Time is Money

Could A Wallet Make Up For Lost Time?

When I was 24 years old, I met my father for the first time. 

The meeting was scheduled at a sports bar, his suggestion, outside a shopping mall on a bright and warm Phoenix, Arizona winter day. I arrived five minutes late just to be sure that I could be the one to spot him, saving the embarrassment of him mistaking me for someone else. 

I had seen pictures of him and knew that he probably hadn’t changed much in appearance. On the other hand, he probably hadn’t seen a picture of me ever or if he had, it was a toddler version of me. 

As I pulled into the nearly spaceless parking lot, my stomach churned and my eyes started to scan for the biggest black man I could find sitting on the patio. Finding my parking spot, I took a few deep breaths with hesitation and thought about turning the car back on to drive away. Another breath gave me some space to open the door and take steps toward the man who created me. 

With each step, a new question. “Will he take responsibility for his nonaction?” “Will he make up a story for why he couldn’t be there for me?” “Will he pay for the lunch?” “Will he think that’s some kind of retribution?” “What am I doing here?” And so on. 

In the back of my mind, I thought, “Let’s get this over with!” As if somehow meeting my father one time would free me from our entangled web of disconnection. As if it were some psychedelic trip, where a big revelation would rewrite my past and change the future. There was so much emphasis on “This is the moment!” 

We know how puffed-up and romanticized situations turn out in reality, so you might have a sense of where this is going. 

As I walk up to the restaurant, I spot a large, bald black man sitting with his back toward the parking lot. This wasn’t a game of where’s Waldo, that’s for sure. In the majority white and normal human-sized crowd, he couldn’t be missed. Since he hadn’t seen me walking up I had one last chance to turn around and get out of there. The thought came and went like a flash. My heart gripped my rib cage in fear, while I unintentionally held my breath. 

Three steps, two steps, one step… “Mark?” Even though I never met the guy there still was this weird sensation of calling my father by his first name. Could you imagine the change in atmosphere if I came running up to the restaurant crying out “Dad…??” Or even telling the hostess, “I’m meeting my father but I’m not too certain what he looks like.” 

Calling him by his first name kept me safe, though. I didn’t want to risk expressing what would probably have been out of place – “Are you my father?” Uttering his first name and shaking his hand like a business partner was the ultimate lock-in for this relationship to stay the same as it had always been. I always wonder how it would have gone if I played into the drama of the situation a little more. 

When he stood up to shake my hand I had to crank my neck up to see him. I’m no short guy, but he had to have close to a foot on me. His hand swallowed mine with ease. 

He wore sunglasses the entire lunch. A thin layer of polycarbonate stood between me and the doorway to his internal world. I have also always wondered what happened behind those shades during our time together. Did he tear up at some point? Was he hiding fear that could be detected in his pupils? 

The vibe was very casual as we spoke our first words. This was no monumental meeting for the big guy. Meanwhile, I sat there like the mystic Don Quixote awaiting a redemption moment. 

The restoration I hoped for never came. Our conversation stayed on the surface with some mentions here and there of “I tried to see you…” I wasn’t sure how to respond to these seeming cries for forgiveness, so I just sat with a puzzled look on my face while attempting to act as if it was no big deal.

The only moment that was slightly vulnerable was when my father told me about my half-sister. When he talked about her his energy lit up, he got taller in his chair and his voice stepped a pitch higher. 

His daughter was his angel. He didn’t hold back in sharing all about her. Again, if I were with the drama, I might have said something like “If she’s the angel, what does that make me?” But I knew he was sharing this, in some contorted way, to show me that he got it right the second time around. 

I was genuinely touched by how present he was for her. All while feeling overlooked and holding a grimace only noticeable in my internal world. He was there for her in every way he wasn’t for me. Went to all of her games, helped her with college applications, consulted her on relationships, and more. I couldn’t decide if my expression was a “fuck you” or “Wow, he’s changed!” Both enamored and bitter. 

At the end of our lunch, he handed me a gift. It was a small box wrapped in green, red, and white striped wrapping paper – Santa hats lining the stripes. The first (and last) Christmas gift I ever received from my father. 

“Should I open it now?” I felt shy to possibly expose my excitement for a gift that maybe could make up for some of this misfortune. A subtle thought of, “Maybe he calculated the debt of his neglect and transformed it into real currency. I mean, what other gift could fit the moment?” Self-righteousness lined my mental landscape. 

But really, what gift could be given in this confounding situation? Could a son expect to receive something he would value from a man, who for a moment, steps into a role he never filled? It’s an odd thing to even receive a gift at such a meeting. 

Confused, hesitant, but excited I opened the box while my father watched me from behind his Persol shades. It turns out my initial thought wasn’t too far off – let’s say it was in the stadium, but sitting in the nosebleeds. 

He gifted me a wallet.

Twenty-four years, no contact. A wallet. 

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I was recently on Jacob Kishere’s Sensespace podcast talking about how I am re-writing my relationship with my father, through the writing of my book (projected to be published in late 2024). Please do check it out as we touched on the topic of absent fathers, which I believe you can unfortunately, but most likely, relate to in your own way.

Also, Matthew Green shares more about our conversation on his Substack Resonant World.

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P.S. If you enjoy my writing and want to support me further, I’m raising money to support this book. Check the link below for more details.