My Dad

My Dad

About 30 years ago my father got mugged. He was coming out of an Irish Pub on Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles when two young men approached, pulled a gun on him, cold cocked him in the eye with a fist, demanded he take off his bracelet and watch, and give him all the money he had, plus his wallet. He did what he was told, but the bracelet was one of those fancy types that was popular at the time; one that needed a special screwdriver to remove. The muggers got anxious and as they struggled getting his gold bracelet off, my dad got out their grasps and ran down the street away from them. They fired two shots but missed. My dad kept running—running to safety.

I’m not sure why this incident popped into my head after so many years. I guess it was sparked when I made plans to visit my dad for the first time in a number of years. We live in different parts of the country, about 3,000 miles away from each other. He doesn’t travel—hasn’t for last 15 years or so. He missed his mother’s funeral in St. Louis ten years ago. He couldn’t get himself to go. He missed my wife’s funeral three and a half years ago. He couldn’t get himself to go. He missed my wedding when I got remarried two years ago. He couldn’t get himself to go.

My dad is a television and movie writer. At the age of 79 he still writes every day, although he hasn’t sold a script in more than a few years now. But at one time he was one of the top television writers in Hollywood. Maybe top is too boastful a word, but he is my Dad, and it’s one of the things I can say about him that truly make me proud. He even had a couple of feature films produced later in his career, an impressive feat considering Hollywood tends to be a younger man's game. But career success doesn't make a great father, and my Dad isn’t and never was. He isn’t a great grandfather either; he never cared to be. He wasn’t a great husband to my mother or his second wife; that would have taken too much self-control, too much of his time, and his hurtful actions and demeaning putdowns meant little to him compared to attending to his own pleasures, an itch he couldn't seem to satisfy.

Though my parents divorced when I was seven, and my older brother and I didn’t see him that often, my father and I developed a very close and unique relationship over the years. I accepted him for what he was. Even as a kid, I recognized his shortcomings, knew he wasn’t going to change no matter how much I wanted him to. I never asked him to, and he never did. He remained the same man he probably was born to be, or maybe raised to be, considering his relationship with his alcoholic and violent father. But that was alright with me, I enjoyed his company, loved listening to the master storyteller hold forth. The way he would dominate the dinner table with descriptive, expansive tales of his youth. My late wife, upon meeting him for the first time at a restaurant, turned to me and said, "Oh my God, can you believe what your father went through?" I looked at her like she was crazy--"You believe all that?" He could be fun and entertaining, but also mean and abusive. I was well aware of his moods, I knew him, understood him, maybe even felt a little sorry for him in ways I didn't fully understand, and still don't. All I knew was, he is my Dad.

But as the years went by, my disappointment in him grew too much to ignore. How could he not go to his mother’s funeral? He loved her and his mother loved him. How could he not go to my wife’s funeral when she died of cancer at age 56. He knew how much it meant to me for him to be there? And then miss my wedding? An event, a turning point in my life that freed me to be happy again; that gave me a chance to live again after years of despair and heartache. How could he never give my daughter a birthday present or a Christmas gift, or even a phone call congratulating her for graduating high school or getting straight A's in college? But that was my dad. I had to go back to being seven again and not let him disappoint me.

Which brings me back to the day he got mugged many years ago. When he called me the next day and told me what happened, he got upset with me for not showing the empathy that he thought it deserved. I guess I was too subdued, too muted; that I didn't understand the gravity of this profound and life altering altercation. And, he was probably right. Maybe I could have been more sensitive, more emotionally giving, more understanding. Maybe I am my father's son after all; I just didn't realize it at the time.

Now I look back at our relationship and think, maybe, in the same way he expected more from me when he needed me, I realize I needed him more than what he gave me. Wouldn't it be nice to remember him cheering me on at my high school baseball games? Wouldn't I now shed a tear remembering how he put an arm around me when I had to bury my wife? But it doesn't really matter, I survived, and I love him for being my Dad, and for what he could give. As I was able to understand for some unknown reason a long time ago, you can't change someone simply because you want to. Even if it is your Dad.