Excerpt

I just wanted to post an excerpt from what I'm currently writing. This is the first several passages. It's very rough because it's from the first draft, but I'm pretty pleased with it.

The working title is Calm.

When I first saw the photograph that my father kept in the top drawer of his dresser, carefully hidden underneath the overlap of his underwear and his t-shirts, I didn’t think anything of it. It was a basic photo, taken under poor lighting - probably fluorescent - , its only subjects being my father and another man, their arms around each other‘s shoulders. My mind didn’t register anything besides that it was merely a photo of him and a close friend, taken before I was born. Why my father, who was mostly unsentimental about his past, would keep this photo tucked away in his dresser was a question that didn’t cross my mind in the moment.

However, when the truth about my father’s life was revealed, everything about the moment I discovered the photo came rushing back to me. I remembered the temperature in the room, the feel of the cold air against my skin. A window must have been opened, then forgotten. I remembered the smell of my father’s room. A smell I was used to, that now penetrated my sense as if I’d just walked into an unfamiliar home and breathed in the peculiar, unique scent. I recalled the angle in which the photograph lay against my palms and the way it felt in my hands. All of the sensations were as vivid, as though I was in the moment. It was as if, deep in my subconscious, I had known that these few minutes would be pivotal in the course of the future of mine and my father’s relationship.

Until that night on February 1st, my father’s life story had been something along the lines of normalcy. He was born and raised in Britain, had met my mother there and, after her sudden death during my young years, had immigrated us to the United States. He and I defied the conventions of most father-son relationships. He had raised me alone, and in doing this was allowed to raise me the way he saw fit. He instilled in me a love of art. All art. He taught me the beauty of a painting, the wonder of colors. This transferred to our shared love of great films. We spent many hours discussing the meanings of some of our favorite pictures, and the way in which the aesthetic communication opened our eyes to the business of living and how frightening and beautiful it is. Most of all, though, he instilled a deep appreciation of music in me.

The earliest memory I can recall is of my father in the kitchen, hard at work on one of his excellent meals. A tradition that we would take part in for years was to have the music turned up as loud as we could tolerate, and to dance across the kitchen while cooking. I remember my father doing this. One of his obscure favorites at the time blaring across the room, he in his work clothes, barefoot, dancing and singing to the delightful tune. It was him at his most joyful. It was in these moments that I saw how much life the man who had raised me had.

His passion for music extended beyond performing for me in the kitchen of our New York apartment. He was an excellent singer, though he was far too modest about his abilities. When he was drunk on wine, he would serenade me with songs of old; they were mostly hymns. I would listen to his voice, melodious and beautiful, and I would be captivated. To this very day, I have never heard a singing voice like my father’s. His talent was truly unique.

Though he was talented, he understood reality. When he moved us to the States, he didn’t live under delusions of approaching fame. He was sensible in his hunt for employment, never turning his nose up at an opportunity. His only goal at this point was to provide. His sacrifices for me were endless, not the least of which included working several terrible jobs over the course of my childhood to ensure that I was fed and properly educated.

Due to his charm and fantastic way with people, he quickly moved up in positions at a company he worked for during the last days of my eighth grade education. As I moved onto high school, he moved into a manager’s position, with much better benefits and salary. No more hourly pay for my father.

During my second year of high school, he began to attend auditions. His dream was to sing in a choir. Choral music was something he was passionate and knowledgeable about. Whenever an opportunity arose, he would leave work early and rush to try his hand at grabbing a tenor spot. He later told me that he approximated that he’d attended some upwards of thirty auditions. Until one day, luck (or maybe fate) lent him a hand. He'd gotten the tenor spot! They’d "loved his voice, and felt like he would add something to their choir". When I arrived home from a tiresome day at school, he grabbed me and twirled me like he used to do when I was younger. To celebrate, we went to dinner at an expensive restaurant and spent an ungodly amount of money. The best part, he’d informed me, was that it was a paid position, and if the choir did well he could make as much money as his current job paid him. He was going to put in his two weeks the very next day.

I look back on this moment and realize its significance. I realize how easy it would have been for this opportunity to pass by, which would have altered the course of how things would later turn out. I sometimes wonder if, had he not taken this spot, would things have remained as they were right then? Or would the course of things have found another way? Regardless, this was merely the beginning of it all.