“In every youth’s life there is a rebel who comes in and steals your heart with no regard as to the fact that you need that heart and that you’ve grown quite attached, thank you very much. Mine was a BMX bad boy called Adam (his name was not actually Adam, but whether because age or the natural fading of memory I can’t remember his name. Just know that he was white and middle class and so Adam is a perfectly suitable and altogether plausible name.) I always imagine he tasted like Pop-Rocks; all sweetness and firecrackers wrapped in a late-90s bowl cut all five members of the Backstreet Boys would have been jealous of.” – BMX Icarus, Heather Ayres
To do my Dad justice, there is only one word that could appropriately describe him, brutal. A metalhead with a flowing mane, cutoff camo shorts, and a tried-and-true concert tee, I could not have gotten luckier than to have him be the man who raised me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again (I’ll probably be saying this from here to eternity if I’m completely honest), my Dad could easily beat your dad in a medieval style battle to the death and still be the most gentle of bros you’ve ever met.
I’m am so honored to call him my father, and more importantly, my dad. Without further adieu, here’s an excerpt from a story I wrote for my dad.
It is a well-kept secret that I am a thief. Slinking around our two-bedroom apartment, I muster all the strength that a seven-year-old could possibly possess and filch your private moments for my own. I am a cat burglar of the most sinister kind, gathering memories like grandma’s heirloom pearls under the shroud of shadow only to miraculously reappear once everyone has forgotten they even existed. It is a purely self-serving pursuit, and one of my favorite pastimes.
Not all memories are worth their weight in gold, but there are some that might make you break the bank; the crown jewels of a life spent eavesdropping on adults when I could have been playing hopscotch or biking around on flat tires. But hey, it’s your day, so I’ll give this one to you free of charge.
The sun reaches above the horizon, filling my room with a celestial blue light tinted with the golden rays of dawn. My eyes are fixed on the spot on the top bunk where my sister is still sleeping, accompanied by the symphony of her grinding teeth and intermittent snoring. I wait for the creaking sound of the hinges of your door and the shuffling of your feet on the hallways carpet. I wait for the faucet to turn on and fill the coffee maker while you scoop ground of Folgers into the filter for it really is the best part of waking up. I wait for the smell of the dark roast brewing and the aroma of your first cigarette to fill the apartment before I make my way to my bedroom door.