Synopsis: At a visit to his elderly father's home, Phil learns things about his father's past and in turn learns values about the world and himself.

Author's Note: Alright, so, I've been working on coming up with a short story that has some kind of meaning. And something that is important to me is trading your hopes and dreams for money and material wealth. This short story addresses that and reflects it on the world around us. Please enjoy and if it doesn't take too much of your time, please help me find a good title. I'm not good at them and I would really like to submit this to a literary magazine with a good title. Thanks.
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The rain pours down onto me, slamming down onto my coat and hat like bullets from above. Beneath my sneakers the sidewalk squeaks and splashes with each step. Thunder rumbles above and lightning slashes through the sky, revealing grotesque silhouettes against the sky of buildings, cars, signs.
A man rushes by me on the left, almost knocking me over. He is wearing a business suit, a very expensive one, and he is talking on a cell phone which he has pressed against his ear. The man screams through the phone with an angry voice and hideous words.
“Well, I don’t care about that stupid fund, Terrie, I want you to liquidate those old assets and I want the money put into my account by Friday!”
As he charges by me, I cannot help myself but glance up at his face. His eyes seem dark, his face is dull and his hair is turning a cold, Christmas white even though his skin and body suggests he is barely out of college. When he passes me by, I turn my eyes away from him and watch the sidewalk in front of me.
Soon, his footsteps, angry and quick, disappear into the constant rapping of heavy rain against every surface. My mind focuses on him for a few more seconds, pondering his job, his work, his success. But it soon slips quietly into the void of silent monotony that is my constantly shifting mind.
Lifting my eyes up, I look at the buildings which I pass by. They are all three story brick houses, most with two car garages in the back and with many expensive add-ons. This whole neighborhood is like that: filled with very expensive buildings for the successful businessmen to live in. I’m sure that executive on his cell phone lived here on the block.
The houses here are old, maybe built sometime in the eighties, but despite that they are still very elegant and expensive. To have a full house in this part of the city is all but impossible. Most people can hardly afford to have a small apartment and a car let alone a full house.
But it isn’t just that that these people own. The house I’m passing now in the rain has two BMWs sitting in the driveway. Their garage no doubt is full with other cars, most likely of much higher value as to allow two brand new BMWs sit in the rain. The windows are all lighted up and the sound of a loud television can be heard from here.
Glancing to the bay window next to the front door, which is about half a story up from the street level, up several old-style brick steps and across a deck that consists of stained wood, I can see a large flat-screen television in the room. Despite this, the two people inside do not watch it.
The man, dressed in a leisure suit, sits at a computer typing away, no doubt something for work. A woman that appears to be his daughter sits on a couch near the window with ear-buds stuck in her ears, her eyes pointed down towards a computer that sits in her lap. They are in their own worlds, separate from each other’s.
I look away and back towards the ground as a gust of wind brings a sheet of heavy rain splattering into my face. Huddling together, I wish that I would have driven my car. But as the gust of wide subsides, the thought passes me by as fast as the cars that whizz along this street.
To visit my father isn’t too long of a walk, just through the city. And with the bus and train system, it’s nothing more than getting on one moving vehicle and riding it to the next. Finally it’s a short walk through a very expensive neighborhood to the house where my father lives.
He enjoys when I visit because there aren’t too many people who do anymore. My brother Justin is somewhere in Asia on a business trip and my mother passed away about five years ago. In my father’s old age, he is quickly running out of running mates. He always told me that he knew when he got old when he started checking the obituaries to see which one of his friends died that day. We both always laughed but we knew it wasn’t that funny.
Looking ahead, I see my father’s house begin to come up on my left. Despite a lot of these houses looking basically the same, except for difference in well manicured topiary pieces, shutter colors and the number on the door, I can always tell which one of them is my father’s.
First of all, Dad always has the same car in his driveway and has for the last twenty-two years. It’s a white 1980 Lincoln Continental coupe which he refuses to get rid of despite his neighbors poking fun at him with their BMWs, Audis and Mercedes. He just waves to them and smiles when they drive by.
Secondly, his house is usually the one with the windows always covered with heavy curtains. He always told me that he didn’t like to show off what he had inside of his house, unlike his neighbors, who seem to enjoy showing people how many zeroes they have in their annual paycheck. But Dad only started that once Mom passed away.
Hurrying my pace, I step off of the sidewalk and follow the path to the brick steps. Climbing up them, my hands still sunk into my pockets and my body still braced against the elements, I quickly take shelter beneath the canopy. My sneakers bang against the old wooden deck as I step around to shake the water from my overcoat.
I pull my almost sweating hands from the pockets and then slowly begin to approach the door. Knocking three times, I step back and then take off my hand. I bang the hat against my thigh, shaking as much water from it as I can. Inside I can hear footsteps shuffling across the floor.
Lowering my eyes to the floor, I see a shadow appear below the door where a bit of light reaches out from the inside. The door thumps and then begins to swing inwards. Lifting my eyes upwards, I watch as Dad appears in the doorway. At first he has no idea what is going on, but as he looks to me through his thin glasses, he realizes what day it is.
“Oh, Phil, I forgot it was that day again.” Dad says to me while he adjusts his glasses and begins to step back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”
My father steps back and invites me in with the lift of his right arm. I smile, holding the hat in my hands before my overcoat, and begin forward. The heat of the inside hits me like a brick wall and immediately I begin to feel hot in this coat. Approaching the coat rack that is just inside the house, I hang up the hat and begin to unbutton the coat.
Dad closes the door behind me and then begins to walk up the hallway. As he passes me, I watch as he turns and looks down my overcoat. He obviously has just now realized that I’m covered in water. Nodding his head, he thumbs his pockets and then looks up to me.
“I didn’t even know it was raining out.” Dad says. “I had the record player running an old album and had napped through the afternoon without even looking outside.”
“Yeah, it’s really pouring out, Dad.” I say.
“Well, you didn’t have to come visit me in those conditions then.” Dad says. “I’m surprised you didn’t drive that new car you bought not too long ago.”
“The Audi,” I say to him, “yeah, so am I.”
Unbuttoning the jacket, I slip it off my frame and then begin to hang it up on the rack. Dad, meanwhile, turns and has walked into the living room where a quiet tune is playing through his old turntable. After I hang up the dripping jacket, I smooth out my slacks and my nice, white shirt and begin to walk towards the room.
Crossing the short hallway, I step into the doorway looking in on his living room. It’s still the same as it’s been for the past twenty years. His big chair is just inside the door and to the left. Beside that, facing the same direction (away from the front of the house and towards the kitchen) is Mom’s old sitting chair and between them is a lamp and end table.
The big fireplace is across the room from me with many pictures hanging on the walls around it and sitting on its mantle. The musket and powder horn hangs on the chimney above the fireplace just below a steel eagle that one of Dad’s old friends forged years ago. To my right is the big radio and record player. And finally, across the room, in the corner between the door leading into the kitchen and the fireplace, is a writing desk with Dad’s original typewriter sitting on its surface beside letters and papers.
Dad slowly lowers himself into his leather recliner and then pulls the foot rest up and reclines back. Stepping away from the doorway, I begin into the living room and walk towards the radio where an old record player beams Beethoven, a song I remember from my childhood.
My father always insists that I sit down, but, I always refuse. There are no other chairs in this room besides my mother’s and I won’t sit in her sitting chair. There seems to be a strange vibe coming from it and it makes me feel strange to sit there. I remember getting beat so many times in that chair, it’s not even funny.
“Why did you even buy that car anyways?” Dad asks me with a slightly angry tone. “That pickup was fine enough for you.”
“Dad, the engine block cracked in my S-10.” I say to him, not looking in his direction. “Besides, how am I going to pick up Marie in that pickup truck? It isn’t exactly classy to show up to her house in a tan pickup for a date to a fine restaurant.”
“I could point out so many ironies in those sentences that it’s not even funny.” Dad says to me. “So you bought that Audi to make this girl like you did you?”
“Oh, come on, Dad, don’t put it like that.” I say. “I bought it because it’s a nice car and since I’ll be getting a job at that bank in the city after I graduate from college in a month, I can afford it anyways.”
I stand alongside the tall radio table, which is nearly five feet all and consists of an AM/FM radio, a record player and an eight track player and is made entirely of wood, and look down at the spinning record. I can remember this cabinet from when I was very little, but, it seemed so very big back then, like everything I remember from when I was little.
“So you’re getting a job as a bank executive, huh?” Dad comments, his voice suggesting disgust.
“Yeah,” I say and look at him over my shoulder, “it’s almost the same job you did for thirty-five years. It’s even at the same building.”
Dad grunts and nods his head, his black eyebrows pulling downwards while his thick, black moustache, which is slowly turning gray, is pulled upwards. His eyes are gleaming and alert while his body is still as marble. He looks to me as if with anger or hatred, but I know that is the same look he seems to have always had on his face. It’s just the look he has when he’s thinking or wondering.
“I suppose you’ll be making a lot of money, won’t you?” He asks me.
“Of course,” I answer cheerily, “I mean, why would somebody spend four years in college studying business and law for if it wasn’t for the money? I’ll be making a six figure salary starting off.”
Dad grunts again and then shifts his hands into his lap. His eyes turn away from me and settle upon the table between the two large chairs. There sits a large picture of my mother framed in gold. Just beside it is a picture of my father from the early nineties, when I was very little. I follow his eyes with mine and look to my mother.
“Your mother would be proud.” Dad says bluntly and ends abruptly.
“And you aren’t?” I ask him.
Dad turns his eyes towards me, rotating his head slowly and quietly. His lips crack open as he thinks of what to say in return. But before he can say anything, the record player stops playing music. Turning my eyes to it, I see the record is over and the arm clicks to the center and the turntable stops rotating.
“Put on another record, would you?” Dad asks of me.
“Sure.” I say, wondering if he’s trying to change the subject.
Lifting my hands upwards, I pull the arm back and then begin to lift the record from the rubber pad. Slipping it from the metal peg, I pull it towards my body and then kneel down. Opening up the cabinet, I quickly find the paper case for the record, since it’s the one that’s poking out slightly, and slip it back into place.
As I push the record back into its place and begin to select a new record, I am surprised at what I find. My father only ever played classical music, even when I was older and in high school. I guessed it was all he had and approved of, but, looking at his collection, I find classical music and more.
Running my finger along the spines of the old records, I read names such as Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, The Rolling Stones, Buddy Holly, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and even The Beatles. Albums that he has range from Beggar’s Banquet to Houses of the Holy to Déjà Vu. Pulling out a plain, white album, I lift it up and then begin to stand.
“My God, it’s The White Album.” I say aloud.
Looking away from the album, I look to Dad and see him staring at me with the same furtive, angry look he seems to have had pinned to his skull for decades. Slowly he looks away and back to the picture sitting on the end table beside him. He grunts slowly and then frowns.
“Those are all from a long time ago.” Dad says to me. “Back when times were a lot different from today. I hadn’t yet married your mother and was still . . .”
I narrow my eyes and rock forward on my legs, almost taking a step in his direction. But he narrows his eyes as well, pulling down his eyebrows, and I stop walking. I know when Dad isn’t happy or is about to do something mean or angry and know when to avoid it. Rocking backwards, I take a deep breath and keep calm.
Slowly Dad turns his eyes away from me and looks to his left to something that is behind me. Then he lifts up a hand and points in that direction. Following his hand, I turn and look back towards his writing desk with the big, black typewriter sitting there.
“There’s something in that desk that I’d like you to see, Phillip.” Dad says. “Go to the desk and open the drawer above the typewriter, to the left of it, in one of the locking letter drawers.”
I place the album down onto the top of the record cabinet and then begin towards his old fashioned rolltop desk. Striding to the old oak fixture, I soon tower over it. Reaching towards one of the drawers set back in the desk behind the writing surface, I slowly pull it open.
Inside lies a photograph framed in a very small black square. Gently, I reach inside and pull it out so that I can see what it is. Immediately looking to the only person in the picture, I see that it must be over forty years old. It is of a young man with long hair, a thick moustache and a very young body standing in front of a huge stage in only a pair of tattered jeans. He has no shirt or shoes on and stands with one hand up, giving the peace sign.
In the bottom right side of picture is a signature and a date. The date is July 9th, 1972 and the signature is Edgar Winter. Lifting my eyes up, I turn around and look to my father, who sits relaxed and comfortable in his chair. He has crossed his arms in his lap and sits with his furtive eyes pinned on the picture.
“That’s me in 1972.” Dad says. “I hadn’t married your mother yet and was a very different person. That’s at Concert 10 at the Pocono Speedway. I waited until one o’clock in the morning in a long line to get Edgar Winter to sign something. But when I got to the front of the line, the only piece of paper I had for him to sign was that photograph.”
“You look like a hippie.” I say to him without thinking.
Immediately my stomach begins to twist and turn, making me wish I hadn’t of said that. But looking to my father, I see that it doesn’t bother him. In fact, he nods his head and then sits silently in his favorite chair, creating an uncomfortable silence that weighs down on my shoulders like a two-ton boulder. His eyes never leave mine.
“What happened?” I ask him.
Suddenly his eyes dart away from mine and go down towards the carpeting. Sighing, he lifts a hand up to his face and takes his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Rubbing them on his blue and white plaid shirt, he relaxes his face into a look that I haven’t seen in ages.
“Well, Phillip, when I was young there was only one thing that I wanted to do. I wanted desperately to become a famous rocker. I wanted to become the greatest guitarist that ever lived, no matter what.” Dad tells me, with his eyes alive and alight in a way I haven’t ever seen. “I went to every concert I could, studied music and learned to play the guitar and the piano for years upon years. In 1977, I thought my band, Blue Stallion, would finally make it. But the record company that had brought us in refused us and we went back out onto the street again, playing clubs and bars.”
He is quiet and he looks towards me and our eyes meet once more. His burning eyes begin to fade and his eyebrows fall down and he begins to relax back into the leather chair after almost throwing himself forward in his own excitement. When he is calm, he crosses his arms and then looks down to his lap.
“We were good, we were really good. We practiced and wrote and played and laughed and played some more . . . and we were happy. But there wasn’t any money. My father, your grandfather, refused to help us anymore. Finally he told me he would only give me money if I promised to go to college and become a lawyer like him.” Dad says and sighs sullenly. “I took it. I was tired of living out of my van with three other guys. I went to college and graduated in 1981. My father gave me his Lincoln, that car you see out there, and I became a banker.”
Dad is quiet and he looks to me in an almost pleading way. His sadness comes forth and he closes his eyes and sinks down into his leather recliner. Lifting a hand up, He places his fingers onto his forehead and leans his head forward. After placing his glasses onto the end table, he lets his other hand lay limply in his lap.
From here I can see tears begin to roll down his cheek, although he is silent. I don’t know what to do and simply stand still, silent, stupid. After fifteen heavy, sad seconds, Dad sighs audibly and then opens his eyes. Wiping off his face inconspicuously, he returns his eyes to mine.
“I left the rock and roll world for the world of high class bankers and rich executives and I became wealthy beyond my imagination. I bought this house, married your mother and had you and your brother Justin.” He says and then pauses for a long time. “Still I wonder . . . I wonder how my life would have been if I told my father to take his money and shove it. I wonder every day now how things would have become if I had stayed on and became a rock and roll star. I still wonder where the other band mates are, what they did with their lives since then.”
Dad is quiet and I see tears begin to return to his eyes, though they don’t advance past his eyelashes. He is quiet and sits back into his chair once more. Looking down to the picture, I scan over the happy man that stands there at that concert long ago. He is happy, smiling, waving to the cameraman and is free as a bird.
Then I look up to the same man sitting before me. This man is unhappy, old, tired and seems to be caged like a dog. But the worst thing is that he is broken. He mopes in a chair in a huge house with an expensive car and materialistic sons after having sold out. It is hard to see the former man in the current one.
“But the worst part is that I regret doing it. After so many years, your grandfather finally dying, your poor mother passing away and so much work . . . I regret almost all of it.” Dad says.
His eyes turn up to me and he begins to shake his head slowly from side to side.
“I’m watching you Phillip; I’m watching you do the same thing that I did all those years ago.” He says. “I remember when you were still in high school and you used to spend all your time up in your room . . . and I could never understand what you were doing. Your brother was always studying to be a lawyer like your grandfather, whom he idolized, but you weren’t. I know now that you were writing. Like your mother did before she walked the same road as I did.”
“Yeah, I remember those days, Dad.” I say. “That was five years ago. I gave it up because I could never see myself going anywhere. I gave it up because there—”
“Wasn’t any money,” Dad interjects fervently.
“Yeah,” I quietly reply.
“I’ve got another little surprise for you, Phillip. Turn around and open the center drawer on my desk.” Dad says.
I look to him and see him smiling just slightly. Turning around slowly, I place the photograph on top of the desk. Then with gentle hands, I pull open the drawer and look to what is inside. What is revealed to me is almost as surprising as the photograph, but something I recognize instantly.
It is a thick stack of white computer paper held together with metal binding. Type written on the very top is my name and the title. My lips crack open as my jaw drops downwards and I reach in with hands that are going numb with surprise. My heart beats as I wrap my fingers around the stack and pull it outwards.
“It’s my novel.” I say aloud. “I thought I threw this away five years ago.”
“You did.” My dad says. “I picked it out of the trash when I heard you arguing with Justin about having it published. I remember him saying it wouldn’t take you anywhere, that it was just stupid, liberal ambition. Then he told you that it was impossible to get it published because you didn’t understand the way the publishing industry worked.”
“Yeah, I remember. I remember throwing everything away and going to sleep in tears.” I say to him, a bit ashamed but the sting is minimal. “I don’t know, Dad. At the time it was my dream. I wanted to be famous, to shake hands and sign books. I just can’t take that risk, not now. I need money, Dad, you know that. I did love it at the time and I poured my heart and soul into it but . . . it was just stupid, childish wishing.”
“Phillip, I’ll give you my car if you need money. You can sell that thing for as much money as you wanted; it’s worth tens of thousands of dollars.” Dad says. “But I’m warning you now . . . if you take the same road that I did, you’ll end up just like me and your mother.”
Suddenly I begin to think about it, about his car. Even if I did sell that Lincoln for whatever amount of money, I think that I would still be indebted for the rest of my life to this person or another. But then I remember that my grandfather gave it to him on his graduation day. I still wonder why he has kept it for so long, but, something begins to pull at my heart before I can think of an answer.
“Even if I did get it published, that doesn’t mean a lot of money.” I say.
“Good.” Dad suddenly replies.
He then smiles and suddenly a bit of life begins to return to his eyes and face, a certain glow. Clasping his hands together over his lap, he sits back in his chair and then just looks to me. Suddenly he turns to his left and looks down at an old analog clock perched on the end table. Turning it towards him, he reads the face and then lets it go.
“Is it that time already?” He says. “Say, Phil, it’s getting pretty late. Maybe you should head on home before the city turns into a dangerous place.”
“Yeah,” I reply, “maybe I should.”
I begin to step forward and immediately begin towards the doorway that leads into the main hall and foyer. Dad doesn’t get up, nor does he attempt to get up. Instead he just smiles wide and crosses his legs.
“Don’t mind if I don’t get up.” Dad says. “I’m looking forward to our next visit. Maybe then you’ll have a lot more for us to talk about.”
“Of course, Dad, I will.” I say.
Stepping past him, I go to my coat which is still dripping wet and begin to put it on. Hastily, I shove my arms through the sleeves of the jacket and hide the manuscript of a long forgotten story into the breast. After buttoning up the front, I tie the belt and secure the manuscript in place. Placing my hat onto my head, I turn towards the door.
“I’ll see you later, Dad.” I say as I twist the knob and begin out.
“And I hope I’ll see you in the stars, son.” Dad replies.
I chuckle and then step out onto the porch. I hear Dad laugh in return as I pull shut the door. Turning away, I tromp down the brick steps and into the cool evening, the rain having stopped. The road is quiet and everybody is returning home. The world feels different now than it was before I went inside.