My Dad on a Drive

Once upon a time, a local radio station in Cleveland used to play classic rock exclusively. Then one day, the dreaded format change occurred, and the radio station became a much edgier, hip haven for all things alternativo.

When I was in the seventh grade, I remember having a tournament basketball game across town. My dad drove me, and the car was virtually silent the whole way there and back, save for the radio pumping out its alternative-style tunes. I don't really recall if we won the game or not, I suppose there was nothing all that remarkable about the game. But on the way back from that game, a strange thing happened. The alternative music stopped, and some sex talk show started.

I should have realized that this would happen. After all, I had listened to this particular station late at night. But the shock was too much, and there seemed to be this odd implicit agreement between my father and I that if he could take it, then so could I. Things became uncomfortable in a hurry. Callers called in with the strangiest of sexual queries. I was astounded and dismayed, in the usual adolescent way. I could only imagine what my dad was thinking as the topics of lesbian experiences, sex toys, and group meet 'n' greets came up across the airwaves. No matter how awkward the situation in the car got though, I was definitely not going to be the one to give in.

I stayed strong until some jackass called in to complain about the effects of humping leopard print sheets. I lost it. For some reason, that was just too much to handle. I changed the station right away. Neither of us ever talked about it.

The above situation was pretty bad. As you can imagine though, things can get worse.

Naturally, as I got older and entered high school, my prurient interests merely enlarged in scope and size, aided and abetted by the worlds and vistas offered by the wonder of dial-up internet connection. My dad was driving me into downtown Cleveland where my school is located, and we were having our typical quiet car time. Out of the blue, he says, "I found some interesting pictures on the computer of a girl going down on a guy." I replied that this was very strange. He then said, "Don't ever do that again. If your mother were to find those, you'd be dead." Clear, concise, and to the point; this was typical of him. We then continued our quiet ride, and I had much to think and be ashamed about.

I learned to at least be very diligent when cleaning out any and all internet file caches.

Perhaps things can get worse than that.

When I was in high school, I spent one of my summer vacations working with my dad at a furniture store where he was the stock manager. The store was looking for extra help as it began remodelling. It was pretty hard work, but the experience was well worth it. One day, I had it particularly rough. We moved a lot of things. I probably broke a couple hundred dollars worth of merchandise. I was yelled at for something. Towards the end of the day, I had to move around a large stack of floor tiles. Per my usual doing the summertime, I probably didn't sleep too much the night before. So as the end of the day drew near, I was definitely ready to go.

I don't really remember what triggered what happened next. I just remember being very mad and upset and wanting to quit. But I didn't say anything. After closing time, I got into the car with my dad and started bawling my eyes out. I cried the entire way home. I didn't look once at my dad though. I was just staring out the window, trying to muffle any sound. I felt terrible, weak, and pathetic. But I would have felt worse if my dad asked me about it, and so I tried as hard as I could to not let him see.

Of course, it would impossible to miss the sight of your first born son crying his eyes out in the seat next to you while on a car ride home. But I guess he understood and knew not to say anything.

It doesn't seem to be in his nature to do otherwise. Although he was short on advice, he knew when to bail me out of trouble.

At any rate, I was fine by the next day, and the rest of the summer was an enjoyable one.

I had been thinking about what I'd be like as a father. I think that I'd be the type to say a lot of things and make a lot of speeches. When I get going, I can be long-winded like that. Over the course of three vehicular moments which may or may not have been pivotal in my formation from adolescence into adulthood, my father had a sum total of about six or seven words. I don't want to think of my dad as being afraid to talk to me, so I'm going to suppose that he knew what he was doing. Besides, there was much strength behind his silent messages. And he respected me enough to be able to figure it all out later. Truly, one can make his presence strongly felt and his message heard without any degree of loudness.