It was midday yet there was many men in the bar as I walked in. The air was dead from cigarette smoke with nicotine coating everything and everybody in the place. The homeless rubbed shoulders with the soon to be ones sharing fugitive looks that hinted at their shame.

I looked towards the barman as he served two winos cheap wine with one of them now heading towards the mens room. This face was turned away from me but his walk kindled a primitive recognition and I knew then that this was my father. Holding an old photo that my brother had given me to confirm any doubts, I walked up to the other wino.

"Is that man, your friend that is with you, named Michael Clifford", I asked him He answered with suspicion, "who wants to know" "I'll let you in a few minutes", as I ordered a beer and then shared an awkward silence with him while waiting with my eyes fixed firmly on the mens room. The wait was not long as my father returned from the toilets and headed back up to the bar, not giving a second glance in my direction as our eyes met for the first time since I was five years old. He now stood with his back to me and started to pick up where he had left off with his friend, then became distracted quickly as the other man kept looking in my direction. My father turned at last and not sure whether I was friend or foe and asked, "who are you".

"I am supposed to be your son", I said firmly without meaning to be. The same awkward silence was now shared by three people as my father moved slowly but cautiously several feet way from me and alined himself more with the exit door. His friend thought he was in a scene of a movie with mouth open savouring every second of what was happening and what might happen. I recognized my fathers fear even though a little puzzled by it and sought to reassure him. He face turned a little paler as I said quietly, "It's okay Michael, I just wanted to meet you", and went to put my arm on his shoulder. His face tightened and waited for the blow that did not come, then relaxed a little as I stepped back. His guilt was palpable for his sentence was accepted long ago, and was now clinging desperately at the last remnants of his dignity as he put out his shaking right hand to greet mine. I shook it warmly.

In those next few minutes a lot would be said with so little words and I'm sure we were both relieved. Reliving our past would have changed the mood too quickly and be mentally exhausting as well, so we just danced around it. Besides, it was a beautiful day outside and I was in a very forgiving mood. I ordered three pints of Guinness to break bread with my father and his friend and savour some of the best hours we would ever spend together.

We drank, sung songs, and threw some lies and half truths at each other. He told me I was very good looking which was true, and I told him that he looked great which was false. Talk was little enough about my mother for we both marveled at these moments almost afraid to let them go as caution crept into our words to keep us there. He seemed filled with a new pride as I sat beside him and looked hopeful at the other customers that they might see us too. At evenings end neither of us were visibly drunk, the excitement of it all killing the alcohol in us. Eventually and unwillingly we parted company, promising each other to meet again as I left him my address for he had none, and him promising to get word to my mother that I was in town. It was a great start after all that went before us. My enthusiasm was greater than my fathers for the future. Because of my youth I felt I might still have one with him while not knowing that at only forty two years old his future would only be a repeat of his past. A grinding cycle of old memories, faded photographs, and optimism that was fueled by alcohol and sobriety that fueled his nightmares. Not withstanding all of that, it was still a beginning between from what was not and what might be.

Next >>>