Synopsis: Sharing a bit about myself.

It was a Saturday and I was ten years old. It was a Saturday, but not just any Saturday, it was a Saturday that I was to spend with my father. When you’re a ten year old kid who wasn’t raised by a dad such things are important. It was a Saturday, my aunt, who raised me, was going to work to get some overtime hours at Wyckoff Heights Hospital in Brooklyn and my dad was going to pick me up around eight so I could spend the day with him. I was so excited. My aunt left at 6:30 to make it to her 7 A.M. shift and I was so excited that I quickly ate a bowl of Lucky Charms and made my way out the door to wait. Sure, I was standing on the stoop over an hour early, but maybe my dad would be early and we could get on with whatever fun he had planned for us.

A few years prior, when I was still living with my mom, before the cops came and “rescued” me from her abusive drunk husband Ritchie, I was introduced to my real dad. Until then I wasn’t even sure I had one. There were plenty of times my mother told me I was found in a garbage can and sometimes you’re told a joke so much that you begin to believe it.

I remember the day my mom asked me that very important question. I was in my room, which was at the back of her and Ritchie’s 5 room railroad apartment. My mom came in, cigarette dangly from her lip as always.

“I got something important to ask you,” my mother said as she sat on the edge of my bed.

I figured I was in trouble. I was always in trouble those days. It seems that there was nothing I could do that didn’t result in my pants and underwear being pulled down and Ritchie giving me lashes with a belt. I was nervous. Usually when there was a question being asked, it started out “why would you…” and then a list of offenses, both real and imagined, would ensue. I swallowed and tried not to look guilty. “Sure mom,” I said as casually as I could.

“Sit down.”

I looked at my mom in confusion. I’d never been told to sit down for a question a before.

Mom patter the bed. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

I’ve heard that line before, but on the off chance that my mom was telling the truth I figured I better obey before I was in trouble.

“I was talking to your father. Your real father. To Keith. He would like to meet you.”

The only reason I knew my biological father’s name was because I was named after him. Outside of that one connection I never had anything to do with him. I didn’t know what he looked like, what he sounded like, what he did for a living, nothing. Outside of his minor contribution to my creation, I had no connection to him.

I stared at my mother blankly.

“He thought that you might be interested in getting to know him too,” my mother continued. “It’s up to you though. Would you like to meet your father?”

I thought about it for a few moments and after careful deliberation I came to a logical conclusion. “Nah, that’s okay.” My answer was brief, succinct, and honest. I had enough with my step father beating me, I didn’t need bruises coming from a complete stranger, whether him boinking my mother led to my existence or not.

My mom nodded. “That’s fine, it’s your decision.”

“Sorry.” I always said sorry those days, no matter what I said or did.

“Why don’t you go out and play, dinner will be in a few hours.”

The decision to not meet my dad only lasted three days before I changed my mind. A week later I was introduced to him. He wasn’t all bad. For a few months he was part of my life and we did a lot of cool things together. He took me to the Big Bow Wow, which was an arcade in Ozone Park that had every game imaginable in 1983. He took me to a place that had castoff space shuttle parts, or at least that’s what I thought they were, he took me to the back of LaGuardia Airport at the end of the runway to watch planes take off and land – I was a big plane buff as an eight year old. My dad even helped with the cub scouts and got me involved with them. Then, he just stopped coming around.

In between the first go around of meeting him and the day my aunt went to work early and I waited on the stoop an hour before he came, a lot happened in my life: I was back living with my aunt, which was huge and I lost every friend that I ever knew because the cops removed me from my mom’s home and God only knew the lies she spread about why.

Anyway, a little while after I returned to my aunt’s my dad made a return appearance. It seemed that my mom was demanding a lot of money from him to see me, more than he could afford. It was a believable story, my mom knew how to fleece people and, even though my aunt paid for all I ever needed, I could see my mom trying to get blood from a turnip. My Aunt made good money working at the hospital and she didn’t ask for a dime from my father. All she wanted was for him to be consistent and he was. He didn’t see me every weekend, but he saw me regularly enough to matter.

It was seven-thirty and I was standing on the stoop looking up Himrod Street. It was still a half hour early, but I was eager. I peered over the tops of parked cars to see if anyone was coming, but the road was empty. Being a Saturday, traffic was light and I guess I would have to wait until eight for my dad to show up. That whole half hour only one car drove down the street and it was blue, my dad had a white car so I didn’t get my hopes up.

I sat and waited. I played little games with myself. At first I was give my dad five cars in which to show up to pick me up. After five cars drove down the street, I would give him five more. Traffic was still sparse, but it made the time go by. After four or five rounds, I decided to only count white cars. I would give my dad five white cars to show.

Every time I saw a white car coming from the top of the street I would rise and get ready to go, only to be disappointed that it wasn’t him. I was starting to get hungry, Lucky Charms didn’t last as long as they should.

“He’s just running a little late,” I told myself. “He’ll be here any second and then we can get something to eat. Maybe pizza.”

I stood on the railing of the stoop as another white car approached. This might be him. I straightened up and turned toward the sidewalk. The white car puttered on by.

“Okay,” I said, trying to remain positive. “Five more.”

I waited and I waited. I looked up the block, no cars were coming. I looked down the block and noticed my aunt was walking up the street. I wondered why she was home so early, she was supposed to work all day.

I looked back up the street, surely my dad would come and he could say hi to my aunt and then we can be on our way and my aunt could enjoy what was left of the day by herself.

My aunt made it to the stoop and looked up at me.

“What happened? Did they not need you today and send you home?” I asked.

“What are you talking about, it’s almost 5 o’clock.”

I hung my head. “Oh. Sorry.” I had waited ten hours for nothing. I wasted a whole day counting cars and felt like such a fool.

My aunt was mad. I could tell. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting here all day and he didn’t show.”

“Of course not,” I lied. “I did other things.”

“Get in the house.” My aunt wasn’t pleased. I didn’t know at the time that she wasn’t mad at me, but at my father. As a ten year old, you don’t pick up on these things. I went inside, plopped down on the couch and waited for my aunt to cook me a tv dinner while I felt stupid. It was Saturday, I wasted the whole day, I didn’t even get a chance to see the Mets play on television and I didn’t express how hurt I was.

Two months later I was walking on Seneca Avenue, passing where my Grandma Anna lived. Coming towards me down the block was my dad. Our eyes locked.

“Hey dad,” I mumbled as he stood before me.

“Hi Keith.”

I wanted to tell him I waited for him. I wanted to tell him how much it hurt. I wanted to tell him how utterly foolish and stupid and retarded I felt. I didn’t have the words to express that to him. I still don’t now. I’ve written 20 books and I don’t have the words to express the hurt, only tears. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

My dad looked down at me and gave me a little frown. “I know. It’s just that I got back into drugs and they’re more important to me right now.”

He said those words. Some people say their parents told them drugs were more important, but they are referring to their parent’s actions. It was my dad who actually said the words and he said them straight to my face with the look of someone annoyed that had to be bothered to even explain the situation. I was worth less to the man that gave me life than something that was bad, real bad. I felt less than worthless. I didn’t cry the tears I’m crying now. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I understand,” I said in a monotonous way.

“Maybe I’ll stop by this weekend.”

“Okay,” I said without much excitement. “I got to get going, I’m meeting a friend.” It was the best lie I could think of then I scampered off.

He didn’t even make an attempt to stop me or to say anything, he didn’t even offer me money, I guess he needed that for drugs too. Drugs were more important and who the hell was I to keep him from what he wanted to be around. The one thing I knew was that I wouldn’t be waiting like a fool for him.

Present day, 30 years later. I am up in the morning, playing a video game and listening to Pandora. Felix is in bed next to me on his phone doing whatever. The song Remember When by Alan Jackson comes on Pandora. I really like the song. The fourth verse comes up and this is what I hear:

If you know the song, you know those aren’t the words. I decided to look up the song and find out what the meaning was. Did Alan Jackson have a drug problem and despise having children, I was on the receiving end of that and wanted to read what he had to say. Then I find the real verse is this:

Life has me so jaded, that I make a sad country song even more retched by how my past has tainted me.

I just needed to share. Comment, kudo, laugh, make fun, I don't care. I'm in my bubble crying and I'll probably be here all day.