by Thomas J. Kunz

I tried to tell myself that I was simply wired, in need of a little drive, a few bursts of nicotine, and that after a few miles I would go home, but the more I headed north, past the abandoned strip bars and bait shops along the bay, the more I realized my destination, knowing that when I actually arrived there, I would probably turn around and immediately come home, but the night taunted me with persuasive whispers, warning me that I wouldn’t have a second chance and that if I possessed a single shred of desire to see him, I needed to put everything else aside and go there immediately.

When I arrived outside his building, a small triplex next to one of those 24-hour super food centers, his office light shone down on the deserted parking lot. I parked my car next to a scattered assemblage of carts, cut off the engine, and watched his office light for over twenty minutes until the shadowy shape of a man rose from his chair and turned off the light. I waited for a moment and contemplated my next move, but I was paralyzed, afraid of running into him, of what he’d say to me, if the five years between us would climax with a rash of harsh words and a series of wild punches.

When he stepped out of the building, the night cloaked his appearance and showed only the ominous figure that was my father. He made his way through the parking lot toward the food center. The tails from his charcoal trench coat flapped in the warm breeze behind him, his tie adjusted precisely and showing absolutely no sign that he had loosened it at any point throughout the day, his distinguished beard with flecks of gray tamed close to the skin. His polished shoes reflected the streetlights and flashed like holograms in motion—all of it spinning around my eye’s iris like a carousel.

He reeked of money. When he entered the supermarket, I stepped out of my car, out of myself it seemed, and glided numbly through the parking lot toward the entrance. On the storefront’s glass windows, a large advertisement read: Ruby Red Grapefruit, eighty-nine cents each, and just below it, where the ad’s torn edges fluttered in the wind and attempted to escape, I saw my father’s arm behind the glass. He reached for a small shopping basket, the onyx ring on his finger, the hair on his knuckles. Manicured nails. The gold links in his watchband felt like a chain around my neck, dragging me closer to him.

I followed him to aisle nine: Soup, Rice, and Dressings. He stood at the aisle’s end and placed a soup can into his basket. I squatted and pretended to scan over the bottles of salad dressing, the voice in my head yelling: What kind of soup do you usually buy? Why are you shopping so late at night? How can you possibly think about soup after everything you’ve done to me? Do I even cross your mind at all? Would you even recognize me if I said hello? His presence, pretentiously threatening, evoked a superfluity of possible answers that weakened my knees.

He rounded the corner to the bakery. When I walked to the bottom of aisle nine and examined the soup cans, trying to figure out which kind he had taken, his voice contaminated my ears in a conversation with the late night baker. I reared my head alongside the end cap and watched him sift through bags of fresh rolls.

"Late night again, Mr. Parker?" The baker asked.

"Always." My father laughed.

I thought I heard the milk curdling.

The baker’s name was Gary—mid-twenties, Italian, thin dark hair slicked back.

"I just put out a fresh batch of those Portuguese rolls you like. They’re over there next to the pitas."

"Wonderful," my father cleared his throat. "That’s splendid. How’s the accounting class going?" His voice birthed a disquieting effect.

"I’m six credits shy of my bachelor’s," Gary replied with confidence.

"You remember to come and see me when you get out. I’ll get you started off right."

I became virulent with anger. I didn’t know Gary’s last name, where he lived, if he played any sports in high school, the girl he had taken to his senior prom, his favorite book or movie, whether or not he lived with his parents, or if he would marry after college, have children and every morning bake them his famous Portuguese rolls that my father apparently loved so much. I knew nothing about him, his theories on religion or politics, his opinions about how Italian-Americans were portrayed in movies or television shows, but I absolutely despised everything about him.

My father proceeded to a greeting card display, and his eyes surveyed the various themes: birthday, graduation, get well, congratulations. He eventually moved on toward the checkout. I didn’t even consider the possibility of him purchasing a card for me, perhaps it was for Gary, perhaps he intended to deliver it personally at his graduation party where my father would feast on catered food and Italian rum cake, pose in family pictures with his arm around Gary, making jokes with Gary’s family, and maybe after twenty-some years, he’d write a letter of recommendation to whatever graduate school Gary’s children wanted to attend or give him and his wife—pregnant with their third child—financial advice on selecting the right home equity loan with the best interest rates.

My father dropped his items, one by one, on the counter, and the youthful checkout girl smiled at him. Everyone working the nightshift at the Clearborn Independent Food Market seemed to know my father better than I did. But what did they really know? Did they see the man who threatened to nail my balls to the wall when I came home with a letter of bad conduct from Miss Hollowich in the first grade? Or maybe the night he went to the police station to pick up his feckless, foul-mouthed son, who was mistakenly charged with grand theft auto, drug possession, and being under the influence? No. They saw the carbon copy, the man who ate rolls and soup after working long hours, his tasteful suits and jewelry. That man was a lie.

From the corner of aisle nine, I watched him pick up his grocery bags and exit the supermarket. I forced his image out of my mind with each drag of my cigarette, but I still desired a closer look and considered following him to his house where I’d watch him through the window as he unpacked his groceries. On the road, the white lines laughed at me. The rain pattered against my windshield. And I tried to remain rational. I dared to acknowledge our similarities. I kept asking myself the same questions over and over, finally admitting them. Why was I so timorous? Afraid of our resolution? I cried for a touch of alchemy, Cliffs Notes on family coping or an Idiot’s Guide to Absent Fathers.

On the drive home, I wondered if Gary the baker would be sleeping in my bed, holding my pillow as the night faded into morning where he’d pay my next month’s rent, associate with my friends, live in my apartment, wear all of my favorite clothes, brush his teeth with my toothbrush and laugh at me through the bathroom mirror as the great and powerful Oz stepped out from behind the curtain and told me that my life didn’t belong to me anymore.