“Look, Bud, I’m sorry,” my dad said. He hugged me tight, bathing me in a mixture of Old Spice, beer, and cigarettes. “I had some work to catch up on, so I wasn’t able to make it to your game. You’re usually on the bench anyway, so…” he sighed ruefully.
“But Tommy Myers was sick today, so I got to bat!”
“That’s terrific, champ,” he said, stifling a yawn behind his smile. “Howja do?” he slurred.
“I hit a home run! I’m going to be on the starting lineup next Saturday!”
“Wow,” dad yawned. “What position?”
“Outfield.”
“Sounds about right. I’ll see if I can make it.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“I know, Bud, but I’ve got to earn the money to keep a roof over our head so that you can go out and play.”
“You work on Saturday nights?”
“I’ve got to entertain clients,” he said. “It sounds like fun, but it means I’ve got to spend a lot of time with people I don’t really care about.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“People are more likely to sign a contract when they’ve been dr… having a good time.”
“Can you come have a good time with me next week at the game?”
“I promise.” His lips flattened as if the words were bitter. “I promise to try.”
Dad was reliable. You could rely on him to let you down. He could understand and honor a legal contract, a mortgage, or an obligation to pay bills, but not how to honor a relationship. He invested so much time with strangers that eventually everyone in his life became one, save a few bartenders and waitresses who liked keeping relationships transactional.
My mom finally got sick of pretending when I entered high school. She ended up with the house and monthly checks, so life didn’t change that much for her. I went to college in another state on a baseball scholarship and ended up staying there because of a girl and a job. Mom came to the wedding, but dad just sent a toaster from the registry. It was nice. It lasted longer than he did.
We got notice of the funeral from his lawyer. Mom didn’t want to go, but changed her mind when I gave her something to read to the loose collection of drunks at his memorial service:
“Dear dad. I’m sorry, but I have some work to catch up on, so I won’t be able to make it to your funeral. I have some important clients to entertain. I’m going to take them to Disneyland so they can meet Mickey Mouse instead of a dead man in a box.that they never met. I’ve been playing the game of life and now you’re permanently benched. Maybe if you show him a good enough time, St. Peter will let you through those Pearly Gates.”
Literature in Small Doses 