No. 6: Everybody Has A Dad

Park Slope, Brooklyn.  Fall, 1995.  The kitchen of my truly sprawling apartment.  After our first few dates, John asks me about my father.

“So what’s the deal with your Dad?” John asks.

“I don’t have a Dad,” I reply.

“Everybody has a Dad.”

“No, everybody has a father.  Not everybody has a Dad.  I don’t have a Dad.”

“Okay, so what’s the deal with your father?”

“I don’t have one.”

John looks at me, exasperated.  Maybe a tinge disappointed. “That’s sad.”

“What?”

“Of course you have a father. Were you conceived in a petrie dish?”

“He’s not in my life.  He split when I was a kid.”

“So you don’t talk to him?”

“No.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Last year.”

“So you have talked to him.”

“But before that, I hadn’t seen him in 19 years.”

“Poor guy.”

“What?!”

“I feel for the guy.  You’ve killed him off and he isn’t dead.  It’s too bad you don’t want to have a relationship.  It’s like you’re cutting off your arm.”

“I am not cutting off my arm.”

“I’m saying it can’t be good for you.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You so don’t get it.”

“I guess I don’t.  I can’t imagine not talking to my Dad.”

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