Day #013

Day #013:

Seoul

One Night. A Few Drinks. A Chance to Hang Out With Dad.

It never happened.

But I like to think it could’ve.

A night out with my dad in D.C. – just the two of us.

I never knew my dad in his 20s. I would be about 20 years too early.

I’ve only seen one – maybe two – photos of him from this time period.

I’ve heard roughly the same number of stories.

By the time I was old enough, he was dad. Six times over.

By the time he was my age now – he’d already had five.

He was a man with responsibilities. Routines. Quiet strength and wisdom.

Lots of gold cracks.

It’s hard to imagine him as anything else.

Anything other than dad.

Bar tabs.

Trying to impress girls.

Cramming for exams.

The anxiety of getting a job.

These experiences seem so incongruent with my knowledge of him.

I don’t know why.

I know he went through those things – but they’re so distant from my definition of who he is.

Who he was.

But – lately – I’ve been wondering what might have happened if we met back then.

Not as father and son – but as two guys.

What would we talk about?

What would we do?

Would we have liked each other?

It’s just a dream. And I know it’s silly.

But I would like to think my dad is currently chilling on a great big cloud in the sky thinking the same thing.

After all – if you can’t daydream about the impossible on the anniversary of your death – when can you?

So tonight, I imagine something impossible. Something simple.

I never knew this version of him – the one where dreams are half-formed and failures are healing.

But I like to imagine – and I imagine this is a night out with my dad.

Just the two of us.

Cue the Hollywood production.

He’s in his mid-twenties, studying law at Georgetown.

His tie is a little loose. His shoes are a bit too polished.

He’s got on his signature pea coat – I recognize it immediately.

He looks like a knock-off James Dean. The discount variety.

Some swagger. Some soul. Some hesitation.

And me?

Hoodie. Jeans. Backwards hat.

My traditional uniform.

For tonight – I’m not his son.

I’m his peer. His companion.

Someone to share a few beers with.

We walk through Dupont Circle as if we’ve done this every weekend since L1.

He quizzes me about the Supreme Court.

I discuss the situation in Paris. Les Miserable.

He says they should just get jobs.

We look the same. We walk the same. Our cadence – our rhythm.

The same.

I can tell we’re both trying hard – I can tell we’re both trying to be cool.

We both have our shells – something we only let a few people really access.

Some may call us a chameleon - I just think we know how to adapt.

He tells me he gets nervous around East Coast women. I tell him that I think that’s more of a universal feeling.

He’s witty though – and funny.

He’s articulate. He recites poetry from memory.

Chaucer is his favorite.

He points at the brick townhouses and rattles off which professors are where.

Who drinks what.

Who probably sleeps with whom.

It’s fun to see him this way – the Norman Rockwell of university gossip.

We head to The Tombs. He knows the bartenders.

Orders a highball like Miles Davis might be on the set list.

He looks at me – he’s proud.

For tonight at least, he’s made it.

At some point, we hit the rooftop of a bar that no longer exists.

The day’s humidity has finally subsided. The night is cool.

Stars. Satellites. Planes fill the air.

We both joke that the Soviets put a listening device in the clock behind us.

We share a few cigarettes. We talk books. Dostoevsky. Vonnegut. Kerouac.

We get a little drunk. And drink a few more.

The topics shift. Cold War strategy. Integration in the South. JFK.

And girls.

Actually – it’s mostly girls.

I tell him about this girl I met.

Her name is Jess.

I really like her. She gives me the butterflies.

But she’s my teacher – so I ask him what I should do.

Should I ask her out? What if she says no?

He tells me I’m overthinking it.

We toast to that.

I tell him I’ll give it a shot. I've got the requisite liquid courage.

For a moment, we’re just two guys. Somewhere between philosophy and last call.

We were poor. We were young.

That's the best combination.

It’s certainly the one with the most stories.

Tonight – for him - family was an afterthought.

It was more distant than my arrival in 22 years.

But he knew it was an expectation.

A deeply sure part of himself was pushing that expectation forward.

I told him destiny is not within his control.

What will be – will be.

Choose the path that works best for you. And above all – remember this:

God writes straight with crooked lines.

He smiled. Said “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

After hours of laughter, debating, and just talking – I need to get going.

I can tell he’s down to hang out some more.

He’d always like just one more minute with me.

But – just like the lives we’ll share together later – it turns out there’s somewhere else I need to be.

Some other “thing” I need to go do.

It’ll become the talk track for much of our adult relationship:

It was always him saying hello - and me saying goodbye.

Him staying. Me leaving.

We exit with an embrace.

Not in a sad way. Not in a tragic way.

More like a movie.

Two old friends with a new memory.

And the scene fades to black.

He’s gone.

I blink. Snapped back to reality.

He’s replaced by my waiter standing in front of me.

He’s carrying my next round.

I look down at my beer.

I can’t say it’s good – but I sip it anyway.

It’s evening here in Seoul. The sun is setting over the high rises.

It’s retreating as if tiptoeing around some concern for my grief.

And I’m enjoying a few beers at a local brewery.

The Cranberries play over the speakers.

I have tears in my eyes.

Dad and I never had that drink together.

We never had that night.

This was just a dream.

But I saw him – not as the man that raised me. Not as the father to all of us.

But as the man he once was.

Young. Anxious. Ready to conquer the world.

And scared to do it.

What if we’d had that night together? Not as father and son – but as men – equals?

Strangers who somehow managed to meet up.

A wrinkle in time.

What if I could ask him what scared him the most?

What he thought he’d become?

What if he could see me now? Not for approval. Not even for recognition.

Just a nod.

Heck, I’d settle for an akward pause between sentences.

One of the greatest honors of my life was giving the eulogy at our dad’s funeral.

It was an opportunity to tell the story of the man I loved. The legend.

There are so many things I adore about our father. And this space really isn’t the forum to share all of them.

Somehow though – on this day specifically – this daydream makes me feel closer to him.       

Although he’s been gone only a few years – he’s been with me on my journey.

He’s been my companion.

My confidante.

It’d be great if he’d carry my pack.

We’ve laughed together.

We’ve cussed a lot.

We’ve looked out on the world with the eyes of a wanderlust.

 We don’t often get a chance to see our parents for who they really are – people.

We don’t get to imagine them as us – young. Vulnerable. Wandering the world with questions.

But they did.

I know my dad did.

This isn’t a love song. It’s not a memorial or anything like that.

This is just me – sitting at a bar in South Korea – wondering what it would be like if my dad and I met here.

Or there.

Or anywhere.

To share a few beers. Share a few stories. Share a few questions.

Not because we have to – there’s no real reason.

But because we are friends.

And that’s what friends do.

So here’s to the lives we never got to see.

The night that exists only in dreams.

To the questions that may have been.

To that.

To Dad.

To you.

Slainte.