He was six feet and slim with Spanish brown eyes. The rest was Swiss and French and a few other things; Irish descended from the doomed Spanish Armada perhaps. I have three pictures from their wedding in ‘63 and his mug shot from a radio station where he DJ’d for a while after years of moving from job to job in Minnesota, Arizona, and finally back to California. They were too young, married too soon, and the divorce was final in early ‘69, but thanks to his old man and their lawyer and the lawmakers in the state capitol who’d stacked the deck against single mothers, there was no alimony or child support: there was welfare, food stamps, menial jobs and help from my grandparents. He managed a few visits after that, and when my mom started dating a Jew from Connecticut who would soon become my stepfather, my biological stopped coming around in early 1970. I was three. I don’t remember any of it, but once I was old enough to notice he was missing, I was told he’d remarried and started another family, by which time he'd already disappeared. In 1990 I decided to find him. I had his name, date of birth, and my grandmother furnished the rest: “A radio announcer and an artist, a painter, a good one, but restless. They moved around the country from one job to the next but eventually came back, and after you were born, your dad got a job at KGBS in L.A. One day your mom went to visit him at the station, and caught him there with another woman. That’s how it ended. But it was over between them anyway. Your other grandfather saw to that. John Sr. was a bastard.” I wasn't using that last part in my search, but it was true: my biological's parents were verbally abusive alcoholics and amateur actors who hovered around Hollywood, occasionally landing minor parts in low-budget movies and t.v. shows. I've been told (though I've never confirmed) that John Sr. had played the town drunk in a few episodes of Gunsmoke—with no rehearsal necessary. My biological's mother, Teddy, had drowned in the bathtub when I was two months old, the result of an alcohol-related heart attack. Not having $500 to hire a P.I., I went to the Salvation Army which had a family locator service. For $5 they would contact the Social Security Dept. which in turn would send him a letter. He’d reply to the letter, contacts would be exchanged, and we’d finally talk or perhaps even meet. Just like that. Except it didn’t happen ‘just like that.’ They found him and sent the letter and he didn’t reply. Keep trying, call him, I insisted. But there was only silence. Then my grandmother died on the Ides of March in 1991, and worse, I had to miss her funeral: Desert Storm meant that my orders for Navy Dive School were accelerated months ahead of schedule. But after six weeks in Pearl Harbor I was back in California—and still nothing. Just tell me where he is! But they couldn’t. They were hamstrung by the Privacy Act and had to cancel the inquiry. It was over. During this time, my eyes had inexplicably turned from my biological’s deep caramel to my own olive green. I cast off his name which I hated anyway, and assumed my grandmother’s maiden name instead. Some friends were telling me I’d always be ‘damaged’ for lack of a stable father figure, whatever the hell that meant; and I don’t have those friends anymore. But as I write these broken lines about you, I try to imagine where you might be. Are you still above the dirt or below it? I wonder if you’re speaking into a microphone, your voice carried on a distant frequency; whose old records you’re spinning today; who you're secretly romancing in the studio. Are you still playing at being an artist, which, I have to tell you from experience, is something you can never truly be until you've resolved to inhabit your own skin? I wonder if my skin is meant to be prose, aching to shed its veneer of poetry. But mostly I wonder why you never answered, and how you’ve managed to hide yourself for 47 years. But there's no need to dissolve this further with lazy and inconsiderate remarks—cheater, quitter, deadbeat dad, you owe me five bucks, etc.—or a lazy excuse for my own failures—they're all your fault—so I'll just leave it here, with a distant, echoing reminder from the past that your presence was missed; that today was your day.
Memory hole, I like it. This is heavy and good, and really sucked me in. Thanks for sharing Robin, it’s a lot. Happy Father’s Day to you. Bill
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Thanks and Happy Father’s Day to you if you’re celebrating. Cheers.
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Yes, I am — I took the leap and thought I remembered you had kids, but then thought “that would be weird if he doesn’t,” but so be it. It’s a good day. I’m lucky to have two sweet girls, Lily and Charlotte, 11 and 8. Life is good. Props up to you from Seattle to LA, I think. Bill
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As it turns out, I don’t have kids of my own but have helped to raise my niece and nephews. Close enough I suppose. Thank you.
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Well that’s cool, then you’re a dad. It’s context as much as biology perhaps. A twist on the theme of your piece, perhaps.
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A bit confusing but essentially correct. it was your grandmother Teddy that died in the bathroom and John senior. YUCKKK> Told your dad what to do. Lucas is a fine name and my grandfather John Roland would be very proud of you. Love ya son an thanks so much for the pictures. by the way Whats child support? LOL
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Thanks, mom. I wrote as best I could with the stories I know about. Love you.
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Cool story. Sad ending.
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