My dad gets to the driveway between 6:45 and 6:50. He’ll sit in his truck with the engine off and listen to his music until 6:58. I can hear it from my post by the front door. Just the beats of the bass and the muffled voice of the singer like they were singing through a heavy sack. At 6:58, my dad turns the car off completely and comes to sit on the bench we’ve got on the porch. There’s a spot on it that’s lighter and smoother from years of his work jeans rubbing on it.
He sits on the bench and cools his hands on the beer bottle I leave for him. The bottle’s condensation cleans his palms and makes a circular wet spot on the belly of his shirt. He takes the bottlecap off by placing its lip against the edge of the bench and giving it a firm smack. The bottlecap flies off with a sharp click and he tracks it with his eyes to retrieve after he’s done. Then he starts drinking. His work boots stay on, caked in soil and grass.
They used to be a strong brown from the leather. Now they’re dull and enduring from years of wear and tear. He said he had spent a fortune on those work boots so he wouldn’t have to keep buying new ones. Just pay for repairs now and then. I believe him because if I crawl far enough back in my memories, my finger tips can still feel the boot strings as I gripped them to pull myself up into standing and hugging his leg. My cheek can still feel the tickle of the dry mud and my hair can still feel his callused hand. They’re not the same boot strings anymore. But they also are.
Sometimes my brother or sister will try to run past me to talk to him but I stop them and push them back, telling them to wait a little longer. They aren’t old enough to understand yet so I don’t get mad at them. I’ll repeat myself until they get it. Thankfully, one ‘no’ and explanation per attempt is enough for them. They just stand next to me and watch Dad through the netting of our screen door. He knows we’re watching him and he allows our intrusion. If he ever told us to back off, we would.
He let me try his beer once and it was so bitter that it made me sputter and almost spit it out. I swallowed it while he chuckled from the bottom of his stomach. I used to think the bitterness is why it took him so long to finish his beer. Small amounts trickle out into his mouth when he pushes the bottle against his lips. Just the right amount to moisten everything up on its way down his throat. While the sip is in his mouth, Dad holds the bottle with both his hands. The bottom of the bottle gets placed against his stomach. When he’s drinking from it, he only uses one hand. When I tried his beer for the first time, I used both my hands like I was a baby drinking from a bottle. I had been afraid of dropping it. After all, my dad really liked this beer. If I had dropped it and spilled it all, he would’ve just laughed and cleaned up my mess. No more beer for him until the next day.
At 7:06, he finishes his beer and gets up while the last sip is still going down his throat. He squats to pick up the bottlecap from wherever it dropped and comes into the house. He grins and ruffles everyone’s hair while he’s taking his boots off. He has to stretch to mess up my hair so I bend over a little to make it easier. At least once a week he tells me I might be getting as tall as his father. Neither of us have ever met him.
There’s a photo of my mom by the door. It sits on top of a dresser that’s filled with a hundred different things. Dad pushes his pointer and middle finger – still wet with condensation – against his lips and then onto my mom’s cheek. He tells her ‘good evening’. Then he crosses our living room in a handful of steps to the kitchen, throws away the bottle, washes his hands, and starts making our dinner. Night or day, Dad only lets me cook if its an emergency. I wish he let me do it more often.
A man needs more than just repairs now and then. A bench, a beer, and some quiet isn’t enough.
I Am Saha 