How could you be so dumb David? I began to squirm in my two-foot-wide greyhound bus seat. The most uncomfortable feeling in all the world is perhaps the dreadful moments, minutes or hours of agony as one sits in the messy diaper of his own mistake, unable to change the already set in motion course of action. The city of Chicago has always called to me; it is the birthplace of Donald Thomas, deadbeat father of David Redd. My father left me very little other than his hazel-green eyes which shine like glistening cataracts when filled with hysteria, a blanket with a doe on it gazing out into the snow covered forest, and the idea of his home city. I was never even so much as humored with a picture of him, and as for all the things he did leave me I am left with only the trust that my mother would not lie to me about his eyes, my blanket, or his hometown. Even that left the grinding feeling of doubt in a young David’s mind, after all, did she not lie to me when she let me call another man “dad” for seven years? Nevertheless I clung onto those things as if they were really my own. Peered with blank pride through the bathroom mirror into my hazel eyes every morning searching for his soul. Never let the blanket leave my side, even when I moved out (that is until I burned a hole into the corner of it one night smoking weed). And that city, I loved it from afar as if I walked its very streets. I’d spend summer afternoon after summer afternoon in my living room with the tv turned to WGN as the cubs struggled to play baseball with better teams. I’d run around with a sock and back-scratcher in hand, pretending not to be Sammy Sosa or Starlin Castro, but David Redd, his own baseball rock star (I’d later learn my dad was a Sox fan). I listened to Kanye, to Lupe, to Common and later to Chance, to Vic Mensa, Alex Wiley, Mick Jenkins, Kembe X and the likes. I would pick up on the subtle draw and vernacular of my Chicago friends I’d met in college. I didn’t ever tell them I secretly envied them, even sought to be like them, though I’m sure they knew anyways. For the longest time I wanted to be that baseball player, so one day he could look up at a billboard, see my face, and go through the lengths to find me as I had done for him. But David Redd was small, skinny, and he let people tell him that – despite league championships and all-star awards – small skinny kids didn’t play pro ball. I went to college, I wanted to make money, and I wanted my name to be known. I studied political science; someday I’d travel to Chicago’s southside and lead a movement. I’d knock on doors day in and day out handing out pamphlets and fighting the man until one day I’d knock on his door and he’d cry at the joy that his creation had become. I could have been either of those things perhaps, but I would not have found myself. So when my fraternity brother’s debut album came out and his release concert was announced of course I was head over heels to head to Chicago to see him. I love my brother of course, though I had barely spent any time with him, but really David was just looking for an excuse to finally lay eyes on the canvas where the idea of himself had begun to take shape. “I’ll be on the bus tomorrow,” I eagerly told him. 4 hours into a miserable ride on a bus with three babies, one bathroom (which I had to set right next to), dreary gray seats of which not one was empty, I get a message from him. He’s partying tonight. He won’t be responsible and doesn’t think it wise for him to be responsible for me. He’s trying to see a girl he likes and honestly, I’ll be a burden to him while I’m here. That’s fine. I reply. It’s my fault for being such a cluck. For getting my hopes up so high. How could David be so dumb, to head to Chicago impromptu with no confirmation. Idiot. David you idiot. I’m not sure how this story ends. I’m sure I will find a friend to stay with. I’m sure I will still see the concert and have a great time. I’m sure this will be something I look back on and smile. I am sure when my mom finds out she will flip. Perhaps she won’t because she knows in my heart how long I’ve been trying to come, that I’ve been so eager I’d let David the little boy make decisions instead of my adult self. I’m sure I’ll forgive myself someday. But what I’m most sure of is that I won’t find my father. Not today. Not ever.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Archives
October 2018
Matt BruceViva DSM!! |