Because he loved his father

(A couple of years ago while I was doing a Writing Course I wrote this story based on actual events from my father's life. While some of it is fictionalized the basic concept of it is real. Someday I'm going to write a book about my dad and his life because it amazes, humbles, and moves me how a boy so overlooked and unloved in his youth could turn into one of the most loving, understanding, and giving fathers that I know. And I'm not just saying that because he's mine. )

FRIDAY

When the school bell finally rang at the end of the day, Clay didn't cheer like all the other kids in his algebra class. He watched his classmates as they slung on their backpacks and ran out the door. He took his time gathering his papers, carefully tucked them into the worn-out math book and slowly left the classroom.

"Better hustle, Clayton--you don't want to miss the bus," Mr. Radford called out behind him, but if Clay heard the teacher you could not tell. He shuffled at a snail's pace down the hallway. He glanced towards his locker and thought about putting his bag inside, but when he say Brenda standing next to it, he decided not to. He hated being so shy. Every time Brenda's eyes even looked his way, he could feel the heat rising to his face and his vocal cords froze. Once he had attempted to smile at her, but his lips were do dry that his top lip curled into his upper gum and stuck there, revealing only the top half of his teeth which, to his embarrassment, slightly bucked out. No way, he thought to himself. I'm not gonna make myself look like a fool again! So he carried on.

As he walked outside through the parking lot, Clay was grateful that he wasn't riding the bus home today. That was the only good thing about Fridays. It seemed the older kids on the bus never tired making fun on him. At first, he told himself they probably picked on all the freshman. But they didn't. They just picked on him.

"Hey, Clay," one of the boys jeered one afternoon, "your shirt's got a hole. Doesn't your mom know how to sew?" He ignored them as always. But inside he shouted, my mom's dead, you idiot! And if she was alive she could probably sew your stupid fat mouth shut!

Clay wrapped his thin jacket around him tightly and took a deep breath. He watched as the cold November air held on to his warm breath until it evaporated in front of him. He wished he had worn a thicker coat this morning.

He detested November. It was cold, the leaves were all gone from the trees, and --worst of all--it marked the beginning of the holiday season. Living alone with his 57-year-old father never bothered him very much. His mother died when he was nine-years-old and his father never remarried. His dad was pretty easy going and usually didn't know or care what he was up to. It was generally a good arrangement. But when the holidays rolled around, Clay always wished he had a big family to celebrate with.

He checked the time on his watch. It was 4:45. Every Friday his father got off work at noon. Once, when he had told his best friend, Howy, that he couldn't go to an after-school football game because his dad got off early, Howy looked envious and told Clay how lucky he was. Now he thought about that comment and rolled his eyes as he laughed sardonically to himself.

It took Clay exactly 35 minutes to walk downtown. He smiled with satisfaction at having beaten his personal record of 38 minutes. Probably because it's so cold out here, he thought. His dad had been off work now for five hours and twenty minutes. Clay knew he had less than an hour before it got dark. He hated the dark. He didn't like not knowing what was around him. He picked up his pace a little and hoped he would find his father quickly tonight.

Clay inhaled deeply as he walked past Ernie's Deli. It was closed now, but the delicious aroma of fresh baked bread and warm sweet cinnamon rolls still lingered in the air. His empty stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as he hurried towards his usual Friday evening destination.

There were only two bars in town, and they were located exactly across the street from each other. Clay debated which one to try first. He chose Clancy's Pub since it was on the same side of the street he was already walking down.

He entered the bar and stood in the doorway. He imagined how out-of-place he must have looked standing there in that smoke-filled place with a backpack on his shoulders. He made no motion to move forward. He hated being in bars. He hated alcohol, smoke, and dirty old drunks who wasted their lives away lounging around in them. Most of all--above everything else--he hated that his father was one of them.

He silently scanned the bar stools looking for his dad. The pub seemed to be especially crowded tonight. None of the figures he made out through the haze resembled his father. Finally, begrudging for the millionth time, he went inside among the tables, probing each one for a small, grey-haired man with an oily FORD REPAIR jacket. He was about to leave when, at last, he spotted his father in the far corner nearest to the window. His head was lying on his folded arms, slumped over the tiny wooded table that was cluttered with amber-colored bottles. Clay stood next to his sleeping father and gently shook him awake.

"Dad," he spoke softly, "it's time to go home." The two ambled out of the pub, Clay half-carrying his father whose arms draped around his neck. As they slowly stumbled to the Ford repair shop where his father's truck was parked, Clay no longer felt the bitter cold of the November air. He felt relieved at having made it through another Friday night. He hated hunting his drunk father down at the end of each work week. He hated that his life was not different. But he would do it again, week after week, month after month.

Because he loved his father.