Post by Deleted on Oct 24, 2022 23:04:31 GMT -5
The Warehouse
Brooklyn, New York
Despite the uncomfortable morning concerning Frankie’s maturation as a male, the day has been fantastic. Corey is in town to help celebrate Das Wunderkind’s birthday and he still has no idea he’s going to Game 3 of the ALCS tonight. Sebastian Bryce and Sloane Taylor will be joining us for that part of today's events later on. In fact, Lauren will be bringing our friends to Yankee Stadium where Frankie and I will meet them.
For now, just a little bit of father-son quality alone time before we head to the Bronx. I’ve had a surprise for him prepared for a hot minute now. Really, since the day I took possession of the old Lincoln my father and I built when I was young.
“Where are we?” he asks me as I roll the aforementioned Lincoln through the abandoned parking lot toward the nondescript gray steel building along the riverfront.
“A warehouse,” I give him the obvious answer.
He looks at me with ‘that look.’ You know the one. It says “no shit” without saying a word.
“Yeah, but why are we here?” he asks.
“Did you really think you were gonna get through this whole day without seeing something cool?” I ask of my favorite soon to be 12 year old.
He doesn’t answer as I slow the Lincoln to a stop and kill the engine. Frankie follows me out of the car and inside the old warehouse. Inside, I flip on the light switches. After several seconds of the ballasts warming up, the dark building is fully illuminated. Inside, former military transport vehicles, blacked out speed bikes, three blacked out Lamborghini’s and a half dozen blacked out old souped up pickup trucks rest for the battle to come with the New York Underground.
Frankie though, doesn’t need to know about all of that. I don’t lie to him, unless it’s to protect him. This is certainly one of those times.
“What is all of this?” he asks with a puzzled expression on his face.
“Just a collection,” I half-lie to him. It is a collection, but he doesn’t need to know its purpose.
Resting in the center of the floor beneath a gray canvas cover, conveniently parked beneath an overhead light is his main gift. He’s only turning 12, but he won’t stay 12 forever. Corey coming in and the Yankees playoff game is nice and he’ll one day cherish those memories. What rests beneath the canvas though, is something that hopefully, he can cherish and keep with him always. No matter whether my life is long or short, he’ll have it and remember what we did together.
“What’s under the cover?” he asks.
“Peel it back and find out,” I say to him as I try very hard not to lose my shit. I’m excited as all get out but this isn’t about me. It’s about him.
He looks at me for a moment, then starts at the right front of the car and peels back the canvas revealing an intact car fender with its white paint faded, cracked and peeling. He stops and looks at me again.
“Go on,” I tell him with a smile. “It’s not gonna uncover itself.”
He hesitates, then makes his way to the left and pulls back the corner, throwing the canvas up on the hood.
“I’m too short,” he says as he tries to pull it back over the windshield.
“I’ll help you,” I say as I grab one end and he, the other. Slowly, we peel back the canvas revealing a 1977 Pontiac Trans Am in restorable condition.
“Oh my God, that’s so cool,” he says under his breath. “Needs work,” he says as he walks around the old beat up car.
“Needs a lot of work,” I agree with him.
“One of the glass tops is missing,” he observes. “The other one, the glass is broken.”
Following him from a distance, he stops at the rear end of the car.
“Climb in, check it out,” I tell him as I open the driver side door.
He’s more than happy to. Frankie excitedly jumps into the driver seat never minding its torn and tattered fabric. Small for his age, he sits on his knees and places his hands on the wheel. Hitting the FOB in my pocket, one of the garage doors rolls up. Shutting the driver door, I lean against it.
“The car outside,” I begin. “My dad and I built that when I was your age. I thought that when I was of driving age that he’d give it to me, but he never did.”
“Did he say he would?” Frankie asks.
“No,” I answer him. “It took us years to complete it. We tore it down to nothing and built it from the chassis up.”
I pause a moment as I start to choke up.
“As I grew older though, I kept putting fewer and fewer expectations on him but no matter how low I ever set the bar, he could never reach it anyway.”
Taking his hands off the wheel, he places both hands on either side of my face and squeezes. “You’re not him,” he reassures me.
In the moment, I couldn’t help but smile just a little.
“No,” I agree with him. “I most assuredly am not. But as the years rolled past and I began to realize that my dad was just not equipped to be the father I needed him to be, I largely put him and that car out of my mind. At least, as much as I could.”
“Why was he like that?” he asks. “I mean, you seem like you were born to be a dad and he was just…”
“I don’t know Frankie,” I interrupt him. “It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s dead."
“Anyway,” I say as I dangle a set of keys from my finger between us. “I don’t ever want to let you down like he always did to me. If I'm ever failing you, I want you to tell me so I can fix it.”
Bewildered, he stares at the keys.
“I… I don’t…” he starts but he can’t find the words to finish.
“This is your car, Frankie,” I confirm for him as he slowly takes the keys from my finger and holds them in his little hand.
“But I’m only turning 12,” he reminds me of the obvious.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But by the time you're 16, you’ll have a sweet ass car you built with your cool ass dad.”
“I really don’t know what to say,” he says, still unable to pry his eyes from the car keys.
“You can cruise around and pick up real chicks instead of looking at them on the internet,” I joke.
“Daaaddd,” he says, cracking a smile.
“Or guys, whatever you’re into when you’re older,” I joke some more.
“Does it run?” he asks.
“What are you asking me for? Find out for yourself.”
Grinning from ear to ear, he leaves his knees to sit on his ass. I get lost for just a moment, seeing his small frame in the driver seat and wondering what he’ll be like in four years. Wondering just how much he’ll grow. Almost hoping, and praying to a God that I don’t believe in that he grows enough to reach the fucking pedals. God damn he’s short.
Snapping back to reality, he sticks the key into the ignition and turns. The engine cranks, but doesn’t fire.
“Give it a little gas,” I say to him, still leaning against the door.
He struggles to reach, but manages to pump the gas and turn the key. The engine fires, then stalls out.
“Maaaan,” he says dejectedly.
“Okay, pump it a couple times, but this time, keep your foot on the pedal,” I instruct him. “When it fires, feather the gas pedal like you would the throttle on your dirt bike. Not too much, just enough to get the fuel flowing.”
Pump, pump, pump.
Turn.
Crank.
Fire.
Feather.
Feather.
One more time.
And the engines idle lowers to a steady rumble.
“YAAASSSSSSS!” he exclaims.
I’m a proud dad right now. My greatest joy in life is teaching him little things. How to ride a dirt bike. How to hit a golf ball. Starting my Harley, which in hindsight, with him growing up might’ve been a mistake. Teaching him how to bait a fishing hook and start his car…
It’s strange. I always feared being a father because I was scared to death that I’d be absent like mine was. Maybe I just wasn’t equipped to do that most important job, like he wasn’t. Instead, I was determined to be the opposite of my father. Sure, I make mistakes. A lot of them. But I love my kids more than anything in this world and there is no greater gift in life than being their father.
It occurs to me… I am kinda good at this whole dad thing. It’s not always the big moments that your children remember as they grow older. It’s the little things too. Those are the things they will pass on and teach to their children. And their children will pass on to theirs.
Now that is a man’s true legacy.