“My 16th Birthday” or “How I Made Birthday Money Working For The Sinaloa Cartel!”
I sat behind the steering wheel of the battered red truck. I wasn’t sure why he asked me to sit in the driver’s seat, but I instantly obliged. I jumped out the passenger door and got in through the driver’s side. I didn’t feel confident trying to slide over the gearshift, with the truck still running. God knows I would’ve dropped it into gear on accident and sent the little Toyota rolling down the hill on our first day out together. I didn’t want to take any chances disappointing him so I made sure to get out and walk around.
He didn’t notice how nervous I was and I’m sure, in retrospect, he wouldn’t give a shit either.
He walked off towards the open bay door of the auto body shop and disappeared.
“Son, if you see me running, be ready to hit the gas” he said, before he got out of the cab and went to the bed of the truck to retrieve his leather briefcase.
My instincts were telling me what we were doing was wrong, but at this point I didn’t feel confident asking any questions: things were happening so fast and I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t equipped for any this.
Hell, I didn’t even know how to drive a clutch.
But I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that. I’d figure it out if I had to. I’d seen his father sitting in this very seat, pushing the clutch with his giant boot and jamming the stick in any number of directions as the tiny truck lurched and bucked against the will of an overburdened clutch.
My grandfather only had a 4th grade education; If he could muster the coordination to drive this thing, I could probably manage.
It was already getting dark and I was pretty sure we weren’t going to make the movie, like he promised.
I didn’t know yet this was a routine we would follow for the rest of our time together: unfulfilled promises made to secure my cooperation. So here I was, sitting in a running truck I was unqualified to operate, without even a learner’s permit. The guilt was like a sour ball of heat in my stomach, but I was trying so hard to ignore it.
It was my 16th birthday and I was finally with my Dad.
My day had started earlier than usual: at 6a.m. I managed to rouse myself, get showered and dressed without waking my mom. The night before, I’d cancelled our birthday plans together by lying about a date with a human girl. Barbara was so excited at the possibility of me liking a girl that she told me we could reschedule my birthday dinner for later in the week. If she knew that I blew her off in order to meet up with my biological father, she would never forgive me.
Barbara had love in her heart for even the worst of people, but when it came to Michael Sheen, she was unapologetic about her anger and distrust of him.
She served him with divorce papers while he was in jail, awaiting sentencing for narcotics trafficking, which came as a complete surprise to her; until then, she was completely oblivious about his second life as a young up-and-comer in the Colacurcio crime syndicate: an extension of the Gambino crime family.
After their divorce was final she was adamant about zero visitations until I was old enough to decide whether I wanted anything to do with him.
She was very careful about the potential of poisoning the well so instead of telling me anything about him, she almost never spoke of him at all. Unless of course I asked, then she would open the old “hope chest” and show me the pictures of a young Michael holding his baby son, followed by a few newspaper articles, offered without comment, from the day the FBI stormed Francis and Isabelle’s home and placing Michael under arrest for high treason. More on this later.
We made a plan to meet at the King’s Diner, down the highway from the apartment I was currently sharing with Barbara, around 7:30 in the morning. Michael told me the plan was to meet up early, run a couple of errands and then grab some lunch followed by any movie I wanted to see. I had chosen “Spies Like Us”.
I arrived at King’s early enough to watch all the older union guys and dock workers show up for their first AA meeting of the day. Apparently, every morning at 7A.M. sharp, the banquet room became an ad-hoc sobriety hall, complete with its own coffee maker (one of those big, industrial size aluminum numbers) and fresh donuts. Some fellas ordered breakfast, which allowed me the opportunity to hear parts of their stories every time the server pushed through the swinging doors with plates of food perched up and down each arm. I sat at the diner until 11am, drinking coffee and re-reading the same paper for a while, trying to find new, unexplored parts I hadn’t examined yet, so I didn’t fall asleep at the diner’s counter. There was never a moment where I thought about going back home; I would wait all day if I had to. It was my birthday and I was going to spend it with my father, even if I had to wait until sundown.
When the little red truck finally pulled up to the front of the restaurant, I could tell Michael hadn’t been awake for long. His face was covered in light stubble and he carried heavy dark bags under his eyes. I paid for my coffee and went out to meet him as he reached over to the passenger side door and opened it from inside.
“Hop in, son!” he managed a half smile as I jumped in. The truck was filled with the rich odor of booze sweat and I instantly understood why he was 3 hours late. I tried to ignore it, rolled the window down and leaned outside for fear of dry heaving and blowing my cover. I asked him where we were going for lunch.
“I was thinking we’d hit this barbeque place in Aberdeen. A friend of mine lives out there and I thought we’d go say hi?” he replied.
“Isn’t Aberdeen three hours away?” I asked.
“I know I said we’d hit a movie” he replied, “but I have to run some errands first and I thought we’d do it together? We can spend some time talking and catching up” he offered, weakly.
I tried to mask my disappointment and sound agreeable.
“Um…yeah, that’s okay. We can hit a later movie.”
He didn’t reply, he just wrestled the clutch into drive and we hit the highway.
We drove in relative silence, with an occasional break for heavy sighing, belching or rubbing his face to stay awake, for what felt like days. I found myself annoyingly tapping along to the beat of the wipers as we plugged along the wet backwoods utility road on which we were currently driving. We’d left the freeway some time ago and were driving through a part of the countryside I wasn’t familiar with. I couldn’t ever remember being out this far.
Eventually, he slowed the truck and hit the turn signal as we pulled onto a long, muddy road, towards a huge, modern looking home, behind a massive iron gate. As he pulled up to the callbox he rolled his window down, reached out and hit the button.
A voice came over the tiny speaker:
“Hi Michael. Hold on” a man’s voice called out as the gates began to open and we slowly drove through.
Michael stared ahead and said “Son, this is a guy I work with. Would you mind hanging out with his kid while we do our business. Do you mind?”
“I guess not?” I replied, barely hiding my irritation.
“I didn’t tell him you were coming with me and he’s a little paranoid. Nothing to worry about, but you can play video games or something, then we’ll grab some lunch. Okay?”
“No problem, Michael”
He looked at me, perturbed.
“You can call me Dad, son. It’s alright.”
“Sorry. No problem…Dad” the word fell out of my mouth clumsily.
He pulled the little red truck onto a paved turnaround and parked, next to a silver Mercedes, which was parked next to a silver Land Rover. It was an enormous home. Huge floor to ceiling windows let me see inside. It was decorated for the holidays and I could see a massive Christmas tree. It had to be twenty feet tall and still didn’t begin touch the vaulted ceiling, where a massive wrought iron chandelier hung near the largest fireplace I’d ever seen.
Michael went to knock, but the door opened before his fist touched it. The man on the other side was still in his bathrobe and ushered us in, holding the door open for another moment and nervously looked around outside, before closing it behind us. Michael extended his hand and it just hung there as the man ignored it. He never even looked at me, instead pushing my dad towards an office to the right of the entrance. They both went in and he slammed the door behind them. I stood in the foyer, stunned and disoriented by the size of the place.
I found my way to the living room and saw a very young boy, maybe seven years old, watching cartoons in his pajamas. I sat on the couch next to him. He looked up at me for just a second, then back to the television. I sat and watched tv without ever saying a word to him.
Eventually I heard them emerge from the office, their voices getting louder as they made their way to the living room. Michael looked around nervously as the man in the robe split off into the kitchen.
“Let’s move” he whispered. His tone seemed hurried.
I Iooked up and saw the perspiration soaking through his shirt. He was the color of bleached paper.
“You okay?”
“We need to get the FUCK out of here” he spat quietly through gritted teeth and made a rolling motion with his hand.
I hurried off the couch and followed him. He was nearly to the truck before I even reached the door.
I ran out to the driveway to catch up and he’d already started the truck. Once I was inside, he hit the gas so hard the truck backfired and lurched forward. His face was turned, staring at the front door of the house, as he put the truck in reverse and backed out from between the two luxury vehicles. We made our way toward the gate, which was slowly opening for us. Once we were just outside the property, Michael let out a barking cough and wiped sweat from his eyes.
He slammed the brakes and skidded the truck into the dirt along the side of the road. He hurled himself from the driver’s side door and began making circles around the truck, his arms lifted over his head. He steadied himself on the truck’s short bed and began to dry heave, but nothing came out. He grabbed the door and pulled himself into the tiny cab, his eyes wet with tears and sweat, cheeks flush and his breathing labored.
“Dad? Are you alright?” I asked, fully aware he was the opposite of alright.
“No”, he answered curtly, before he whispered “fuck” under his breath.
He took one very deep breath and stared ahead just before announcing, “one more stop before lunch. I promise.” He said as he pulled back onto the utility road.
We drove in silence for almost an hour, before Michael pulled off the freeway and stopped in front of a small uniform supply store. There was a cartoon police officer painted on the big display window with the word “SALE” next to him in a loud Day-Glo color. He left the truck running and told me to wait as he made his way around to the bed of the truck and grabbed his briefcase.
I stared out the rain-covered windshield for twenty minutes.
He seemed almost relieved when he got back in the truck. “Alright” he said as he pulled his seatbelt over his lap. “Let’s get some lunch!”
“We’re gonna meet up with my friend Big Lou” Michael announced, breaking a very long silence. He’s a good fella. We met on the inside.”
I knew that ‘inside’ was slang for Lompoc Federal Penitentiary, where he had spent the previous 9 years.
“Now, when you meet Lou…” he cautioned, “don’t stare. He’s a big fella; easily over five hundred pounds. He had a cell to himself because no one else could fit in there with him. He’s a funny dude, you’ll like him”.
I wasn’t sure why he was selling Big Lou to me so hard, but I was about to find out.
Then, out of nowhere, he shared a weird piece of life advice with me.
“I hope you never end up there but if you do, don’t take anything anybody leaves on your bunk. I mean it. Cigarettes, magazines, drugs? Those aren’t gifts and nothing is ever free. Catch my drift?” I assumed that last question was rhetorical but Michael continued to stare at me, expecting an answer.
“Um…yeah? Got it. Thanks?”
“Good. I’m serious” he added.
We pulled up to Big Pig BBQ at nearly three o’clock. There was only one other car in the parking lot and it was a beat to shit Ford LTD with a piece of plastic wrap over the blown-out passenger window. Michael parked next to it and as we got closer I could see that the car was a dumpster, filled to overflowing with unopened mail, newspapers, blankets, empty food wrappers and bags. I had to stifle a gag as we walked past it and the smell of wet rot punched me right in my empty stomach.
“Looks like Big Lou beat us here” he said as I tried to keep my insides inside.
The restaurant had a rustic log cabin vibe going on and the front counter was empty when we walked in. Michael scoped out the dining area and pointed at a big corner table where the largest man I’ve ever seen had somehow managed to squeeze between the table and the wall and was now struggling to free himself to rise and greet my dad. Big Lou’s massive arms flapped like a flightless bird as he desperately tried to escape the tiny space he’d jammed himself into until, with one final upward heave his torso squooged free and his tremendous gut slid across the table as he crab-walked out of the tiny corner booth. He was now damp with sweat as his unsteady legs prepared to once again carry more than they were really equipped for.
He was a mountain of moist black skin and when he grabbed Michael he absorbed him more than embraced him.
I immediately understood how he acquired his nickname.
Michael introduced me and Lou extended a giant hand, the size of a canned ham, soaking wet with perspiration. It wrapped itself all the way around my tiny arm like a hungry python.
“You’re handsome just like yer daddy” Big Lou told me as his face creased into a pleasant smile. We all made our way to the counter and a lone employee appeared from behind swinging doors.
When our orders arrived, Big Lou had four separate baskets of smoked meats and sides that took up most of the available table space. He jammed a wad of napkins into the neck of his humongous and grease stained tee shirt as he set to work on emptying every one of those baskets by the time I’d even finished my one meal.
I tried tuning in to their conversation but It was difficult to hear over Lou’s wet chewing which made everything sound like it was underwater.
I was actually thankful they left me alone. Big Lou didn’t seem like a person I would ever have to meet again and, frankly, I just wanted to get the out of this place and go see a movie.
Out of nowhere, Michael asked me to run out to the truck to grab his briefcase and I became immediately irritated. Suddenly it hit me that we’d only met two days ago and now I’m in the middle of Aberdeen at an empty BBQ restaurant, watching an ogre gorge himself to death not long after running for our lives (from God knows what) at some yuppie mansion in the middle of nowhere, then sitting in silence in a shaky old truck with no heat and on my fucking birthday??
‘Goddammit’ my brain hollered.
‘I just want to see my fucking movie and go home’ I kept repeating to myself as I reached under the rain soaked tarp, feeling for Michael’s briefcase.
‘What’s so friggin’ important in here?’ I thought. I quickly glanced at the clasps and noticed it had a combination lock. I wondered if he’d rolled the tumblers after closing it, last time? Maybe I’d peek inside. I used my thumb to push the squared button on the first clasp and realized it was locked. Dammit.
I swung the case by the handle for a moment to see if I could feel what was inside, but nothing shifted. It was heavy. What the hell was in here that was so important? Then it thankfully occurred to me that I was probably better off not knowing and I made my way back inside. When I came back inside they were sitting closer to each other, their heads low and they spoke in whipsers. I made my steps heavier so they could hear me coming and set the briefcase on the table. Michael grabbed it and quickly hid it under the table without ever looking up at me.
He reached into his pocket, grabbed a wad of money and peeled off a ten-dollar bill.
“Why don’t you go grab us a piece of pie?” he asked
“I don’t think I can eat another thing. I’m pretty full.” I answered.
“Son, go get us a piece of pie. Please” and jammed the bill in to my hand and nudged me towards the front counter.
As I walked back towards the front counter I began to feel helpless and a little trapped, but I just kept my head down, hoping this weird day would end soon and then I ordered two pieces of pie.
We watched Lou struggle with the driver’s side door and try to fold himself into the tiny trash packed car. As he turned the key the car belched and coughed black smoke. Suddenly the smell of wet garbage became stronger as my throat began to burn from re-swallowing my lunch.
“Y’all be good now!” he called out over the radio blaring an unidentifiable mix of static and possibly Lionel Richie.
“We’ll talk soon, Lou” Michael said as he patted the meat of Big Lou’s arm.
Lou carefully backed his wreckage out of the empty parking lot and I could now see that both taillights were shattered as he pulled onto the highway, black smoke following him down the lonely road.
Michael and I got back in the truck and headed towards the freeway.
“What’d you think of Big Lou?” Michael asked, as the little truck accelerated towards the freeway entrance. I’d been quiet since lunch. My irritation had gone from hiding deep under the surface to nearly full-blown visible, but I was aware that Michael was oblivious to it.
I let out a deep sigh and obliged him, “Yeah, interesting guy”.
“You wanna know what he was in for?” he asked.
“Nah, It’s none of my business”
“It’s pretty crazy. You sure you don’t wanna know?”
“Was it murder or something?” I asked, half-heartedly. It was obvious he wanted to tell me.
He dropped the truck into a lower gear and stared dead ahead when he spoke.
“Lou had a real specific job.” his face was searching for the right language to use, careful to edit his thoughts before he finally blurted “he was a contract rapist.”
For a moment, I was confused because none of those words seemed to fit together.
He took his eyes off the road for a brief second when he noticed my silence.
“Not women. His specialty was men.” He followed this batshit statement with a nervous laugh, as if even he couldn’t believe what just came out of his mouth. I kept waiting for him to break and tell me he was kidding or he was testing me and then tell me that Big Lou was actually just a murderer.
Nope.
Then he continued:
“He’d get called in on special occasions. Like, when a juror or a witness needed extra persuading? Mostly he’d get hired by ex-wives wanting revenge on their husbands. He got caught when some rich guy fucked his wife over in a divorce and she hired Lou to ruin his life. They caught him sneaking into the guy’s room. He thought Lou was there to kill him. Must’ve shit a brick when he found out what he was really there for?”
“Wait…for real?” I croaked, unaware how dry my throat was.
“Son, why would I make up something like this?” he seemed incredulous, before adding, “Besides, most of them had it coming.”
My sixteen-year-old brain couldn’t process how he was capable of rationalizing something so fucked up and I suddenly wanted to be home.
I wanted to be home so bad.
I wanted to see my mom and tell her she was right. That I should’ve listened to her. That I was naïve and she was so right. I wanted to apologize for everything and somehow magically wake up in my bed this morning. Forgetting to call my dad and celebrating my birthday with my mom, just like we’d planned.
I knew absolutely nothing about this guy. Where he’d been the last fifteen years and six months. What he’d done all that time. I didn’t even know why he was in prison? I was so desperate to just hop right into a truck with this dude and try jumpstarting a relationship, knowing absolutely jack shit about him, other than he was partially responsible for my existence and I did the very thing I’d been warned never to do with someone I didn’t know, especially if that stranger was my dad.
Now I was hours from home and daylight was starting to fade.
I was panicking, but I promised myself I would do everything in my power to bury it deep down, as far as I could, until I got home. I didn’t want to let him see me like this. Not on our first day together. I had plenty of time to regret this later.
But I had no idea just how long this day would actually last.
Now, back to the beginning:
Here I was, sitting behind the steering wheel, staring out the windshield and hoping to see Michael walk, not sprint, towards the running Toyota, I finally see someone come into view from the light of the open bay door: it was Michael and he waved, smiling, as he calmly walked towards the truck.
Relief washed over me. I wouldn’t have to learn how to drive a manual transmission under extreme duress and he’d promised me this was be the absolute last stop.
The clock above the odometer ready twelve after six and the last light of the sun was simply a purple blister over the horizon.
As he made his way to the driver’s side, he motioned for me to scoot over.
Still afraid of hitting the stick and sending the running truck down the road, instead I got out and walked over to the passenger side.
I didn’t even wait for his seatbelt to click before asking him, “So, is that it? Are we done for the day? Can we go see a movie now?”
He flashed me an exhausted grimace as his hands slowly rubbed his eyes, “We’re done, but I don’t think we’re gonna make that movie.”
I was already expecting this, but I wanted to make him say it out lout. It was oddly satisfying, knowing I was at least right that he would disappoint me.
“Okay” I said while yelling ‘fuck, fuck, fuck!’ in my head. It was anything but okay.
“Look, we need to head back to mom and dad’s before I get you home. I gotta get something from the house and they’ll want to see you, since it’s your birthday. You okay with that?” he asked.
‘Fuck no, I’m not okay with that’ in my head.
“Yeah, sure” I said out loud.
The house they lived in was the one where my mom started her labor pains. They sold it not long after I was born to open a short-lived Pizza Pete’s franchise. During that time, they lived in a trailer park in Burien and when the old house went back on the market, they bought it back immediately. Michael had been living with them since his transfer. He didn’t have a job or savings and his parents let him live in the downstairs TV room, until he could get on his feet. I imagine if my grandfather had his way, he’d have let Michael stay there indefinitely. I always felt like he was the Devil on his dad’s shoulder (oddly, I don’t think there was an angel on his other shoulder) that helped justify his day drinking and gambling at the shitty, smoke filled card room ironically named “Gold Nugget”. Which, coincidentally, was a place that Gary Leon Ridgway would frequent in between Green River murders.
We pulled into the covered car park as the little Toyota bathed the front windows of the little house with its dull headlights. The upstairs curtains parted and I saw the tiny bird-like frame of my grandmother peek out to see who was there. Then she let go of the drapes and opened the front door as Michael put the truck in park and turned it off.
As we got out of the truck, she stood at the top of the steps with a dishtowel, drying her hands.
“Well, there’s the birthday boy!” she said with a sharp smile. “You’re another year older and another year wiser, right?” she asked as she wrapped her paper-thin arms around me.
“Hi Grandma” I hugged her back and she walked us into the living room.
My grandfather, Francis, sat reclined in his worn leather chair and folded his newspaper onto his lap. He was not a quiet man and possessed all the physical grace of a club-footed ballerina. His shirt was wrinkled above his stomach and one button had popped open, exposing the white flesh if his belly. The legs of his pants were pushed up over his socks as if he’d slid onto the chair from above, legs first. His oversized orthopedic shoe (compensating for a weakened ankle; the by-product of an injury he suffered during WWII) had a thicker heel and sole that was supposed to help make his gait more even, but instead caused him to lumber like Frankenstein’s monster, due it’s excessive weight. For some reason, as a kid, every time I watched him walk it I would picture a bowling ball falling down a long flight of stairs. I’m still not sure why my brain chose that particular image, but somehow it suited him.
He adjusted his dirty glasses and swept his hand over the top of his sweaty head, flattening what was left of his long white hair, over the top of his head.
“Well, this just warms my heart” he croaked with a tinge of sarcasm.
“The apple and tree. Let’s hope they don’t fall too close together” my grandmother added and this made both of them break into a fit of laughter.
Michael wrapped his arms around his mother’s smallish frame and then walked by his father, reached out and tousled up his hair, which made his father spit out “sonofabitch” under his breath, as he quickly swept his meaty paw up to brush his hair back into place.
“What did you two boys get into today?” Isabelle asked.
Michael spoke before I could.
“I took Derek with me to see a couple of friends, then we had some lunch and drove around. Just talked and caught up” he shot me a sideways look I instantly recognized as the ‘keep your mouth shut’ signal.
The one thing we seemed to share genetically was an ability to lie without any effort or emotion whatsoever.
I tried not to make eye contact with either of them. I knew she could read me like a book and would have instantly known something was up. Instead, I made my way to the bathroom while he talked, so I could just hide.
I heard her ask if we were hungry and dad told them he had a late lunch and he just wanted to spend another hour or so catching up with me before he had to drive me back home.
‘Shit’ I thought. My stomach sank at the thought of another hour “hanging out” with Michael. I just wanted to go home.
Then I heard my grandmother say she needed to get my birthday card since I was here and it would save her trouble of mailing it.
I waited another couple of minutes and flushed an empty toilet before running my hands under the sink.
She was standing just outside the bathroom door when I came out.
“Happy Birthday, birthday boy!” she shouted and I was wound so tight I almost screamed.
“Since you’re here we’ll just give this to you now” she said as she thrust an envelope into my hands. It was bright yellow and had the word “Favorite Grandson” written in flawless calligraphy. I managed a ‘thank you’ and gave her a big hug before I walked over to Francis and gave him a half-hug, which was clumsy and lacked feeling. He smelled like stale peanuts.
Michael announced we were going downstairs before he had to take me back. I put the unopened card in my coat pocket and followed him, hoping none of them noticed me visibly cringing.
I followed him through the living room, past the kitchen and into the tiny office where my grandmother paid all of the bills and wrote her letters. It was littered with pictures of the savior, her grandchildren and old black and whites of her and a thinner, healthier Francis dressed in his Navy whites. He was a dashing young man with strong features and towered over Isabelle by a g foot and a half.
They both hollered “Goodnight” to us as we headed down the stairs from the office into the darkened TV room.
The TV room somehow got labeled as a “basement” even though it was actually at ground level and the picture window looked directly out on the front grill of the Toyota, parked mere feet away.
Michael flicked the switch on the room’s only lamp and the room filled with a warm, yellowish light, illuminating the single orange couch and the large wooden console television in the corner. There was a second door that led out to the covered driveway and a set of French doors, behind which sat the washer and dryer. The room was sparse. There was a small garbage bag, in the corner, with Michael’s clothes inside and two blazers on hangers, suspended on the curtain rod.
I had to remind myself that he’d only been on the other side of a prison fence for a week or so.
The couch was covered with two blankets and a single discolored pillow. He sat and propped his head on his elbow and with his other hand, reached into a pants pocket to remove the truck’s keys.
“Do me a favor, son” he said as he reached over to hand them to me. “Go outside and grab my briefcase out of the truck please?”
And for the second time I begrudgingly obliged him, took the keys and headed out the side door. I walked over to the still warm Toyota and retrieved the ratty case from the truck’s bed. It was substantially lighter than before.
I handed him the case and truck keys, which he dropped onto the side table, where the lamp sat.
I saw his thumbs roll the tumblers on the case’s combination lock and pop both latches open. He lifted the lid of his attaché, reached inside and pulled out four separate stacks of hundred dollar bills. Each stack was approximately 4 to 5 inches tall and contained by a thick rubber band. Michael sat two of the stacks next to him on the couch, removed the band from one and began peeling off bills, one at a time. Oddly, the stacks didn’t seem to change in size.
“I’m sorry we never made the movie, but you really helped me out today. Here…” he said as he handed me a stack of bills before wishing me a
‘happy birthday’.
I was frozen dumb as I sat holding a wad of cash and the day’s events came rushing back as it suddenly became very clear.
My mind started racing through every possible ‘what if’ scenario and it felt like there was a hole burning through my stomach.
“You could say thank you” Michael broke the momentary silence. He was staring at me, impatiently waiting for a response. My mind cartwheeled over and over as I could see myself arrested and the sound of cuffs as they locked my arms behind my back. I could imagine calling mom from jail, crying.
I was rapidly flipping through every single thing that could have gone wrong. I was on the ridge, staring down at a full-blown panic attack looking straight back at me.
I was also thinking about that wad of money in my hand. I wanted to hand it back but part of me also wanted to count it?
“Um…thank you?” I managed to stutter, while my eyes darted from his to the front window as I waited for the red and blue lights of all the police cars I expected to swarm my grandparent’s tiny house any moment.
“Um…” I started and he cut me off before I could finish.
“You really want to know? Because if I tell you, you’re an accomplice.”
‘Holy fucking shit!!’ my brain started hollering on a loop.
I looked directly into his eyes and thought very hard before answering him.
“Yes please” I blurted with shaky confidence.
He lowered his head and the smile disappeared completely.
His voice dropped to a low, whispering baritone and he scooted closer to me.
“That guy we met this morning is Phil. We used to work together before I went back inside.”
He continued, “I owed him some money and we had to work some things out today”, he paused and I could see the color leave his face as he drew a breath.
“He put his gun in my mouth and that’s why we had to leave in a hurry. I wanted to get out of there before he changed his mind.”
I felt cold all over before he went on.
“We moved almost two kilos of cocaine today. There’s a thousand dollars in your pocket for helping me. That was my cut. The rest is Phil’s.”
I’m not sure what my face was doing during his explanation, but he could tell I was shook. He put his hand on my shoulder and tried to change his tone.
“Son, look…when I pay him back, I’m done. I just have to tie up some of these loose ends and try not to get my head blown off. I’d really appreciate if you kept this between us. Not your mom, not your friends. Nobody. We’d both be in serious trouble.”
Fear was morphing into rage now: Why didn’t he give me a choice? Why on my birthday??!
I felt betrayed.
I felt tricked.
My anger was now bubbling up to the surface and I could tell he sensed it. Like a magician, he reached under the couch and produced a bottle of Dewar’s Scotch.
“Look” he said, holding the bottle in front of me, “why don’t you go upstairs and grab us a couple of glasses.”
I didn’t have the energy to protest and like a good automaton, I wordlessly rose from the couch, walked up the stairs, entered the kitchen and grabbed to small tumblers from a kitchen cabinet.
I made my way back downstairs and set both glasses on the side table with an over emphasized firmness.
“This won’t make everything better, but it’s a start” he said as he filled one of the glasses to the middle and the second one an inch from the bottom. Michael handed me the less full glass and extended his in a gesture to toast.
I just stared at my glass, desperately trying to think of a way to not have to put it in my mouth. I saw myself sitting at that early morning AA meeting, surrounded by grizzled old men and telling my story of the night I started drinking which was also, coincidentally, the same night I became a coke dealer.
Dad took a mouthful of Scotch, while I sipped mine with hesitation. It tasted like wet leather and cigar stubs to me, but I managed to swallow the first two sips without gagging on it. Everything tasted like fire and failure and I reflected on how nice my morning was before everything turned to shit.
Michael had already poured a second tumbler full of Scotch, all the way to the top and took a largish swig from the glass, emptying it by half.
“I’m sorry, son” he said, with actual sincerity in his voice.
He continued staring into his glass as he spoke,
“I didn’t want us to start out this way. Believe me, I thought about this day a lot when I was inside, and this was never my plan.”
This little glimpse of vulnerability, along with the Scotch, helped lower me back to DEFCON 3.
“One more for both of us” he said and filled my still half full glass with more Dewar’s. Then he topped off his own. He tipped the glass back and swallowed its contents whole.
I stared at the full glass of peaty brown Scotch. Its oaky musk was already burning my nose. I put it to my lips, closed my eyes and emptied most of it. I tried not to let it touch my tongue, before swallowing but it didn’t matter, because it already begun its conflagration inside my mouth and then the coughing started. My throat was on fire and my eyes filled with tears.
Then, as if by magic, my brain became warm and suddenly all the white noise and panic just…disappeared.
“I was on trial for murder once. It was in the papers. That’s not why I was in this last time.” This confession seemingly came out of thin air and he grabbed the bottle, pouring another full glass. He sipped this time.
“When was this?” I asked.
“Seventy-seven or eight” his words were beginning to slur. “I was acquitted, so I got to come home.”
I poured my own glass this time and downed it as Michael drunkenly slapped a hand on my knee and leaned directly into my face before slurring, “I’ve done some bad, bad things. I’m a bad guy. But there’s nothing harder than killing a man after you’ve seen a picture of his kids.”
Then he leaned back onto the couch and put his hands over his face and after a couple minutes of us both sitting in silence, the snoring began.
I don’t know if was the fear or the adrenaline or both, but I was instantly sober. My mind felt clear and I had my legs back. I stood up and covered him with the blankets balled up next to him and made my way up the stairs and into the living room. I pulled one of the knit shawls from off the back of the couch and wrapped myself up as I leaned my head on one of the tiny throw pillows.
I replayed our conversation over and over in my head until I eventually fell asleep.
Francis and Isabelle were up very early and when they found me on the couch, they roused me awake.
“Good morning, sleepy head” my grandmother gently whispered. “What a surprise to see you here?”
I was quick to cover, “We stayed up late talking and dad fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake him up.”
My grandfather was already pulling his pants on, in the middle of the living room.
“I’ll get a shirt on and drive you back. I’m sure your mother is worried sick about you, son” he said as looped his belt around his sagging waist.
“I’m sure you didn’t tell her you were seeing your dad? Am I right?” Isabelle asked.
I nodded and she added, “Well, you can sneak in without waking her up and say you got home late. She’d be beside herself if she knew you two got together.”
The sun was barely up and there was low mist covering the roads as we drove in silence. Our apartment was only a few miles from their house and the drive was mercifully short. I thanked my grandfather for the ride and before I got out he wished me one last ‘happy birthday’ and then said, “Your dad has a good heart, son. He does bad things, but he doesn’t mean to. I pray for him every day. You should too.”
I managed a half-hearted “I will, sir. Thanks again for the ride” and rushed to shut the car door so I could get back to the normalcy of home.
A plume of steam followed his Buick as he drove away and I took one large breath, let it out and made me way back home. On my way up the stairs I checked my pocket and the wad of cash was still there, then I checked my pocket for the card, felt it and pulled it out. I slid my pinkie under the corner flap and peeled it open in one move.
I didn’t read it, I just slowly opened it and let the check slide into my palm; it was fifty dollars. I slid the check in my pocket, next to cash and finished climbing the stairs.
Mom was still asleep and I was already preparing my alibi for when she grilled me about coming home late.
She never did.
EPILOGUE
Years later I discovered that my father was actually in Lompoc for orchestrating a million-dollar arms deal that included (among multiple assault rifles, surface to air launchers and surveillance equipment) a nuclear bomb.
Federal agents surrounded my grandparent’s house as SWAT team snipers perched on the roofs of neighbor’s homes and uniformed agents pulled everyone out of the home and forced them all onto the lawn at gunpoint, before finally taking my father into custody.
After a lengthy trial, it was discovered that Michael did not possess nor have the intention of delivering any of the above-mentioned weapons of mass destruction, he was sentenced to 13 years and served 9.
The buyers he’d spent months with, setting up this sale, were undercover FBI agents.
This was a year after he, along with two other accomplices, snuck into Robert Wyckoff’s home and shot him three times, twice in the back of the head, execution style. Wyckoff, an attorney, was apparently under FBI surveillance for money laundering and racketeering. He was also handling a probate matter for Michael’s then wife, Nygen. Wyckoff was seated at the desk in his home office with a picture of his children facing him.
