Why I’ve Hated My Father (Six Moments With Sam)
6) September 1999
My final memory of my father came when Sega flew me out to San Francisco for the launch of their new Dreamcast system. Not counting my graduation the year prior, it had been over 10 years since I had seen my pops. Being that I was a man now I figured it was only right we meet up and get to know each other. Besides, after all the negative stories from my moms and his blatant absentee-ness, I figured this would be his final shot at redemption. I went into the experience open-minded and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, I was sadly disappointed.
My father picked me up from the airport looking a hot mess. He had on a burgundy Members Only jacket, his hair unkempt and had those distinctive glassy, bloodshot eyes from years of drinking. My first thought was, "Wow, this is him, huh?"
To my amazement, instead of driving he took a cab to pick me up. We wound up catching one of those Blue Van shuttles back to my hotel. I remember sitting in the last row and my father yelling out to the driver, "You see this big guy here? This is my son."
The driver entertained my father's conversation, but I really don't think he cared at all. I know I wouldn’t.
We arrived at my hotel, I checked in and I laid my stuff down in the room. My father used the bathroom—farting in the process—and we broke out. I was extremely hungry after my 6-hour cross-country journey and my father suggested we hit the dock area where he sang and played the steel pan with his buddies.
During the cross-town bus ride, he played tour guide, pointing out various landmarks. When we reached the docks, he introduced me to his band mates. They all seemed like nice guys and said they had heard so much about me. There was also some White girl; Sam called “their groupie.” She was younger, probably closer to my age, and she helped sell their tapes while they played. My father mentioned something about her “liking to fuck.” Uh, thanx, Sam.
After that awkward comment I was bout ready to go. I was famished and asked Sam where could we grab something to eat. He looked at me and said, "There's food places down that way (pointing to the left), and there's food places down there (pointing to the right). I'll be here playing with the band when you get back."
Wow! A part of me died when he said that. After 10 years and a 6-hour flight, he wants me to eat by myself? In a strange city I’ve never been to before? He couldn’t squeeze in a few moments to sit and eat with his oldest son? The one who bares your first, middle and last name? I was heated. I decided then that I was done forever with this man. He was an asshole and I didn’t need him.
Angered, I asked "the White girl" if she wanted to go eat with me, but she couldn’t. She had to help the band sell CDs so I took off aimlessly to the right. I saw countless places that looked good, but I didn't want to dine alone in some posh restaurant. I flew 2,500 miles to end up at Subways eating a 6-inch turkey and American sub.
When I was done, I walked back to where my father had broken my heart and saw he was still playing with the band, so I kept walking further down the docks and called my girl. "This dude is fuckin' wack," I cried. "It's a wrap. I'm done with him."
She expressed her disappointment and love until I eventually felt better and got off the phone. I sat by the docks for a moment looking out at Alcatraz and got lost in my own thoughts.
By time I returned my father was ready to leave and we got back on the bus. Somehow or other we wound up at a local supermarket, where my father introduced me to the security guard he knew. Later we bumped into a female friend of his outside. While we were talking my father collapsed and I just barely caught him in my arms. It was the scariest thing ever. This man who I had not seen in a decade was standing next me one second and in my arms the next. I had no idea what to do.
Luckily, he was alright and stood back up. I’m not sure what happened but he said his legs just gave out on him. He brushed himself off and we made our way over to Sam’s apartment. He went to the bathroom again and nonchalantly informed me that he had just spit up blood.
As mad as I was, I was still concerned. Sam’s weakened state scared me and I begged him to go to the doctor tomorrow. He shrugged me off kept saying he was alright. He then went into a draw and pulled out a copy of his will saying everything will go to me, my brother Rob and my older sister Pat, who I have never met. He said he was going to mail me a copy when I got back home (It took another 10 years before I ever got that copy).
After my father was settled in I made my way back to my hotel and called him when I got in, once again stressing him to go to the doctor. Although I was there for another day and a half, the press junket I was on had me tied up from sunrise to way past sunset and I didn’t get to see my father before I flew back to New York. It’s almost 10 years later and I still haven’t seen him.
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