I have about 3 vague memories from father’s days past. One of which goes like this. I was living in a town house with my son, step son and wife. After waking up, or being woken up rather, I believe I snorted some kind of powdered opiate (as I hadn’t found the needle yet, because that was for junkies) and we went to the New Town diner in Owings Mills/ Reisterstown. It was packed. Families were lined out the door, sitting on the vinyl covered benches, little kids parked on their mommy’s and daddy’s laps, local children’s artwork from the kids menus posted on the wall of the waiting area….and me. I reluctantly gave my name to the thick accented hostess and went out for a smoke. It was raining, and I posted up right by the front door, under the awning exhaling smoke with no regard for the families that were forced to walk through it. The noise of the restaurant escaped the heavy front doors every couple of minutes obligating me to turn and look to see if our name was called.
When it finally was, we were escorted to our seat and I asked everyone what they were getting, but really didn’t care. The waitress came over, also from another country, and asked us what we wanted to drink. When I told her a Yuengling, my wife got embarrassed and laughed it off, but I was serious. It was definitely before 11am. She brought the beer in one of those mugs that was made to look like it held a good bit, but I knew better. I directed my family’s attention to the fact that if I wanted to, I could pick that mug up, chug it in one gulp, and put the defeated glass mug on the table in about 5 seconds. I knew this would get a reaction from my son of “No way Daddy.” Which it did, and I quickly responded with a smile and produced an empty mug as promised. The waitress returned to take our food order, and I ordered another one, and another one, and another one. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember what we did, if it was fun, where we went, if I called my dad…nothing.
This morning I woke up, my son was sleeping. When he opened his eyes, I stuck my tongue out at him, and he smiled and in his typical early morning raspy voice said simply “Happy Father’s Day.” I thanked him, kissed his soft lips tainted with his morning breath which didn’t bother me at all, and went outside for my morning routine.
I spent the day trying to do what was best for my son. I helped him see his mommy. I picked her up, and the three of us went to the harbor, to Port Discovery, to the comic book store, to the park, to her mother’s house, to a meeting and then watched the sunset. I remember every single detail of every part of the day. I remember how good it felt. I remembered to call my father. It is very gratifying to be of service. I don’t just get relief from helping those who are afflicted with the spiritual malady I have, I welcome any opportunity to be of service. And if that means forfeiting a day that is typically devoted to dad so that I can help my son and his mother, than that is what I am to do. It’s not an option for me to pick and choose where to be helpful. I don’t have that luxury, I need to be grinding out as many chances I have to practice principles or I will find myself in the gutter again.
I spent so many days thinking of myself, doing what made me feel right, that I would be a damn fool to think that I could forgo an opportunity like the one I had today. The trick is, I never once let my son, nor my ex wife know what I was doing. I just let them enjoy the day, while G-d let me enjoy mine.