My dad has a folding table out. On it is about twenty brown bags filled with satsumas. It’s all very neat, just how my dad likes it. It’s his orderly, business-like mind, I think. He is even taking pride in the neatness of the writing as he marks the name of a family on each bag.
“You see,” he says, “I got a system. Each bag has eight satsumas. That way they get a taste but they don’t take it for granted.”
Dad uses these moments to teach me how to put great care into everything I do. I’ve heard this little lecture time and time again, every year around this time in fact, and I kind of get aggravated, but just a little. Does he not remember that he told me this already? But then there’s a side of me that feels guilty for being such a jerk, like Peter Reinhart or something, and I smile politely and nod my head with interest and say, “That’s cool, Dad.”
“Yeah-cooool-man,” he says, pretending coolness. I like when he talks like this. It’s funny. I turn and take another shot. It bangs against the rim and through the net.
“Your mother won’t let me do this inside because of that contest, so I got to sit out here. But that’s okay. I like it just me. Me and my beer.”
I glance at him as I’m moving around and shooting, and I start to feel really bad that I get so aggravated with him sometimes. My mom is hard on him and he has learned to just absorb it. He usually doesn’t even pay attention to it, just grins it off. He gets mad at me sometimes when I don’t take as much care with my own chores, telling me I’m just like my mother, and that of course annoys me and I shut down even more with him. But it is times like this, when we’re alone and the buzz of the beer is taking some of the edge off of his tone, that I see why he believes in what he believes in so much. He is getting more enjoyment from taking his time with these little satsuma bags than the actual people receiving them will feel. He has learned not to seek applause. He has learned that the only gratification he needs is from the act of giving itself.
“Wanna come with me, deliver?” he asks me.
My dad is always asking me if I want to go do stuff with him, and for some reason I usually say no. I don’t know why I do it, because sometimes I’d actually like to go do some of these things with him. But I just don’t. I make the decision not to. It’s like the habit of saying no has actually eliminated my ability to even have a choice.
I quickly calculate an approximation of the amount of time it will take to travel around town dropping these little bags off to people. I envision riding in that cigarette smelling truck but having to keep the window closed because of the drizzle outside. My spirit sinks just thinking about it all. So I tell him no, I need to shoot and practice my dribbling.
“10-4,” he says, and he takes the last sip of beer before squeezing the can and tossing it to the side.
Now I feel worse, of course, just like I always do. I wish he’d just yell at me when I do this. At least I’d have some anger to help me forget how cruel of a son I can be. In-stead he gives me the “10-4” line and he’s the cool dad I enjoy listening to. He just absorbs the blow, just like Rocky absorbs punch after punch in the ring.
To pretend interest and try to get him to forget I’ve said no yet again, I help him gather the bags into the truck. He seems to have already forgotten the original no and is tickled to death with this most current yes.
“Thanks for the help, Tiger.”
Truly, why would I not want to partake in this act of giving that I know full well is the real meaning of Christ-mas? Why do I insist on hurting my father? Who am I? What am I?
To stay at home with a basketball and a wet concrete slab is what I choose. I watch him get in his truck and back out of the driveway. That sinking feeling hits me yet again, but this time not because I don’t want to go, but because I decide to stay. He feels as far away as the robotic Santa Claus. I wave to him with the same thought I had in mind when I helped him load the truck. I don’t want him to think I don’t love him. Because I do. I hope, like he does with the punches, he has absorbed that too.
