04/04/26
Dad. My dad's funny. My dad's angry. My dad's me.
From time to time, we go on errands together. A weird space of cars, and liminality, and the news. Today was weird. Our car chat was coloured with 80s RnB. I was too shy to tell him what I wanted to play on the AUX, so I just typed it in. I chose I Get Lonely by Janet Jackson. I don't like saying the song I'll play before I play it.
To tell you the truth, I can't stand sitting in the passenger seat at all. There's too much urgency. In the backseat, you're just spectating. You're being taken. There's a weird requirement of activity, of alertness, in the front seat, that simply does not compute with my idea of being in a car. Obviously, I hate driving too. I can't drive. It makes me feel like a kid. In a great way. In a, 'responsibility hasn't caught me' way.
Anyways, Car. We were on the way to Indigo. My dad has a very no-nonsense approach when it came to books. I saw the popular row right by the Manga section once we got there, I said 'there isn't enough money in the world'. He wasn't listening. He said I should try getting a job if I wanted to talk about money.
In the car, we were talking about the news, about gas. Before that, we spoke about stew. Our jackets smelled of it. If he'd realized he would've sprayed some Thing that rid us of the stench. I kind of hate the smell of stew mixed with fabric. In an, unfortunately, slightly xenophobic way. It makes me feel dirty.
The cold would've rid us of the smell, so all I said was: Well, can't do anything now. My dad really is funny. We spoke about gas, I said: The Iran War reaches far and wide. He said, yes it does.
I asked him how many gallons it took to fill a car, he said 10. He told me about peoples conspiracies regarding why Trump was so insistent on decimating Iran. Apparently, to some analysts, it's to decimate the Middle East so totally that people have no choice but to buy gas from North America. I said: It's always about money. He said, It's not fact.
I want to know more, I want to be more in tune with world events, I said. But watching the news is like being thrust into a pool of knowledge I can't make any sense of. He asked me if I had 'X', and if I followed news pages. I said yes, but no. We then spoke about how Mom tends to yell out news headlines frustrated, that I'd more or less heard on Twitter. Man, she's funny like that. Lately, she's been on me about my room. She does this thing with her face where she purses her lips and screws her face at me when she's being mad. It's cute.
She says we have, Beef like 50 Cent. I asked her what that meant, she said whenever 50 Cent has beef with someone all you can do is beg, that he won't let up. I asked her what that meant for us, twice. She said nothing. We laughed.
Okay, okay. This is the funny part. In the thick of chatting about the news, and the world, my dad brought up Pam Bondi. God, I had a laugh. He said she was cantankerous. When you think cantankerous, you think evil old bastard. Not a tacky old politician. Keep in mind, my dad is a 47 year old born and bred Nigerian man. With a Bible tuned vocabulary to boot. All I could do was laugh. I asked, why cantankerous? He said, because she's a nasty, horrid woman with a bad attitude; calling Harvard trained lawyers fake professionals. He said she thought she was young, and overconfident come to find out she's 60. Something about how being a young executive could lead to 'God Syndrome'. He said it just made him officious. He even called her a witch, but that was later. I wish I remembered exactly what he said. He honestly went on. I probably said something about how everyone Trump erects into his cabinet is unclassy anyway.
Right, Indigo. He's like me. All business. When I'm with someone all I want to do is talk, and talk and talk. He had none of it. It was a bit humbling, you could say. I felt rushed and too free at the same time. I bought White Noise by Don Delillo, this'll come up later. We went to the Bible section. I said: Look Dad, there's an Oxford Classics version of the Qu'ran. He's not as extremely online as I am, so he's not as entrenched in Classics versions or really book publishers as I am. Ask him the difference between NYRB and Penguin Classics and he'll shrug. He said, Oh, it'll probably be good to learn more about their religion. Big God guy, he is. The moment had a colour of sadness, the mirror of age pointing right onto me. It was too real. I had to read the little prices on the backs of the Bibles to him. He can't read small anymore. I said, you're getting old, Dad. He said, I thought I could live forever. I replied, don't we all? In my little front of irreverence. The truth is, age is terrifying. I'm right on the cusp, you know? Right on the damn cusp of University. I've accepted my offer already. I haven't told anyone. I'm scared I made the wrong choice, even though there was no other choice for me, not really.
We check out. I got a 40% discount, 20% because the book was a little torn in the back, another 20 'cause I had one of those discount bookmarks that last about a week. It expired tomorrow, on Easter. My dad told her for me, I'm simply not confrontational that way. I hate making a big deal of things, it's a flaw. He pronounced torn, like 'tern'. He also says crisps, like 'crips'. Mom and I give him shit for it.
We go to Winners. Winner, Homesense, Marshall's. All the damn same. We got Serums for my mom. Power Collagen EX. The Korean stuff. She's trying to escape wrinkles, or something. My dad pointed to a 5-in-1 cream concoction and said he'd purchase. All I said was, you're such a guy, Dad. He bought Macho Beard Oil. I seriously saw whiskey themed body wash. Masculinity is sort of ridiculous. I FaceTimed my Mom while walking around Winners. I complained about looking a mess. She said, you just realized? We both laughed.
We perused the candle section, we were about to buy one.. Rose Something, was it? All of the candles were $13. Why $13? I don't know. We wandered through the Men's clothing section. I sort of hate Men's clothing. Especially in places like Winners. Dunno, just irks me. He said, Oh look, it's a Canada jacket. It was white, and red, and had Canada in big letters on the back.
I said, it's too… Canada. If you wanna say Canada, just wear the Maple Leaf. No need to show the world.
He said, Haha, so you're more of an understated sort of person? I replied, I guess. We happened upon power banks. 30 bucks. I put it down and said, I'll just wait until I go Uni to buy it. He said, just ask your Mom to get it for you. I said, I'll just get it myself. He said to try anyway. We waited in the line to check out. I asked, do you hang out with my Brother like this? He says, well you know him. He only wants to go out when there's a game. And he only talks to you to say: There's a game. It's R-rated. And expensive. I want it.
He spoke about how he could just complain, complain, complain 'til kingdom come. I said it's funny how he has no shame in it either. If he wants something he'll just come right out and say it. If he needed a Grizzly to buy him lunch he'd just come right over and be like, you're still buying me Mcdonald's right?
Kid's funny. We buy the Macho Beard Oil and the Korean stuff. We hop in the car for a great long one minute drive to Value Village. Fuckin' jackpot. I walked through there expecting nothing, but was delighted. You know Dad. All business. He's lightly warning me that I need to save money. I found the fourth book of the Neapolitan novels for $6.99. Six bloody ninety-nine. I said: I just hit the jackpot. I might as well have yelped. He told me I was overreacting, that it's Value Village: you're meant to find Value. I said, whatever, you just don't get it.
He loves Sidney Sheldon, Jeffery Archer and Dan Brown. I haven't the faintest clue what any of those guys write about. But, you always seem to find them in thrift stores so there's that, I guess. I've yet to read one. This summer I'll try out Mr. Sheldon. I trust my dad's book recommendations, I think. There were kids looking at the Spy & War, Horror and Mystery section. It made me think of my Brother. Stupid kid, I thought, all he cares about is basketball. Look at those kids, I said, they're probably around my Brothers age. Yeah, he said.
My parents already putting the hammer down on my brother since he seems to literally have no other ambition outside of it, so I abstain from mentioning my true feelings. I was probably just as annoying and indifferent at 13. Or 14? God, I can never remember how old the kid is. I got The Story Of The Lost Child, and A Fine Balance. It's a book about life, Dad, I said.
He bought them for me, plus a Jeffery Archer book. A Long Story Short: A short story collection. I said, I don't know how to feel about short story books. He said, it depends on the author. All I thought about was Bright Dead Things by Ada Limon. Her poetry felt important. Cryptic, sometimes but important. I need to take a closer look probably. He said I buy too many books and don't read them, that I need to find a way to make money off of reading books. What if when you're done, you resell them? He said. I replied, what if I want to read it again? You're not serious, he laughed.
In this reminder of a reminder, I'm reminded of when me and a friend took apart a Richard Siken poem about some horse one late night. About love, and horses, and Arabian Nights. I think he went on a date earlier that night. He asked me if I approved. I said yes. Why does my approval even matter? He said I never hold back the truth.
We talked again about Pam Bondi. He said that Trump only got rid of her because she has an iota, a shred of conscience. That he was going to find the next soulless lawyer to do his deeds for him. How he felt bad for her kids, with their mother being disgraced in the news like that. What people might say about them, especially if they're young adults. He told me a story about a guy he went to school with. Sharp. Everything he owned was fancy. People poked fun, when his father was disgraced for embezzling funds. He remembered his full name. Apparently they said things like, so the fancy car you drive to school with, your dad bought that with stolen money? I said, what can you even do about that? He said, all he did was cry; wah-wah. He mock-cried to really sell it.
This is where it goes to shit. We drive to the gas station. He laments the high gas prices. We get to one near our house. 173.9, it read on the sign. I haven't the faintest clue what that means either. Apparently, it's a sign of the times. I asked him how many gallons it took to fill a tank, he said 10. As I'm writing this, I'm reminded of my dads smile. He had a tooth removed some years ago, some filling business, or something. He never got it back in. It gives him a sort of boyishness every time I see it. That's my dad, with the missing tooth. It's in about the place you see little boys missing teeth in cartoons. You need to be on his right side to see it. I dunno. I just wanted to put that thought to writing.
He filled it up, he had a coupon for a free car-wash. Why not, he said. Why not?
Well, frankly, it was all wrong from the beginning. He inched up the little incline. Inch by weird inch. It felt like we were driving on something we weren't meant to drive on. He went up, bumpy, weird, he went back, bumpy, weird. He reversed one last time, then:
Pop! Fsshhhhhh.
A fucking flat. I foolishly thought maybe, somehow, some-fucking-how, the door to the damn car wash made that noise, and it was lifting, and everything was okay.
The car's fucked! He said. He doesn't curse unless it's something. Of course it's fucking something! I'm writing this with the fresh frustration of being out in the cold for some 20 minutes, typing away on my phone, angrily, to a friend. Giving him a light, sometimes, fucking kneeling and getting my sweatpants all wet. God, this was all wrong. I didn't moisturize enough, my outfit was terrible. If I hadn't found the book I'd been searching for, passively, for months for six fucking ninety-nine, the pendulum wouldn't have swung back and fucked us.
It's funny, my hindsight is filled with anger, in the moment I was quite jovial. My Mom called at about a quarter past nine. I was chatty. Giggly. The absurdity of it was hilarious. It still kind of is.
The thing is: my dad's hardly handy. He hated it just as much as I did. We were both kids, on the side of a gas station, right by a stupid car-wash. I had peace for a few minutes. I was reading White Noise. I got to a sentence that I think I'll never forget, it was something like: Aristotelian bubble gum wrappers and detergent. Or something. I'm just completely zoned in on the use of Aristotelian. I spoke about this to my mom on the phone, while my dad demanded a refund on the gas. I said, see, I sort of get Aristotle as a concept. He was the guy who was grounded in reality, not ideas. He said forms are right in front of us. But what does that mean for bubble gum wrappers and detergent? I couldn't stop giggling about it.
I'm going to tell you about me sitting outside, watching my dad replace the tire. It was awful. Cold, wet, awful, ugly. All the things. I read in a book, Fifth Business, that being outside too much creates some sort of clear-eyedness that's found in 'Tramps'. I felt it, chilling my bones. The restlessness. The goddamn cold. Cold really gets you in your extremities. My fingers were half numb. My dad was petulant. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing right now, he said at a point. It was hilarious to me. I'm not sure why. I just kept thinking about Aristotelian bubble gum wrappers. And how my dad was like a great big kid. How we were both kids, for a while.
I'm getting to it. Hold on.
When we got home, I wanted to say, and badly, that I felt like I'd just become a man. This was the final wheel turning in my boring, useless, coming of age movie.
Alright. He calls my name. I get out, close the book immediately, it's funny, I was about to take a photo of the damn bubble gum sentence. I tried to get out as fast as I could, as to not annoy him. This is the type of situation where any little thing can become something. You have to toe the line perfectly between irreverent and cooperative. He was, like, using a Thing to push the car up. Jack? I couldn't stay in and be extra weight, he said. He first tried to take the tire off, unscrew the bolts. He had to push the car all the way up to rip it off. Boy, was I cold. I was pacing back and forth, my jacket wasn't zipped, my hood was off, all the things. I gave him a light when he set the spare tire free, we had to use a YouTube video and 'cut ourselves some slack', or I guess, 'release ourselves some slack'. I remember vividly that 'release ourselves some slack' was a joke Olive made on Ant Farm. I couldn't have been older than 10 watching that show. My hands were freezing off, I felt awful for my dad. I felt awful for me. It was windy as hell, the wind blew right through me. Through my eyes, my legs, my lips, everywhere. He said if I was cold I should wear the blanket. I did. It helped, although I had to stay perfectly still.
At last, the tire was off. Around then, my Mom called. I picked up.
Hey Mom, we're at the gas station. You're not gonna like what's happened, I said. What happened? she replied, anxious. I couldn't help it. I had to give it to her funny. Make it all a joke. In a way, it was.
We got a flat, I said. What? She replied. A flat tire, I repeated. Noooo, this is the last thing we need right now, she said. She kept repeating that whenever Dad and I complained. I said nothing to that.
My brother in the background asked us when we were getting home. I was shocked at his concern. Dad asked what Mom was asking. Mom wasn't asking anything. So I asked my brother why he cared. And he said, Friday treat. Fucking kid. We got a flat and he has the effrontery to ask about some Mcdonald's. I laughed and laughed. That really perked me up. I said, we just got a flat and you think Dad's in the mood to go to the Mcdonald's drive-thru and order a Big Mac? Are you insane?
My dad was pretty unconcerned with that. Which surprised me.
Getting the spare out of the bottom was a whole ordeal. I half expected it to be pretty much the same breadth as our regular tire. I realize how wishful that was. Scrawny little thing. Looks like it'd be a regular tire on a car maybe half as big. It depressed me. It reminded me that this wasn't over. We drove back lamenting the choices that led us up to that damn car-wash. We came home, I brought my books back. I ate rice and stew with no meat, because I technically wasn't allowed to eat the stew she just cooked, so I slipped in the stew with no beef.
She still has Beef with me though. Room's shit. My brother somehow got more bothersome. It's like he has a meter that, when the tension in the room rises, it's time to ramp up the annoying. He makes me hate being touched, sometimes. He does it with a sort of menace that makes me feel deeply disrespected. It makes me want to chase him. I'd like to think he can't help it, that deep down he's trying to connect. If he wants to connect he's going to have to tell me the old fashioned way.
My Mom says we're too big to act like that. Literally, too big. Too much body weight and sprawl, I suppose. He's 6'1" you know. I'm 5'9". I honestly can't believe it. He has such a bean head and a 13-year-old face that he looks like he should be shorter than me. He's like a blown up baby.
Bah. I'm just ranting now. Anyways, this was my Saturday evening.