Melissa
Due to the back hallways being so extremely narrow at The Surly Snail, we also have to store things in the staff washroom out of necessity. This is a real pain in the ass because the staff washroom already doubles as the staff changeroom and is probably no bigger than 4 feet wide to begin with. Throw in a mop bucket and a couple 40 lb. bags of water softener salt and you suddenly gain a new perspective on claustrophobia should you face the unpleasant task of having to void your bowels. We have to assume that it is a washroom because there is a toilet and sink in there as well.
I am already a larger man to begin with and, as a result, I have to literally sit on the aforementioned toilet to change my clothes because I could injure myself in this confinement. I also leave my work clothes hanging on a hook and it has occurred to me that any employee could simply dry their hands on my t-shirts after having a shit and I would never know. There are paper towels available for such occasions but, like I said before, there are a great many stupid people who work in the service industry. Being stupid does not excuse them from having to take a dump.
My daughter Melissa had texted me previously that morning and asked about the possibility of having a beer together at shift’s end. She, being the proud daughter of a celebrated barfly, knew full well that I would surely take her up on the proposal.
Rudy, the secondary cook, had started his shift about an hour earlier and it was around this time that I generally clocked out. My shifts were usually ending around the same time that lunch would just begin. This is because I start much earlier in the morning and I am also regarded as a part-time employee at this stage of my career. Not unlike Gabe, this also seems to incense Rudy. They don’t quite get the gist of me leaving before them, not quite grasping the idea that if I were to stay longer than their jobs would probably not be necessary. Labour cost is a foreign concept to these guys. I don’t really care too much anymore as both of them seem to be unhappy with their lot in life anyway. Hell, I’m the one whose very expiration date is a cause for consideration upon sight and even I can still manage to feign an enthusiasm for life..
Rudy is a thirty-five year old man who is very short in stature. He has a little tiny dirt moustache and an intense gaze and the comparison between himself and the late fuhrer of the third reich are not without merit. He even has that old school combed across hairstyle. It’s kind of like the beatles mop of its own era, just less likely to be received with the same kind of nostalgic whimsy. More than a few of his co-workers had commented on the possibility of “little man” syndrome and, in all honesty, that seemed like it might actually be a thing too.
“Okay, boys, I’m outta here.” I said.
I walked back into the kitchen now fully attired in my regular clothes showing no outward sign of physical harm from having dressed in the perilous confines of the changeroom. As I reached for my reading glasses and cell phone, Rudy frowned at me.
“We’re not boys. We’re men.” Rudy chirped seemingly indignant to the reference.
While I was fully aware of both their actual ages, I had used the term “boys” in the innocuous sense, as in “teammates” or “comrades”. I have often referred to my fellow employees as guys in a group setting. As in the “I love you, guys” context even though there were many women among them. None of these women had ever winced or appeared off-put by this reference as I’m pretty sure they were well aware that I recognized them as being of the female variety of the species. Not old Rudy though. He felt obligated to call me out. It seemed that someone in his online community had informed him of the #Metoo movement while simulating brutal war crimes together during a casual round of Call of Duty.
Herein lies the very nature of my dilemma. I have to make a determination in a nanosecond as to whether I should apologize for my apparent indiscretion or reply sarcastically to an arrogant dweeb. It was a literal, “I’ll take door number 2, Monty” moment and I chose the latter.
“I’m sorry,” I returned sarcastically, “ but if you’re 35 years old and still living at home with your mother then you’re a boy to me.”
I saw Gabe smile mischievously from behind Rudy. It was one of those things on which most of the adults among us would agree with but also knew that it was probably safer to leave it unspoken. While I wasn’t seeking out any physical confrontation at my age, I certainly wasn’t afraid of it either. Even at 63 I was pretty sure that I could literally punch a hole through Napoleon’s tiny little skull if I had to.
If Rudy was so insulted by my remark then he could probably approach the Ontario labour board and that might result in a disciplinary hearing, even a possible dismissal for my apparent abhorrent behaviour. However, I honestly did not care. If he wanted to bring it before the courts then that would mean he would actually have to do something. Other than getting high and playing video games, Rudy had never displayed motivation for much else in the few years that I had known him. Besides, if we were to go before a tribunal then even more people would become aware that this thirty-five year old manchild did little more than smoke weed and indulge in online gaming while still living under his Mother’s roof. I have a sneaking suspicion that a few of the tribunal members would already be parents themselves and are not overly excited at the prospect of still having to share their space with a lazy ass 35 year old child of their own.
It wouldn’t make a spot of difference to my existence either way. I took pride in my job performance and was willing to go down with my beliefs. At a certain age you have to stop being afraid of speaking your mind. Integrity is the sword that you have to be willing to fall upon if mandated. I was not going to suddenly change my learned behaviour because some millennials formed a movement that I was expected to follow. The #The MeToo movement is just another religion as far as I’m concerned. They may as well be Hare Krishna. I don’t want the pamphlet, thank you!
Not surprising, Rudy sneered and said nothing. Moping and muttering under his breath appeared to be his play on this day. A sarcastic barb seemed in order.
“Sorry, Adolf. We’re not down with your plan to attack Poland today.”
I kept it to myself though and walked away. I winked and waved at Gabe who was having a hard time containing his laughter.
“Mel’s at table 11 with the baby.” Joan said, brushing by me as I was logging out at the very same terminal where I had fallen on my face a few hours prior.
I turned quickly and peered across the restaurant because, as I’d told Joan a hundred times before, I had no idea where the table that was named 11 would be. I saw Mel with son , Alex. Ahh, the booth by the entrance! Now I would finally know where table #11 was. Still though, was the booth to the right number #10 or #12? Another passing snippet of information that I quickly deemed not worthy of storage in my limited memory bank.
“Hey, honey, what’s up?” I smiled and sat down at table #11.
The newest addition to my family lineage was smiling at me goofily from his car seat like some surreal Walt Disney character that had just come to life. No matter the circumstances this little guy would always make me melt with adoration. Although Alex was not even a year old he always seemed genuinely pleased to see me each and every time. He was the fifth of my grandchildren and my presence was not always received with as much enthusiasm by the other four. Unless, of course, I was bearing gifts but, having been a kid myself at one time, I was well aware of how sincerely insincere that was. When it takes a parent’s stern prompt for the kids to pretend to be grateful then you already know how they see you. It’s evident that entitlement is developed before gratitude in our culture’s children.
Melissa was already nursing a pint and within seconds of sitting down, Joan dropped a pint of beer in front of me. We’d known each other for many years and there was never any reason to ask what I would be drinking.
“Thanks, pal!” I said smiling.
“No worries, pal!” Joan replied.
She always put heavy emphasis on the word “pal” but I never took it to be sarcasm. Over the last couple of years my daughter had often chided me for using terms such as “honey”, “love”, or “dear” when it came to responding kindly to females, suggesting that it may be misconstrued as lewd and sexual in nature. Although I had never once experienced a waitress or bartender’s displeasure with me having referred to them as such, I figured I’d better substitute “pal” instead for my daughter’s sake. To this day I’m not entirely convinced that my daughter might not be jealous of this outward affection towards another female. Anyways, I still call familiar female friends “honey” when my daughter’s not around. I think Joan prefers being called “honey” and the tone on her “pals” is probably more geared towards Melissa.
Is my daughter a staunch supporter of the meToo movement? Although she adamantly denies it, I am not entirely convinced. I am only too well aware of the many issues that we disagree on already with me being her Dad. Melissa is only a few months away from her 40th birthday and is quite obviously capable of making her own decisions. When it comes to finances she is light years ahead of me and has excelled in her own right. Again, just because I may not agree with her on some things I can’t merely dismiss her perspectives because I am older than she is. However, there are still many other times that I’m convinced that my daughter is out of her mind.
She’ll rip into me if I am to ever call her “Mel” in front of other people. Her mother and I used to call her Mel when she was little and we can still get away with it if there’s nobody else around. I suppose her hang up can be attributed to me though because I was a fan of the old Dick Van Dyke show from the sixties and it featured a character with the name Mel Cooley. He was a middle aged bald headed man with horn rim glasses, played by actor Richard Deacon. Sharon and I used to affectionately call our daughter, Mel Cooley. That is until she got older and discovered who Mel Cooley was. Damn the internet!
“How’s your day going?” Mel asked me with a familiar grin.
I sighed and decided that I wouldn’t bring up the Rudy incident from a few minutes ago. Unlike me, my daughter believes that there is good to be found in everyone. I believe that, while that may be true in theory, if the bad clearly outweighs the good by a substantial margin then the person is not worthy of any legitimate consideration. She calls it cynicism and I call it an essential survival skill.
“I’m okay.” I replied, smiling, “Nothing out of the ordinary, really.”
Despite the frustration at the beginning of the day, it did gradually improve. No limbs were broken, nobody died. It was just another day at the office, so to speak. That is the optimist in me. No matter how unpleasant your day may seem to you at the time, you should always consider how much worse it could have actually been. If you’re completely honest with yourself then you already know how true that is. (Unless, of course, that is the very worst day that you’re ever going to have. If that’s the case then perhaps you can find consolation in the fact that it’ll be all gravy going forward. If in fact, you will be going forward…)
“How are things back at the house?”
I always referred to her home as the “house” because I have lived there at various times throughout my adult life. It’s usually been a mutually beneficial arrangement because there have been times when Melissa needs grandpa’s help with the kids and I’ve needed an affordable place to live.
She’s very much my daughter in the fact that she demonstrates the very same pattern of behaviour that I did regarding relationships. She’s charming, kind and considerate until she reaches a point where she decides “Fuck it. This bores me.”
Like I used to, she has the tendency to compulsively run into the throes of a committed relationship with the idea that this one is the one. I don’t know how many times she has turned to me with a blissful, carefree smile, hanging off of her boyfriend’s arm and sighed wistfully, “Seriously, Dad. This is the one.”
The hardest part for me is the sad reminder that I did exactly the same thing to her with a multitude of various women after her Mom and I broke up.
“Honey, I’ve got a feeling that “insert name here” is gonna be your new Mom.”
Brutal truths but they are true. Along with the wisdom that ageing allegedly provides comes a massive repulsion of having to concede to your own past mistakes. I’m convinced that it is the constant reminder of these indiscretions that causes your skin to wither and sag. It’s like the universe is snickering at you with sadistic pleasure.
“And you thought you were sooo hot!”
Melissa is now involved with a pleasant fellow named David. They have been together since before her sister’s tragic passing and have had two healthy, adorable children together. It was actually me who had introduced the two as David and I had worked together at a previous restaurant.
Like any couple, they’ve had their own personal highs and lows over the course of their relationship. At times it has proven to be awkward for me because, if I have to take sides in a dispute, I’m going to naturally side with my daughter. Even if I know that she’s in the wrong sometimes. I’m her Dad and I imagine that’s what Dad’s should do for their little girls. To his credit, David is fully aware of this dilemma as we’ve both discussed it privately. I would fully expect that he would do the same for his own children, Appolina and Alex.
“I’m getting so frustrated with David these days..” Melissa began, “he barely helps around the house when he comes home from work. I can’t do it all!”
I took a deep swallow of my pint and tried to come up with a response that was neither critical or condescending. This is the required skill that all Fathers are required to display without completely tipping their hand.
“Well..” I started, “you’re a strong woman, Mel, and sometimes maybe your expectation levels are much higher than the other person’s ability to match. It doesn’t mean that he’s not trying for you..”
It always helps when you compliment your daughter before gradually inserting a tiny gentle fraction of mild criticism. This is especially true with my daughter because she exudes all the very same blind passion of my own Father and brothers. That is to say, she can be a bit of a hothead. Like her own paternal relatives she’ll rush in with guns ablazing before she gives any consideration to what may have just been implied.
My daughter is the love of my life although she seems to be a walking, talking contradiction at times. She’s passionate about just causes and refers to herself as a socialist. However, she currently owns three separate houses and is probably set for life. She was able to accrue this prosperity through the diligence, hard work and shrewd investing skills that she developed working in the upper echelons of an insurance company. Hardly the blueprint for a people’s revolution.
I once broached the topic with her while riding in the passenger seat of her car. Fuming, she immediately hit the brakes and ordered me to get out. While we weren’t talking for the next couple of weeks, I contemplated if I was wrong for mentioning the possibility of hypocrisy. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that it would be better to just concentrate on my own shortcomings and make the required effort to have a decent relationship with Melissa regardless of what I thought.
The one thing that I can’t deny is my daughter’s fierce determination to provide a happy home for her family, and I know that includes me. So, really, who am I to criticize? It’s better to know my offspring reside in a nice cozy house than some homeless encampment down by the railroad tracks, right?
I”ve always cherished any time we are able to spend together alone. Alex is there with us of course, but he’s such a happy baby who seldom requires unnecessary attention. He’s just happy sitting upon the table before us and attempting to chew on a beer coaster. Of course we’re both casually taking turns pulling it away from his mouth before he can actually put it in. Like many other babies who have teethed before him, he will basically chew on anything he can grasp with his limited motor skills and chubby little hands. He’s not a third wheel at this point yet either because he probably has no clue as to what we’re actually saying anyhow.
There have been times over the years when I have felt a sense of resentment from Mel’s partners. I certainly do understand how intrusive the presence of inlaws can be but I’m also pretty sure that most children don’t share the very same intense bond that Mel and I share. We have been through an awful lot together over the years and we have both shared in some of each other’s proudest achievements and most shameful spectacles.
Melissa has been with me through some of my darkest times and has still loved me regardless. At this point in my life there is no need to lie or try to disguise the truth about who I was and what I’ve become. She’s been there for her entire life and a significant part of my own. If anybody can truly say that they knew me and had to speak on my behalf, it would be my first-born daughter, Melissa.
Now, having said that, I do tell her all the time that if she were my wife instead of my daughter there is no doubt we would be long divorced and estranged from one another. She is also my ex-wife’s daughter too afterall and perhaps that’s why I still feel love for Sharon even though I’m grateful to be away from her.
While Melissa talks to me about her temporary disgruntlement with David and the various other vagaries of her daily life, I stare into her eyes and nod thoughtfully. While I may not hang on every detail, I do pay attention to what she’s saying and try to disseminate all the information before I can offer a semi-intelligent response. Like I said, balance is the key when dealing with the incendiary passion of my own genetic kind.
“Are you even listening to me?”
She stopped suddenly and glared at me. That familiar bug-eyed razor sharp look that had often pierced my very soul many times over in the past. It was her mother’s unpleasant scowl masking the possibility of the paternal penchant for violence.
“No. No, of course I hear you.” I replied calmly, exuding all the assurance of an explosives technician disarming a bomb.
“You’ve just got to realize that you can’t control other people no matter how hard you try.” I continued, “You can influence their behaviour but there’s never any guarantee that they’re going to respond exactly like you expected. We can’t be God.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed aloud. Sure, it may not have been the most agreeable reaction but at least now I don’t get the flashbacks from my own marital shortcomings or that uneasy feeling that my older brother is about to return from the grave and give me a pink belly.
“There you go again with the God stuff..” Melissa muttered and took a sip of her beer.
Sharon and I had not raised our daughters in a religious household. This despite having the experience of a Roman Catholic childhood ourselves. We were still compelled to make the effort though, even though neither of us even remotely entertained the idea of attending church on a regular basis.
As it turned out, the actual Catholic church wasn’t that anxious to have anything to do with us anyhow. They refused to even consider our marriage in the first place because we already lived together and it was no great stretch to assume that we were also indulging in premarital sex as well. Because they were actually correct with that assumption is most certainly not indicative of any divine miracle.
They were willing to consider us as candidates for the church provided that we would stop having sex and live apart until the wedding. Lastly, they were insistent on our attendance at weekly marital seminars that were to be led by a priest. I was 20 and Sharon was 21. Even in our youthful naivete, we were not that susceptible to bullshit. We weren’t even going to consider such a ridiculous notion. What the hell would a guy sworn to celibacy know about marriage?
We decided that God probably wouldn’t care in the least if we were to change our religious affiliation in order to find a church that would have us despite our penchant for premarital sex and the sin of trying to live more comfortably by combining our incomes. Not surprisingly Melissa was later baptized at the same United Church.
By the time Crystal came along, Sharon and I had both reached the conclusion that she wasn’t necessarily bound for hell because we didn’t get her baptised. At this moment in time I still believe this to be true. Although the prospect of me being wrong about this one still troubles me. I’m still not sure whether I should be mad at myself or the Catholic church for this anxiety.
My daughter seems uncomfortable with the term “God” and she is more comfortable with crediting the “Universe” for all the mystique and inconclusive evidence that vainly attempts to define our origins. I simply suggest to her that the Universe is God and she assumes that I’ve had some kind of born again moment down by a river somewhere. Either way, I know she has a conscience and demonstrates kindness and empathy on a daily basis and so I basically think we acknowledge the same thing.
Being an ex-Catholic I’m not uncomfortable with the term “God” and I’m comfortable with the fact that I’m never going to know everything. Melissa, on the other hand, knows a little about a great many things. Often she can impress with a knowledge of something that I am completely ignorant to. I suppose it’s not uncommon for a parent to be a little embarrassed by their child’s superior knowledge, perhaps even a little envious. Before beating ourselves up emotionally over it, there will be the other times when it’s obvious that a deeper dive ought to have been considered by your child and there are still some things that you do know better.
I often encourage Melissa to read books on a particular subject when she gets inspired by random Youtube videos that she occasionally stumbles across. You never know when you’re going to come across an individual who happens to be fluid on the subject that you thought you knew. Trust me, I can tell you from experience, that’s a pretty embarrassing situation to find yourself in. If you can get through an entire book on a particular subject and still find the topic interesting then it might well be worth investigating further. Of course, it does depend an awful lot on the kind of book you’ve chosen to immerse yourself in. It could also mean that there might be something lacking in your life and it’s time to put down the Harlequin romance novels and try something from more of an interactive angle.
Having daughters can definitely wreak havoc on your own sexual libido though. You can’t help but feel dirty and ashamed when it suddenly dawns on you that this chick that you’ve been banging and engaging in lustful oral sexual acts with is actually some other guy’s little girl. And the fact that I have multiple grandchildren indicates that my daughters have been known to put out. I’m pretty sure that all five are not byproducts of immaculate conception.
When I stare into my daughter’s eyes I sometimes feel the urge to break down and cry. I’m an emotional man anyways and, if truth be told, I’m often compelled to cry while imbibing and watching a movie at home anyhow. I’m just that kind of sappy guy. Still though, I can’t help but become overwhelmed by the magnitude of these precious moments. This woman in front of me is my daughter. Every word she says and every instinct she possesses, no matter how remarkable or cringeworthy they may be, can all be traced back to her Mom and I hooking up. That tiny little bundle of cuteness babbling away in the car seat in front of me, that’s my daughter’s son. He’s also an indirect result of Sharon and myself. He’s one of our 5 grandchildren.
Even if Sharon is driven to the point of madness with the mere mention of my name, she cannot deny the fact that we have produced some pretty good offspring together. I do imagine that she is also traumatized by the resemblance that some of them have to me.
I can only imagine how my own Mother must feel when she sees her great grandchildren. Obviously, she’s older now but, unlike her embittered ex-husband, she can still appreciate the spiritual depth of her lineage. I’m pretty certain even my mother used to find her own children’s resemblance to her ex somewhat off-putting. She seems to be more accepting of me now that I’ve put on so much weight. I think she views me more as John Goodman’s stunt double than the resulting offspring from her coupling with a former partner.
My father has never been involved with his grandchildren. He’d ask about them and send them the occasional gift or card but he only came to visit on a single occasion once we lived in Kitchener. That was over thirty years ago and Sharon and I were still together. We’d just bought our first home and the girls were still in grade school. I still can’t be sure of his motivation at the time, whether he drove up to see his family or the recently purchased house. It was made pretty clear a very long time ago how much that legacy meant to him. We’re very different in that regard. I have tried to stay very close to my daughters, sometimes maybe to the point of being obtrusive.
Melissa and I had recently taken Alex along with us to visit the old boy in his retirement home. While it was a very interesting moment for both of us, I can’t be so sure if it had the same effect for Alex and Dad. Alex is still three months short of his 1st birthday and Dad is really not that far from his 100th. Their mental faculties are both quite limited making them somewhat similar in that respect.
That’s why you’ve got to stop in your tracks and breathe in these moments. I know how arduous the grind of daily life can be, I’ve been in the service industry for almost 50 years, and while there may not seem to be a whole lot of glory in that, it has enabled me to get this far. There are going to be moments of tedium somewhere in between all of the various highs and lows, the gains and losses, the laughter and tears. There has to be. We need to have these times for reflection and even the self doubt that can creep in. It leads us to an essential introspective pondering of what it’s all about.
It’s in this moment, when you truly can appreciate the magnitude of your loved ones, that you come to realize just how limited time actually can be and how precious it is to cherish that moment. Capture it with your mind’s eye and store it for eternity. Whether we call it God or just refer to it as the Universe, there is no doubt that these moments have come to exist. It is then that you’ve discovered your role in the big picture. It’s your part that has ensured that they will always continue to exist.