dental cement
Visiting my father is like visiting an old friend.There is a reason he is an "old" friend, but as he folds himself into my car that reason seems inconsequential. A few words are passed before he begins to fall asleep between sentences leaving long gaps in time for me to meditate upon his words. They're neither choicy nor deliberate but I find myself thinking of them. It's out of necessity. Much like this trip in general is out of necessity (my teeth really needed a cleaning).
The office smells like dental equipment and dental equipment always smells like my dad and the the ladies in scrubs always smile when they say, "Joel, I didn't know you had another daughter!" And I am fascinated by the way it always feels the same.
During the wait we had to get a mango smoothie (he gets weak without sugar). He sat and sipped and told me a story. It wasn't a good one, in fact I have already heard it (10 times) and each time it becomes increasingly more apparent he is really the only character that matters. Also, he confuses my sisters and I and our stories. Which is actually quite sad because we are each 20 and 13 years apart. I am trying, but it's hard to find feelings of love among the pangs of reality jabbing my stomach.
And just before it's time for the hygenist to stab that metal pointed thing between my gums, I give up trying. Because now he is reciting his words with script-like accuracy. Hearing him, is repeating the story of my life. Behind his shoulder, the past waves its hands in the air like a kid desperately sure he has the answer. And before the he is called on my dad steals the glory.
At that moment, on some level, the situation changes. I could be in a Dali painting the scene is so surreal. Things are moving in slow motion. Slow enough that I can actually think of amazing comebacks to each asshole comment out of his mouth.
I say each and every one of them.
No bad words, no mean remarks, no harsh tone of voice, just the truth.
Right then and there as his words are slicing and dicing my insides.
I tell him how badly it hurts.
He starts to cry.
I, of course, don't cry.
It's time for my cleaning (I don't cry during that either, even though it hurts like a bitch). I have to wait 30 minutes after my fluoride treatment before I can eat my sandwich. We chang the subject to more pleasant topics. That feeling I had been struggling to find seems to be breathing just beneath the surface.
I drive him all around town to run errands (his car was totaled in his most recent car accident). I am even listening to stories about "Mary" this woman he likes that works at Wal-mart. He still falls asleep mid-sentence, but this time I didn't mind as much.
And then we pull up to his house. He leaves the broken down Winnebago in the driveway so the IRS will reduce the value of his property. His son comes running out to greet him (we don't make eye contact). A new reality shadows the scene (the one that is happening right now). I remember why it won't ever really work out between us.
Visiting my father is like visiting an old friend-- except that with an old friend, it's relieving to know that you've given up on a relationship that wouldn't have worked out anyway.
posted by d @ 10:17 PM
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