enough to tear the check into little pieces before throwing it away.
It was against this fictional backdrop that I told my father I was going on the road.
“We’ll be gone about a month.”
“But that means you’ll be late going to school,” he said, a bit bewildered. I’d caught him off guard, which was my plan.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be there for the first day of classes.”
There must’ve been something in my voice, because my dad did a double take. His eyes narrowed, and his usually fidgety hands went very still. His Spidey sense was working.
“Harry, how long have you been planning this? You said you have a van, you made a record, and you booked more than twenty shows, that’s not something you do overnight, is it.”
“I don’t know, I guess a couple of months.”
“And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was afraid you’d say no.”
“But what if I say no now?”
I was silent because we both knew the answer. I was going with or without his blessing. But he was digging for something else here.
“You know, the check we sent to Scranton hasn’t been cashed yet.”
This is the scene in the movie where the prisoner has just escaped from the cellblock and is skulking along the interior perimeter of a giant brick wall when a massive floodlight stops him in his tracks. Busted.
“Huh,” I said, trying to act cool, “that’s weird.”
“I should say so. Tell me, Harry, if I call the school and ask why, what do you think they’ll tell me?”
Stick with the lie
, I told myself,
ride it all the way to the end
. “Probably some clerical mistake,” I said. “I’ll call them for you and find out.”
“Aha!” He pointed at me. My offer to call, or rather my effort to stop him from calling, was the clue he was looking for. “You never mailed the check, did you? You used that money for your band’s little tour!” When he got angry his Boston accent became more pronounced. The “a” in band was flattened, and “tour” became “taw.”
“No! Dad, I wouldn’t steal from you! Besides,” I said, thinking fast, “if I’d used the check, it would’ve beencashed, right?” This calmed him down a bit.
“Hmm. Yes, yes, I can see where that would be true.” But he still wasn’t convinced. “Then what happened to it?”
“Really, Dad, I don’t know. I’ll call the school and find out.”
“No, Harry, I’ll call the school.” He went to his home office to get the phone number and make the call, leaving me in the kitchen to sit and think.
I figured I had three options:
Option #1: Run. Get out of the house and get on tour. Things would sort themselves out. Only problem was, all our gear was in my parents’ basement. And I had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide for the three weeks until the tour started.
Option #2: Go find my dad right then and there and confess. Do it before he makes the call and maybe he’ll go easy. Tell him everything and let the chips fall where they may.
Option #3: Wait it out. Let an opportunity present itself to me.
I chose door number three.
Five minutes later my father came back into the kitchen. I was still sitting at the table. I didn’t look up.
“Isn’t that strange,” he said.
“Did they get the check?” I asked.
“Why you cheeky little bastard,” he said. I kept my head down. “You lied about everything, didn’t you?”
No answer from me. I kept my eyes glued to the Formica surface of that kitchen table.
“The school has never heard of you. Not even an application. You’ve been playing this charade for months. For the first time in my life I wish I was a violent man so I could beat the living daylights out of you.” My dad was just getting wound up. When he stumbled into a morally righteous position, all bets were off. His paternal soul gave way to his political mind as he figured out how best to eviscerate me.
I sat there with my head down as my father spewed a rainstorm of abuse on me. I was so wrapped up in my
It was against this fictional backdrop that I told my father I was going on the road.
“We’ll be gone about a month.”
“But that means you’ll be late going to school,” he said, a bit bewildered. I’d caught him off guard, which was my plan.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be there for the first day of classes.”
There must’ve been something in my voice, because my dad did a double take. His eyes narrowed, and his usually fidgety hands went very still. His Spidey sense was working.
“Harry, how long have you been planning this? You said you have a van, you made a record, and you booked more than twenty shows, that’s not something you do overnight, is it.”
“I don’t know, I guess a couple of months.”
“And why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was afraid you’d say no.”
“But what if I say no now?”
I was silent because we both knew the answer. I was going with or without his blessing. But he was digging for something else here.
“You know, the check we sent to Scranton hasn’t been cashed yet.”
This is the scene in the movie where the prisoner has just escaped from the cellblock and is skulking along the interior perimeter of a giant brick wall when a massive floodlight stops him in his tracks. Busted.
“Huh,” I said, trying to act cool, “that’s weird.”
“I should say so. Tell me, Harry, if I call the school and ask why, what do you think they’ll tell me?”
Stick with the lie
, I told myself,
ride it all the way to the end
. “Probably some clerical mistake,” I said. “I’ll call them for you and find out.”
“Aha!” He pointed at me. My offer to call, or rather my effort to stop him from calling, was the clue he was looking for. “You never mailed the check, did you? You used that money for your band’s little tour!” When he got angry his Boston accent became more pronounced. The “a” in band was flattened, and “tour” became “taw.”
“No! Dad, I wouldn’t steal from you! Besides,” I said, thinking fast, “if I’d used the check, it would’ve beencashed, right?” This calmed him down a bit.
“Hmm. Yes, yes, I can see where that would be true.” But he still wasn’t convinced. “Then what happened to it?”
“Really, Dad, I don’t know. I’ll call the school and find out.”
“No, Harry, I’ll call the school.” He went to his home office to get the phone number and make the call, leaving me in the kitchen to sit and think.
I figured I had three options:
Option #1: Run. Get out of the house and get on tour. Things would sort themselves out. Only problem was, all our gear was in my parents’ basement. And I had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide for the three weeks until the tour started.
Option #2: Go find my dad right then and there and confess. Do it before he makes the call and maybe he’ll go easy. Tell him everything and let the chips fall where they may.
Option #3: Wait it out. Let an opportunity present itself to me.
I chose door number three.
Five minutes later my father came back into the kitchen. I was still sitting at the table. I didn’t look up.
“Isn’t that strange,” he said.
“Did they get the check?” I asked.
“Why you cheeky little bastard,” he said. I kept my head down. “You lied about everything, didn’t you?”
No answer from me. I kept my eyes glued to the Formica surface of that kitchen table.
“The school has never heard of you. Not even an application. You’ve been playing this charade for months. For the first time in my life I wish I was a violent man so I could beat the living daylights out of you.” My dad was just getting wound up. When he stumbled into a morally righteous position, all bets were off. His paternal soul gave way to his political mind as he figured out how best to eviscerate me.
I sat there with my head down as my father spewed a rainstorm of abuse on me. I was so wrapped up in my
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