Part I | Part II | Part III |

And so Bryant was his name. Bryant nearly fit his father’s ideal version of a son. Dan saw so much potential in Bryant that he never neglected pointing it out to him.

Dan held Bryant’s report card in his hand and peered over his glasses. “Son, you know I am very proud of you, but look at these grades. I think you’re putting more effort into maintaining your wrestling records then developing a good high school record.” Dan’s voice was stern as he recited his quarterly, fatherly speech.

“Yes sir,” Bryant answered him in between push-ups.

“I’m glad we had this talk, son. Great form in your push-ups, but be sure you keep your hands directly below your shoulders. Chin up, now.” Dan walked out of Bryant’s room, down the well-lit hallway, and into his second son’s bedroom. Adrian, now fifteen, was born four weeks premature, small and sickly. He spent his first months in the hospital more often than at home. Dan doted on the infant as he never had with his hearty Bryant. He remembered his own father and the special attention his older brother received. He remembered his vow and in it now included Adrian. Adrian would never be the neglected one, the looked-over and never missed son, the afterthought. His Adrian would know acceptance.

“Hey there, Adrian,” he said as he sat on Adrian’s bed.

“Hi dad. Hey, listen to this for a minute: ‘She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’ Adrian stopped abruptly when he noticed Dan’s face turned pink. “In my Lit class, we’re reading these poems by Lord Byron. What’d you think of that one? Wish I could write that well,” Adrian asked as his voice trailed, his wish nearly inaudible.

Dan cleared his throat before attempting an uncomfortable answer.

Now, Dan sees the teenage boys and shrinks against his lamppost. He prays they keep walking. Different ones cause different pains. The well-dressed boys look at him, reach into their pockets, pull out air, and then point at the nearest help wanted sign.

“Get a fucking job,” they say. “It’s not hard. Look at how many places are hiring.”

Then there are the boys who walk by in overgrown egos and jackets. Their hair looks greasier than his and they have the muddy pre-beard fuzz on their chin or upper lip. They hike their pants back onto their waists before they kick at him with gleaming shoes. Dan tries to close his eyes when this happens or to quickly slip on his bike helmet to protect his head, but sometimes he isn’t quick enough and he meets their gaze.

“You fucking bum!” they say. “You’re worse than my dad. Shit, I hate people like you, sponging off all us, sitting in our way.” Then they kick him for another round before sauntering to the neon decorated doors of the tobacco store.

Some days Dan wishes he is the unnoticed newspaper that flies through the air, skimming the ground as it is brushed casually aside by people’s feet. Other days, Dan wants to be the uneven sidewalk that catches those who are unaware and forces them to double step or lose their balance.

Dan finally found suitable words for his drowning voice. He longed for Adrian to know he cared. “That’s just fine, Adrian, very nice words in that poem. So how did your day go otherwise?” He paused. “Are you going to be ready for our big hunting trip?”

“Of course, dad. You know I wouldn’t miss that,” Adrian answered. Dan thought he detected a lackluster tone of voice but flicked his doubt away as he would a stray hair on his suit coat. “School was alright, I guess,” Adrian said. “I mean, how exciting can school be when we have to sit in the same seats and listen to teachers talk about the same things and then spit out their pre-digested information on exams?” His voice rose and fell in exaggerated cadence.

“It’s a matter of learning and following the rules, even if you don’t like it. You’ll find that adapting to these ‘pointless rituals,’ as you call them, makes life go so much better for you. I told you how I made it from a nobody into the one who made the interception in the end zone with one minute left in the state championships, right?”

Dan’s voice switched into a sports announcer, fever-pitched, forever rushed and too loud. He invoked the sounds of the people infested bleachers, the brightness of the glaring spotlights, and the smell of a cold Wisconsin evening full of expectation and icy with a thousand frosty breaths. “It was unseasonably cold that night. I breathed in through my nose and thought my nostrils would stick together.”

Adrian sat at his desk while Dan reminisced. He unzipped the backpack at his feet, launching Dan back to the present.

“So are you going to try out for the basketball team this year?” Dan asked. His voice held higher notes of hope than he realized.

Adrian looked back at his dad but did not keep eye contact for long. Dan thought his unsteady gaze was remembering ball drills, suicide runs back and forth across the court, cheers of the crowd, and the excitement of the final seconds fading off the scoreboard as his game winning three-pointer swished into the net.

“I don’t know, dad. It’s not, I mean, I’m not as good at it as you think. You know the other guys tower over me. But if it’s really that important to you—”

“Oh, it’s not that. I just don’t want you to miss out on experiences. You can only be this age once. Well, are you ready for that annual hunting trip tomorrow?”

Adrian nodded and pulled a dog-eared textbook from his tan bag. Dan gazed fondly at the sketches of wild animals drawn in White-Out and ink that covered it. He saw the careful roundness of the horse’s sides, the shine on its saddle. He traced his finger along the silver clasp that doubled as the eye of a giant rabbit standing along the banks of a river. Dan pushed his hands against his knees and stood up. He walked silently out of Adrian’s bedroom.

Downstairs ten minutes later, Dan hefted his hunting rifle from its place on the top rack and polished it. He heard Bryant’s heavy footsteps in the room above him and remembered to write a note to his boys’ teachers, excusing their absence for family reasons.