"Father" by Armin Tolentino
We both stared straight ahead; Paul couldn't keep eye contact, it always made him shrink when people looked him straight in the eye, as if someone could steal his soul through his tepid blue eyes. He also didn't like to repeat himself, and so if the wind between us snatched his words before they could reach my ears, they were gone forever. I learned to respect these two quirks early in our friendship.
"I mean, sure, you can learn to tie a knot, or how to bait a crawfish through the tail so it stays alive, but you're not gonna learn the important things. You're not going to learn that my Grandpa Owens, back when there were no dams blocking the Susquehanna, could wade knee high into the river in the late afternoon of late August days, after the farm work was done, and in that God awful gritty baritone of his, sing church hymnals and spawning rockfish were guaranteed to bite. Especially if he sang Amazing Grace, but he would save that one if it was a particularly slow day. You can't overuse magic or it stops working.
"You can't learn the art of fishing from a book is what I'm saying. Same thing with fighting. They got these kung fu bullshit schools and these cunt weak kids in pajamas bouncing like monkeys on mats. You know what I mean? I've seen them, kicking like fags, but they're not learning the art of fighting. You need a father for that, to show you that all those black eyes add up to something," his fist clenched in emphasis, "that every drop of blood you lost is replaced by strength, by respect.
"You know what these classes teach kids? They teach them to walk away! So when some fat ass bully comes up to you and tells you that he did your mom behind the playground, had to wait in line, but it was worth it, well you, my friend are supposed to smile and walk away. That bully's supposed to respect you now? Fuck that. Or, better yet, they tell these kids to go for the balls. Kick like a fucking girl and aim straight for the balls! I just don't get how kids are supposed to grow up without learning things from family."
I nodded, had no real response to this, didn't agree nor disagree. Just let another swallow of tequila burn the soft parts of my mouth before it went down, imagining that it was cold beer instead of Cuervo. On the harbor, two sailboats passed each other in such a way I thought they would certainly crash, spilling all the rich people in the water, their money soaked and useless, their jewelry returning to the sediments of the earth.
He must have known I wasn't paying attention to him. I was listening, but not paying attention; I had only dropped out of school six months ago, and I still knew this trick of listening with the ears while the rest of the brain is floating up Jenny Crawford or some other cheerleader's skirt.
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