When I showed Dad a program I hoped to attend, he barely examined the brochure.
“Music doesn’t pay the bills. Get a real job.”
“But you played music!”
“And look where it got me.”
He walked away.
That night, I noticed him standing near his old guitar. For a moment, I expected him to pick it up.
Instead, he switched off the light and went to bed.
On my eighteenth birthday, Dad pushed a scrap of paper across the breakfast table.
“Pay me $250 for your room. On the first of every month.”
I stared in disbelief.
“You’re an adult now.”
“You’re charging your own son rent?”
“It’s my birthday, Dad.”
“Then consider this your first lesson in responsibility.”
I waited for a smile, but he simply resumed drinking coffee.
I already worked part-time, yet I had to take more shifts stocking grocery shelves. After rent, food, gas, and
other expenses, almost nothing remained.
Whenever I saved a little, another expense appeared. My car broke down, my hours were reduced, or my work shoes wore out.
Meanwhile, Dad occasionally bought beer or new fishing equipment.
“Must be nice having money for hobbies,” I muttered one day.
He overheard me.
“Work hard enough, and you will too.”
At nineteen, I finally saved enough for a used microphone and audio interface. I recorded songs in my bedroom, using blankets on the walls to improve the acoustics.
One night, Dad appeared at my door.
“Turn that racket down. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I removed my headphones.
“You couldn’t stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?”
“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
The argument ended when I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture
off the wall.
Eventually, I recorded less often. My guitar stayed in its case most days, though I still played whenever Dad was away.
His best friend, Frank, visited now and then. Sometimes they left carrying tools or old equipment. I assumed they were working in Frank’s garage.
By twenty-three, Dad and I barely exchanged words.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and I left $250 on the kitchen table every month.
Sometimes I’d notice him watching me, but he never spoke.
Five years after he began collecting rent, Dad died of cancer.
I’d often imagined the relief of having the house to myself. Yet after his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots beside the door, unable to move them.
We’d barely spoken during his last week. Our final conversation concerned a leaking kitchen faucet.
Now we’d never speak again.
