Dad and I

Written by: Brad Jones

My dad and I have always had a rocky relationship. We never really spent much time together, aside from the odd camping trip or football game. This was especially true after my parents divorced. For several years, I would visit his house every other weekend, but it always went the exact same way: Id immediately seal myself in my room, play video games, and count the minutes until I could go back home again. We would occasionally cook dinner together, or when money was alright, wed go out to eat. Wed go see movies together, but we never really talked about anything important. Politics was a dangerous place to walk with him, and I often didnt have the effort to even attempt it. We were always different in little ways, but it wasnt until the summers that I really noticed how different the two of us really were. One summer, I worked as an intern at his company. They needed a new website, and asked me to build it for them. I worked for about 6 weeks, meeting mostly with my dad, who had managed the website content before. It was mostly a pleasant experience, and I found myself having a lot of free time to browse the internet and plan what I got to do when I got home. One day, I went to lunch with a few of his friends. On the way back, we were talking about all kinds of things, having a good time. I remember staring out the window, and noticing a ton of birds flocking around. Its incredible how we all came from the same place, but were now clearly so different...

Evolution is incredible. The tires squealed as he slammed on the breaks. I panicked and sat up, looking around. The road we were on was empty. I looked at my dad, and he was just staring at me. What are you talking about, Brad? Evolution. Evolution of what? Birds, people, everything why? you believe in Evolution? you dont?! He didnt say anything else. He didnt have to. I could feel his rage, burning red hot. In a word, I was a bit scared. I had never seen him this upset, not since he and my mother still lived together. The rest of the car ride was eerily silent. The others with us said nothing. When we got back to the office, the battle began. It was me versus the world, and at age 15, I wasnt even prepared for what would happen next. I was used to being bullied, for being laughed at for seeing things differently than most, but I wasnt ready to see grown, respected adults ridicule me like that. I heard the same terrible statements as I had before: If man evolved from monkeys, why do we still have monkeys? I aint ever seen a monkey at the zoo give birth to a human! Darwin is of the devil, and if you listen to him, you are destined to end up there. I was horrified that my DAD would throw me to the wolves like that. I could get past his religious beliefs, but this was another level. You see, my dad was a politician. A failed one at that. He was Assistant Mayor of Maumelle, the small town I grew up in, for some time, and built his life around the Republican dream to make himself more appealing. He became Catholic, just to promote his image. He attended all the political functions, leaving my mom and I behind each time.

Then he took to drinking. Eventually my mom had enough of it, and they divorced. Even after that, he still kept that political drive. I would often hear him in the living room, echoing the shouts of the likes of Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, and other hardcore conservatives. A few summers later, after graduating high school, I moved into his house. Things got tense at home between me and my step dad, and I needed space. My dad would patrol the house, armed with a small pistol and blistered drunk. He told me he was trying to protect me. I was only terrified. I only found comfort in the same old habits: playing games online. I would still lock myself in the back room, typing away late into the night, until I would hear a familiar knock at the door. Bradley, he would say, eyes glazed over. We need to talk do you know how much I love you? I would just grunt and keep focusing on my game. Yes, he was drunk, again. He could never say something like that sober, at least with that level of sincerity. Id usually brush it off, as I knew I would be going home the next day or so, but in the summer, especially this time, I was trapped. At this point, he would usually scoot closer to the monitor, slowly but surely. His breath would smell like vodka, the cheap kind; the kind that smelled like rubbing alcohol mixed with sorrow and bitterness. Eventually, hed get frustrated, and turn off the monitor. Then I would just glare at him until he got the message and walked away. This time, however, he unplugged the computer instead. I snapped. Why now, dad? What do you want to accomplish?! I dont care about any of this. How much did it take for you to get in here tonight; a bottle? Maybe two? Im tired of your constant sorrow, your bigoted opinions, and your ignorance! Now leave me alone. I never raised my voice, and I dont like arguing with people, but at that moment, I didnt care anymore.

Ive only seen my dad cry three times. Once was when my grandfather passed, once was after he watched First Daughter chased with a bottle of Heaven Hill, and that night. It was just a few tears, but I knew it struck home. He quietly got up and walked back into the living room. I took a deep breath, then plugged the computer back in. As it booted back up and I reconnected, I started to wonder if I should feel bad. I didnt. I knew he would forget it all in the morning; he always did.