Papa, Can You Hear Me???
This post is about gratitude, mainly of the patriarchal variety. On Saturday, I had cocktails and smoketails with my friends, and I made an executive decision to not drive and leave my car in Los Feliz so I could really indulge.
Some people may call that hedonistic excess; I call it “drinkin,’ smokin,’ straight West Coastin’”-responsibly. I didn’t want to cap off my fun, simply because I had to find some intelligible way to operate my motor vehicle; so I eliminated my responsibility as my own personal designated driver.
On the weekends, my father typically spends the night at my house (which is feeling awfully lonely and strange and excessively large for one single person without my sister there), and since he works pretty late every single day of his life (workaholic, determined baller that he is)-I figured I could call up my Pops and ask him to grab me around midnight.
“Why do you need me to pick you up?!” my father asked with an air of concern. And I told him that I elected to drink copious amounts of whiskey, and since I knew he’d be working late anyway-I figured he could grab me, rather than me shelling out my hard earned money for a cab.
Besides, the last cab driver I had tried to charge me $54 to drive about a mile (fuck you, Mr. Houston Cab Driver/Scam Artist), so I figured that this was a plausible solution for all of us. Listening to my logic-loud and clear-my father said, “Sure thing. I’ll pick you up at midnight.”
Part of me felt like I was 15 again-having my father pick me up at the Beverly Center or something, but it was really a pretty easy solution to an easily solvable dilemma. Surely, I could have taken a cab the one mile home, but since my father was crashing at my pad anyway-I figured he could hook a biological brotha-son up with a ride.
One thing I really appreciated when my father picked me up was his tangible lack of judgement. If it had been anyone else in my family-I probably would have been driven straight to rehab or something. However, my father didn’t lecture me about drinking or being drunk or anything else-because he knew I was in full control of my intellectual facilities and made a responsible decision.
It goes without saying that I didn’t expect my father to pick me up. I could have gotten myself home via cab, and when you ask someone for a favor-you always have to be prepared for them to say “no.” Nonetheless, I still felt incredibly grateful that my father took time out of his night to pick up his drunk little son-sans judgement.
For all of the times in high school (and college and my early 20s) that I acted crazed-out of hormonal and teenage (and post teenage) angst-I apologize because my Dad has really been there for me in every single way possible. This post is just a quick way to say “Thanks Dad! You’re the Best!”
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