dudes. My band is touring this summer on a wave of awesome reviews and buzz surrounding our next album, which we’re already writing.

And obviously, he can read about almost everything just by going on the Internet or grabbing a copy of Rock Beats Magazine.

“You could probably read about it anywhere,” I laugh nervously, trying to not sound as douchey as I was before. Our band as a pretty well-researched WikiMedia page, for the love of God. “Find out everything you need to know.”

“So you’re just not gonna tell me? You’re gonna avoid talking to me like you’ve been doing?” he pries.

Well, obviously, Dad. What the hell does it sound like?

“Nothing important has really happened to me,” I shrug. “Nothing that hasn’t already been put out in the music world for everybody to hear about, I mean.”

He grunts and gripes some more, muttering inaudible words under his breath. “I mean like personal stuff. Stuff you’d want me to hear. Stuff you want to tell your family. And don’t think I don’t know you talk to your cousins and your aunts, and let me tell you, that’s the kind of shit that hurts.”

Good, I’m glad it hurts. I hope it hurts him as much as it hurt me to have to watch him burn my perfectly-good twenty-dollar sketchbooks (that I bought myself) full of worlds and ideas.

“Well, my personal life isn’t really separate from my career right now. My careers are my personal life,” I admit.

“Am I ever gonna get grandkids, Andy?” Boy, he just comes right out and said it. His head tilted, he stares directly at me.

I curl my lip and hope I convey a look of utter confusion. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I don’t know! I haven’t heard about you getting a girlfriend and you know your time is ticking,” he whines, taking a huge swing of alcohol. “Is everything alright in that area?”

“Are you implying that my dick doesn’t work?”

“I’ve been in and out of the doctor’s office with problems of my own and I don’t know if you’ve inherited them!” he gargles, his voice rising just a tad above the social norm.

He probably doesn’t want to hear this, but whatever. Desperate times call for blunt measures. “Dad, I’m still a virgin.”

He shrugs and his quadruple chin shows. “It still counts if you do it up the butt, Andy.”

I almost spit out the pop right on him in a classic spit take, but I settle for a, “What?!” instead.

“What what? I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” he tries to bargain, “’cause there are far worse things you’ve done with your life. I’m just saying, you’re not a virgin anymore if you do it up the ass and you’re gonna wanna not keep that kind of stuff under wraps!”

I literally could not understand his train of thought. Was it his purpose that night to make things as awkward as possible and make them escalate at the speed of light? “Now you think I’m gay?”

“I never said it quite like that,” he attempted to cover his sorry ass, “but I have seen the way you act around that friend of yours, huggin’ on him and everything. The one you used to bring over in high school all the time.” He takes another nonchalant sip. “Again, I’m just sayin’, I don’t care if they’re adopted, I just want grandchildren.”

I hide my face in my hands. It’s all I can do at this point, especially given the fact that people are now starting to look at us, and when they start to look, somebody’s bound to recognize me. My dad is hardly a quiet guy, and he doesn’t even realize what’s going on.

“You are exactly the same person I wanted to get away from,” I groan through my hands. There’s no way I can keep talking to him in public. Both of us are getting too worked up.

“Just cut the shit and act like a normal human being, kid,” he talks down to me like he does best, grimacing in disgust. “I’m trying to reach out to you.”

That’s when I yank my phone out under the table and send a quick text to Anthony – “HELP.”

I look back up at him and it takes everything not to let loose. “Oh, so suddenly you want to help me? As if I need help from you? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been getting along pretty well, father.”

My phone vibrates and I look down. Anthony’s quick reply says, “k. I’ll be there in 5.”

“What the hell is wrong with you tonight? I was expecting a nice quiet dinner with my only child, and I end up with you pissing all over me,” he warbles as if he genuinely doesn’t get it.

“I was expecting you to be civil – I even thought you’d have changed from the way you pointed out everything wrong with me in high school. I guess I shouldn’t have taken the chance,” I said right back.

He just stares at me like he doesn’t even recognize me, and I hope he doesn’t, because it’s not simply that I’ve changed. It’s the fact that my circumstances have changed, and it’s made me a more confident person.

“Look, I gotta go. Band emergency,” I excuse myself, not wanting to hang around in here for another painful five minutes.

My dad says, “You fucking piss poor excuse of a son,” right as I slide out of the booth and start powerwalking out of the shitty restaurant, my sights set at the door. A waitress walks by carrying my burger on her shoulder, but the hunger that pains my stomach doesn’t matter to me.

It’s the second time I’ve walked out on my asshole of a dad, and man, it feels good.

Like a gift from God, I don’t even have time to stew about how pissed I am at him, because Anthony is already right there, parked in front of the building in his little SUV, the doors unlocked. I rip the passenger door open and jump in, and before I even have time to pull on my seatbelt, he slams the gas pedal and we’re far away from the douche who had the misfortune of making me.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” Anthony asks, half-joking.

“No,” I mumble. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

He bites his lip, glancing at me for a second before looking back on the road. “Did you get to eat yet?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Hell yes I am. I ordered a burger and I couldn’t even sit there long enough for them to bring it out.”

He smiles at my normalcy and then asks, “You wanna swing by a burger joint and just get a bunch of food?”

I lean my head back and moan at the thought of delicious salt and oil grazing my taste buds. “God, that sounds fucking amazing right now.”

He laughs a bit, and at the moment I just get an overwhelming thankfulness for his existence.

“Do you wanna eat inside or do you wanna just sit in the car and eat in the parking lot?” he asks again.

“Let’s just sit in here. I don’t wanna have to deal with any more assholes tonight.”

“You’re already dealing with me, Andy.”

“Well, you’re different. You’re a nice asshole.” That didn’t come out right. “You’re…you’re a good person. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry about pressuring you, though,” he says sheepishly, elbowing me gently. “I didn’t think it would end that badly.”

He knew all about my dad and the kind of shit he put me through, so he had his head on straight. I didn’t and I never did, so things didn’t go as planned. “Don’t worry about it. Someday I might be civil with him.”

We end up ordering ten cheeseburgers at a fast food joint alongside two large orders of fries and two huge milkshakes, and when we park in the back, both of us ravage through the bag to rip it open and reveal such unhealthy deliciousness, tearing through burgers like animals. I’m hungry as hell. It’s probably the anger.

He keeps the radio on, switched to an oldies station, and for a few minutes, we eat in silence.

Night is falling and casting shadows on our home-city, and man, it looks beautiful. It almost makes up for a shitty encounter with my dad, and for that, I can feel the stress lifting from my shoulders. I look over at Anthony; his silhouette is lined with a rim of moonlight right as he crams a wad of French fries into his pretty little mouth.

“You know what my dad asked me?” I have to laugh when I think about what I’m going to say.

Potatoes sticking out from his teeth, he says with his mouth full, “Whaf’d he afk?”

“Well, for starters, he asked me if I was gay,” I begin, grabbing another burger to satisfy my hunger, “and then he basically asked if you and I were ‘a thing.’”

Anthony scrunches his eyebrows together and his eyes get all wide, coffee pinpricks in the middle of shiny eggs. “He asked what?”

“Dead serious!” I gush between snorts. “He thinks that just because we act like friends in our interviews and stuff – he thinks we’re gay together.”

He cringes and takes a moment to shove some more fries down his piehole. “Your dad is a fucking nutcase.”

“I know, right?” The taste of grease dances along my tongue, mingled with cheese and ketchup and mustardy goodness.

The conversation dies down a little bit, but me and Anthony are far too close for it to be an awkward silence. It’s nice and peaceful. I feel calm for the first time that night.

After gulping down a big chunk of shake, I put my hand on his shoulder and tell him, “Hey, thanks for getting me outta there, man. I really owe you for that.”

“No problem. Anytime, Mancakes,” he grins slyly, calling me by a nickname he coined in our freshman year of college when I accidentally walked out of the shower without a towel once. He even threw in a wink.

“Don’t -” I start, but I really can’t tell him to shut up when I’m pretty sure he just saved my life. “Okay. I’ll let that slide. But only because I love you, got it?”

Anthony bites the straw of his shake and laughs. “Aww, you’re so sweet.”

“Anthony.” I raise my thick eyebrows and try to look stern, but for some reason I smile.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”