Tim's father picks him up at the Greyhound station
Sometime during the previous year, in response to one too many visits where he had crept in the house at 2am, then slept in until noon, Priscilla had announced a new rule that Tim have dinner with them when he visited–"we're not running a hotel" she declared, his father next to her, dutifully nodding in accord. Since then, Tim had adhered to the rule without fail, despite his resentment of it and the feeling he had that it was his father’s house, and he a right to be there when he wanted, unconditionally.
The day before he had called his father’s office from the lobby payphone of the movie theater and told his father when he was arriving. Sure enough, when the Greyhound pulled up to the station, Tim saw his father’s grey BMW waiting in the parking lot. He had just bought it the year before, a symbol of the prosperity of his consulting career since had married Priscilla. Not only that car, but also a Toyota van to carry the boys around in, which rendered the Volvo superfluous, which was why Tim was able to take it for the summer. The BMW was the first care Tim had ever seen that had a CD player as well as a radio and cassette deck.
Tim opened the car door, and picked a yellow notepad off the seat before he sat down. His father had been taking notes while he waited for the bus to arrive.
“You can just throw that in back,” his father said.
“A new client?” Tim asked as he settled back on the smooth leather.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
Tim’s father went on and explained their business, something about databases and transactions. Tim found himself only half listening–his father liked it when Tim showed an interest in his work, but a lot of what his father did, Tim had to admit, was tedious beyond belief.
As they drove along the train tracks that bisected Alta Lara from northwest to southeast, Tim’s father was careful to drive at twenty-five. His father was paranoid about getting speeding tickets. He was always convinced that every street in Alta Lara held a speed trap. He would always say that every time in his life he’d gone above the speed limit, he’d gotten a ticket.
Tim mentioned that his creative writing class to make conversation. His father asked him about his plans for a major, since Tim had entered UC Santa Zita as undeclared, and he had to make his decision that fall. Tim said he was thinking about doing literature, if he didn't get into the creative writing major.
"Literature," Tim's father said after a minute of silence. "You could go to law school with that. I've always thought you'd make a good lawyer."
"I could never see myself as a lawyer," Tim said. To be a lawyer meant bending, if not breaking entirely, the truth on a daily basis, and Tim had no desire for that. He wanted to be an artist, and live his life in the light of truth, as painful as that might sometimes be. Tim didn’t say this out loud. He had learned that his father just didn’t understand, and it seemed to hurt him when Tim tried. He would never get angry, just silent and withdrawn, as if what he was hearing was so painful that he could only survive by pretending he wasn’t hearing it. “I mean, maybe someday. Who knows what I’ll do after college. It still seems like a long way off.”
His father made no response. Tim didn’t like to think about what he was going to do after college. He felt like he had only now become comfortable at UCSZ, and he didn’t like to think about it ending, with the great unknown of post-college life looming beyond.
“You’re taking route 27 tomorrow?” his father asked a few more minutes of silence.
“There doesn’t seem to be any better way to get down there,” Tim said. “So, yes, I guess I am.”
“Be careful,” his father said. “It’s a dangerous road.”
“I will,” Tim said. “I’ll drive slow, don’t worry.”
Tim looked to his father for some approval at his caution but his father kept his eyes on the road.
“Try not to rely on your brakes too much,” his father said. “Shift gears to control your speed.”
“That makes sense.”
Tim’s father nodded as they turned right onto Alexander Street. His father had told him this before, but Tim was glad to be reminded. It didn’t make him feel better about the drive he had to do the next day, though. Somehow, just because he knew what he needed to do didn’t make it any easier to do it. There were so many unknowns and things beyond his control.
The day before he had called his father’s office from the lobby payphone of the movie theater and told his father when he was arriving. Sure enough, when the Greyhound pulled up to the station, Tim saw his father’s grey BMW waiting in the parking lot. He had just bought it the year before, a symbol of the prosperity of his consulting career since had married Priscilla. Not only that car, but also a Toyota van to carry the boys around in, which rendered the Volvo superfluous, which was why Tim was able to take it for the summer. The BMW was the first care Tim had ever seen that had a CD player as well as a radio and cassette deck.
Tim opened the car door, and picked a yellow notepad off the seat before he sat down. His father had been taking notes while he waited for the bus to arrive.
“You can just throw that in back,” his father said.
“A new client?” Tim asked as he settled back on the smooth leather.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
Tim’s father went on and explained their business, something about databases and transactions. Tim found himself only half listening–his father liked it when Tim showed an interest in his work, but a lot of what his father did, Tim had to admit, was tedious beyond belief.
As they drove along the train tracks that bisected Alta Lara from northwest to southeast, Tim’s father was careful to drive at twenty-five. His father was paranoid about getting speeding tickets. He was always convinced that every street in Alta Lara held a speed trap. He would always say that every time in his life he’d gone above the speed limit, he’d gotten a ticket.
Tim mentioned that his creative writing class to make conversation. His father asked him about his plans for a major, since Tim had entered UC Santa Zita as undeclared, and he had to make his decision that fall. Tim said he was thinking about doing literature, if he didn't get into the creative writing major.
"Literature," Tim's father said after a minute of silence. "You could go to law school with that. I've always thought you'd make a good lawyer."
"I could never see myself as a lawyer," Tim said. To be a lawyer meant bending, if not breaking entirely, the truth on a daily basis, and Tim had no desire for that. He wanted to be an artist, and live his life in the light of truth, as painful as that might sometimes be. Tim didn’t say this out loud. He had learned that his father just didn’t understand, and it seemed to hurt him when Tim tried. He would never get angry, just silent and withdrawn, as if what he was hearing was so painful that he could only survive by pretending he wasn’t hearing it. “I mean, maybe someday. Who knows what I’ll do after college. It still seems like a long way off.”
His father made no response. Tim didn’t like to think about what he was going to do after college. He felt like he had only now become comfortable at UCSZ, and he didn’t like to think about it ending, with the great unknown of post-college life looming beyond.
“You’re taking route 27 tomorrow?” his father asked a few more minutes of silence.
“There doesn’t seem to be any better way to get down there,” Tim said. “So, yes, I guess I am.”
“Be careful,” his father said. “It’s a dangerous road.”
“I will,” Tim said. “I’ll drive slow, don’t worry.”
Tim looked to his father for some approval at his caution but his father kept his eyes on the road.
“Try not to rely on your brakes too much,” his father said. “Shift gears to control your speed.”
“That makes sense.”
Tim’s father nodded as they turned right onto Alexander Street. His father had told him this before, but Tim was glad to be reminded. It didn’t make him feel better about the drive he had to do the next day, though. Somehow, just because he knew what he needed to do didn’t make it any easier to do it. There were so many unknowns and things beyond his control.
Works
Recent Writing
- 1989 A Novel: Tim and Shek late at night
- 1989 A Novel: Tim's father picks him up at the Greyhound station
- 1989 A Novel: Tim rides the Greyhound bus over route 27
- 1989 A Novel: Tim talks to Jessica at the surfer party
- 1989 A Novel: Tim, Helen and Jessica go to a surfer party