by Babak Movahed
Why don’t you talk about it?
There’s not much to talk about. My childhood was mostly normal, certainly not traumatic. Struggle is an inevitability of upbringing. We’re not made to perfection, some divine replica of God’s image. No. Flaws are woven in the fabric of who we are. Fathers and sons, cut from the same cloth, our issues tied us together. I see that, sometimes, but not then, not as he berated me for being a son far removed from the one he expected. He made sure I knew almost every time I walked in.
That car, an average everyday mid-sized felt too confined, especially when we fought. They seemed correlated, the car and arguing, bouts of yelling made deafening when trapped between glass and faux leather. My ears still ring when I remember. Not the car’s fault, but near the end, that’s where we spent our time.
By then, he’d lost so many versions of custody my mom made one up. Visitations limited to passing conversations between front and back seats on days he decided to show. Maybe she did it for me. My sister was too young to care. Not like it made a difference.
In the house, at the apartment, the next apartment, in the car, we were going to be us, too often during inconsequential moments made into core memories. That one night, parked in front of the once shared house. What was it? The dog. Ya, how much it’d the cost. We kept at it. He with his pencil thin world view. Mine, no better, different maybe, but no better. It was a Lhasa Apso.
My sister asked for it. Our cousins had just bought a pair from a breeder. We already had a lab, but I insisted that it was my dog. Would this have been avoided if I had been different? Kinder, more of a brother. I’m better now, but something’s missing. Not in her. In me. Worked out alright eventually; she loved that Lhasa.
Not much of a dog, especially for its asking price. All dogs are pricey though. We couldn’t agree on what was reasonable. Another one of our back-and-forths, each of us pulling in separate directions, both of us going nowhere. He was insistent on one price, I another. Not like it mattered, a couple hundred bucks at most.
I shared the costs my cousins had paid. He ignored me. He already settled on a delusional reality he concocted in his mind, all knowing in all matters related to Lhasa Apsos. I can’t recall his exact words, but I can’t forget the arrogant way he said them. That presumption that age and a degree never used made him universally an expert. At that point, I probably came off as frustrated. It wasn’t that. I was tired of arguing, of being “wrong.” He needed to hear the price, even if he refused to listen.
At the time, it felt like a fortune, not the cost. Being right, with anyone, but especially with him, was the value. I didn’t want him to think of me of as less than, like nothingness from the same stock, genes destined for perpetual mediocrity.
He had spent his days tearing down his own life piece by piece. Why would mine be different? The more I tried to explain, the quicker he’d cut me off, rambling about fabricated articles he’d read about breeders, repeating that he understood how sales worked being a superb salesman himself, insisting he’d been around the block, gets the game and how to play it. Cliché after banality, that’s how he’d safeguard himself against the truth of his own shortcomings.
Eventually, we came to our usual conclusion. It’s hard to remember who started it, who was at fault. I have trouble recalling any of those experiences. My memory, my memories of him, are becoming covered in a grey film, and with each passing day, another layer is added, probably by my own doing. If I could sit back in that car for those brief minutes etched into a lifetime, I’d know which of us was to blame. Likely both of us.
I could be stubborn. A demon I carry today, passed down by him, but it’s me that chooses to hold on. Reflecting about it doesn’t help. I need to recognize it when it happens, but I can’t, or don’t. Today I can see it in hindsight. Then, it was ever visible, but I was blind to it, despite it fueling my anger.
I sensed the tone of my voice rising. The bubbling contempt I worked so hard to shove further and further away from my heart crept its way up until it was pouring out of me and onto him.
You’re full of shit! You’re an asshole! Words I felt but could never speak. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, but he loomed large in my mind. Instead of the insults he deserved, I screamed out “why are you like this?!” with choked back tears and punched the door.
That was enough. Through bulging, welling eyes, clenched teeth and fists, he shook in a not-so-silent rage, unrelenting and born of disappointment. The shouting went on. My voice grew hoarse. Despite the grating against my throat and the awareness of its futility, I argued.
I was unintelligible in a frenzy, shouting any string of sentences I could tie together. He responded by getting louder and louder. The vein running down the center of his forehead bugled like an addict’s sweet spot. That and his eyes, the only features I could see. He never turned around. Just kept his head fixed straight, staring at me with a lunatic’s gaze through his rearview mirror. That bothered me then, still does, which was why I couldn’t stop.
He needed to hear, see, understand me. I wished he did. But no. That version of us was and is who we would always be, two people bound by blood. Nothing more, like the nothing more that was left to say before we said nothing. The sudden silence filled the void. Our shouts became faint echoes in the emptiness of that sedan.
No way I’d know then, but the remaining time we had together, in that car, in person anywhere, I could count with my fingers. If I had known, would it have been different? Calmer in my delivery probably, but the words spoken and the need to speak them, to rebel for the sake of my selfhood, they’d be the same. Regardless of my tone, my voice was going to fall on deaf ears.
A minute or thirty passed before one of us gestured to leave. Neither of us said goodbye. The last time we’d talk about the dog. Not the last time we’d fight. One of the last times we would see each other.
Why don’t you talk about it?
I never do, not that I can’t, it’s just not easy. I was a different man… without a handbook on being a father, and if my own had written it, it wouldn’t be worth the paper he used. His rule infallible under the martial laws he enacted and enforced with an open palm, a belt if he felt so compelled. I never hit the kid, no matter the exchanges or where they occurred.
That car, an average everyday mid-sized felt too confined, especially when we fought. They seemed correlated, the car and arguing, bouts of yelling made deafening when trapped between glass and faux leather. My ears still ring when I remember. Not the car’s fault, but near the end, that’s where we spent our time.
It wasn’t all bad. He learned to drive in my car. Love through lectures on life and the differences between solid and broken lines. The boy picked up quick. I assumed from my instruction, but he’s sharp even without his old man. But those occasions of smiles and laughs were short lived. He with his teenage disregard, me with brazen pride, no matter the lesson, we’d collide.
In the house, at the apartment, the next apartment, in the car, we were going to be us, too often during inconsequential moments made into core memories. That one night, parked in front of the once shared house. What was it? The dog. Ya, how much it’d the cost. We kept at it. He with his pencil thin world view. Mine, no better, different maybe, but no better. It was a Lhasa Apso.
My daughter wanted her own dog. Her brother needed everything to be about him, even the affection of the lab they already owned. My daughter was perpetually cast in the shadow of an older sibling starved for attention, never feeling satiated. A Lhasa can’t stop an intruder, but it would be a friend for a sweet girl that deserved one.
Not much of a dog, especially for its asking price. All dogs are pricey though. We couldn’t agree on what was reasonable. Another one of our back-and-forths, each of us pulling in separate directions, both of us going nowhere. He was insistent on one price, I another. Not like it mattered, a couple hundred bucks at most.
I’d buy the dog. I had already lost so much; money wasn’t worth losing more. Choices I made through smoke-stained teeth and sour alcohol breath, were usually wrong ones. Each pushing me closer to bankruptcy and further from my kids. I never told them. My daughter wouldn’t understand. My son wouldn’t care? Or I cared too much? Either way, it wasn’t his $500 to my $300. It was the disrespect in his conviction.
At the time, it felt like a fortune, not the cost. Being right, with anyone, but especially with him, was the value. I didn’t want him to think of me of as less than, like nothingness from the same stock, genes destined for perpetual mediocrity.
He’d get this way about him. Settled into an idea without an openness to opposition. It was impressive sometimes, his self-assurance. That night, his smug tone rife with exaggerated sighs crept under my skin. He had so much to learn but was apathetic to listening. I could’ve been calmer, then and on more occasions than I’d like to admit. I don’t deny them anymore. Not possible when they’re replaying on reel in my head, keeping me awake in
soundless dark while I try to sleep. I could’ve been calmer.
Eventually, we came to usual conclusion. It’s hard to remember who started it, who was at fault. I have trouble recalling any of those experiences. My memory, my memories of him, are becoming covered in a grey film, and with each passing day, another layer is added, probably by my own doing. If I could sit back in that car for those brief minutes etched into a lifetime, I’d know which of us was to blame. Likely both of us.
I tried talking to him through his sister. There were different breeders we could check, the breeders her cousins bought from were taking advantage of her interest, there’s always a markup for high demand. Every argument posed to her was met with a scoff by him. I couldn’t look back though. If we locked eyes, we’d both notice it, a mirror reflecting back, young and old, our shared fury born from my failures as a dad.
I sensed the tone of my voice rising. The bubbling contempt I worked so hard to shove further and further away from my heart crept its way up until it was pouring out of me and onto him.
I lost it when he asked a question. I needed to answer but couldn’t. Not then, unsure even now. He screamed it with every ounce of his frame that so resembled mine at his age. A younger me might as well have asked. No. The boy’s not me. My foundation was cracked, mistakes made by me and against me, didn’t take much for me to crumble.
That was enough. Through bulging, welling eyes, clenched teeth and fists, he shook in a not-so-silent rage, unrelenting and full of disappointment. The shouting went on. My voice grew hoarse.
Despite the grating against my throat and the awareness of its futility, I argued.
I kept yelling. Unable to hold back against his barrage, I couldn’t stop myself. Our voices blending together, a cacophony of sound and fury signifying nothing, not then, not ever.
But between seats we fought on. Not ready to face him and the sobering truth of his disdain, I didn’t look back. I wasn’t looking to save money on the dog. Just wanted to save the self-worth I had left.
He needed to hear, see, understand me. I wished he did. But no. That version of us was and is who we would always be, two people bound by blood. Nothing more, like the nothing more that was left to say before we said nothing. The sudden silence filled the void. Our shouts became faint echoes in the emptiness of that sedan.
There wasn’t much after that. I’d have to leave that night and forever out of their lives.
Regret doesn’t capture the torture of that memory and the so many like it. I’ve changed, but change too late is hardly change, not for them at least. I understand. If I’d been different, then and always, where would we be? I dream those untold stories of us, comedies and adventures never lived, but I still dream, even when reality wakes me to a nightmare.
A minute or thirty passed before one of us gestured to leave. Neither of us said goodbye. The last time we’d talk about the dog. Not the last time we’d fight. One of the last times we would see each other.
About the Author
Babak Movahed received both a Bachelor and Master’s degree in American Literature. Additionally, he received his first publication credit after an original short story was published by his university’s literary magazine. Babak currently supports a literacy focused nonprofit but still writes creatively in his free time. His recent works have been published in various print and online journals.