Trigger warning: mentions of psychological abuse and homophobic attitudes.

I remember the first time I realized everything my dad did was calculated—like a chess master's move. Except you didn't know you were even playing until he said 'check-mate.'

I was five, the one and only time he took me to the zoo. He gave me ten dollars, and said I could spend it however I wanted, and that he'd have ten dollars to spend, too. Ten dollars seemed like a lot when I was five.

I bought a cone of shaved ice and a stuffed toy monkey in the gift shop; I had a great time until I started to get hungry.

My dad took me to the food court, where the food trucks were parked. We stood in the hot sun in what seemed like the world's longest line. When it was finally our turn to order, I was so hungry my tummy hurt and I was ready to cry.

I asked for a hotdog. The lady said it cost $5, but I only had $1 and change left. So my dad paid for it.

Then he ate it, too.

"You gotta think ahead, Charles," he said as he devoured the hotdog before my eyes. "Spend all your money on junk and overpriced crap, you got nothing left for what matters. You spent your ten dollars; I didn't. So I get a hotdog, and you don't."

I'd pointed out (rather tearfully) that since he hadn't spent his money, and the hotdog cost five dollars, he had enough to buy me one, too.

"Sure I do," he'd said. "But just 'cause you know someone can help you out, doesn't mean you should count on it that they will."

Then I'd really started to cry, but he hadn't given in. He told me it was a lesson, and that next time I'd know better, and that a few tears now would save me a lot of heartache in the long run.

I guess the lesson worked; I can't spend a dime on anything fun or frivolous without that memory bubbling up to haunt me.

It bubbles up now, like a fart in a hot tub, as I sit across from my dad in the budget chain restaurant where he'd taken me to eat.

In retrospect, it just makes me sad for little five-year-old me. My dad knew what he was doing—what would happen—from the start. I was five: of course I was going to want an ice-cream or a snow-cone, and of course I'd want some memento from the gift shop. I thought I was getting a treat, but instead I was getting set up.

If I'd learned nothing else that day, I'd learned to be suspicious of my dad. After that, I knew anything he 'gave' me had some hidden price attached. Like this meal, for example.

There are a dozen small, locally owned restaurants within three blocks, but he'd chosen the one you can find in every other town; a place with a Standard American menu, offering large portions of high calorie, low quality food. This, too, is calculated—just like his appearance.

His polo shirt and khaki chinos say 'average middle-aged dude,' but his shiny gold Rolex and Italian leather loafers say 'wealthy middle-aged dude.'

It's his 'business' look; a look he cultivates for potential clients. 'Look at me,' it says. 'I'm a normal guy—just like you. Except I'm rich. But, hey, if you trust me with your money, you can be rich, too.'

If you're a straight white man, that is.

If you're not, my dad's demeanor is more likely to convey something along the lines of, 'get back in the kitchen, sweetheart,' or 'go back where you came from, bud,' or 'people like you should be sterilized and shot.'

I hate that I'm related to him. I used to hope I wasn't; that my mom had an affair and I'm someone else's kid. My life would almost make sense, then: why my dad seems to loathe my existence; why I barely resemble him, and why we have nothing in common at all.

Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be the case. I got my mom's eyes and hair, my mom's nose and slender build, but the shape of my mouth is a match for my dad's—though mine isn't as frowny and pinched as his, but I guess time could take care of that.

He's frowning at me now over the top of his menu, pale eyes watching with the keen look of a predator waiting to pounce. This, too, is a test. What I order from the menu is like a pass/fail pop quiz. Pick something too cheap, and I'm a suck up; pick something too expensive, and I'm a mooch.

When the server comes around, I choose the most inoffensive mid-range entre I can find: grilled trout with a side of salad. My dad orders the most expensive thing on the menu: Steak with shrimp, salad, and a baked potato.

The choice communicates two things. First, that he has the money to spend and I don't (hotdog flashbacks again), and second, that 'real men' eat red meat. He confirms this second suspicion when the server brings our meal.

"You eat like a woman," he says, pointing his fork at my filet of grilled fish. "You need protein."

"Fish is protein," I point out, watching with mild distaste as he saws at his overcooked steak.

He waves the knife at me dismissively. "Ladies like a man with meat on his bones—with muscle."

"Not all of them."

"The one's worth marrying do. And if she says she doesn't, she's lying. Course, they're all liars, really."

I tune him out as he goes on a mini-rant about feminine wiles and 'female entrapment schemes,' making it sound as if all women want is money and sperm. It would be funny if he didn't really believe it.

As the implication dawns on me, I look up. "Wait... Is that what you think about Mom? That she tricked you?"

"Well, sure. Only difference is that I was expecting it. She was supposed to be on the pill; then all of a sudden it's, 'Woopsie, I'm pregnant!'" He speaks in a mocking falsetto and rolls his eyes. "Believe me, if a girl tries to get in your pants, you can bet she's not after your dick. She's after your wallet."

"You could have worn a condom," I say, aware that I'm arguing against my own existence. "Men can be responsible, too."

He makes a face. "In my day, condoms were for homos and whores. Speaking of, I got a great joke to tell ya. Heard it the other day when I was out golfing with the guys. You wanna hear it?"

"Not really."

"It goes like this. So, there's this chicken farmer. He's got lots of hens and just one rooster. But the rooster's getting on in years, so the farmer figures it's time for a new one. So he goes down to the farm store, or wherever the fuck you buy roosters, and gets a new one, and brings it home. You with me so far?"

"Sure." I shift uncomfortably, wishing I was anywhere else.

"Right. So the old rooster sizes up the new one, and he says. 'Look, I know I'm getting old. Can't keep up with all these young hens no more. So let's make a deal. We race around the farm house—one lap. If you win, you take all the biddies. If I win, I'll only keep those two old ones over there, and you still get all the young ones. Waddaya say?'"

"Sounds like a deal."

My dad chews his steak and points his fork at me. "That's what he said. So the young rooster agrees, but the old one says there's just one caveat: the younger one's gotta give the old one a head start, so he has a fair chance. The younger one figures, 'What the hell? I can outrun this guy easily.' Well, off they go, racing around the farm house. The younger one's catching up fast. Just as he's about to overtake the older one, right on his tail, they come around the front of the house, where the farmer's sitting on his porch. The farmer jumps up, grabs his shotgun, and blows the younger rooster's head clean off. Then he sits back down and says, 'God dammit. That's the third gay rooster I got this week!'"

My dad breaks out in a fit of raucous laughter, disturbing the diners in the surrounding tables and booths.

Dry mouthed, I take a sip of water. "I don't get it."

"The old rooster tricked the young one into chasing him, so the farmer thought it was gay, and then—blam." He mimics firing a gun.

"That isn't funny."

He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. "Eh. You got no sense of humor. It's hilarious. You don't think so?"

The conversation has strayed into dangerous territory, but I can't bring myself to lie, or even pretend. "No. I don't."

"Huh. Well, you know what else is funny?"

I know I'm going to regret asking, but I do anyway. "No. What?"

He pulls out his phone, still blinking through tears of laughter brought on by his own joke, and taps the screen a few times. Then he holds it towards me, laughter fading as a harder expression settles on his features.

Somehow, I'm hardly surprised to see the video. Sure, a wash of sweat breaks out over my entire body, my skin goes clammy and cold, and my vision narrows to a pinhole as I forget to breathe; but then, something weird happens. Maybe it's a last-ditch defense mechanism, like going into shock, but a strange icy calm descends on my mind, and it feels like I'm watching the scene unfold from outside myself.

Distantly, thoughts drift by, registered with the unemotional blandness of signposts along a road.

It's still up.
He hasn't taken it down.
He never did.

Part of me is ready to jump to Hazel's defense—he gets distracted easily; he just forgot; it was really Dave's fault—but these charitable objections wither in the cold that fills me like the vacuum of space. Excuses aside, the bottom line is he didn't understand my fear, so he didn't respect it. 

"Who is this?" my dad asks.

I shake my head. "I don't know."

My dad pockets his phone and leans back, making the worn leather of the bench-seat squeak in protest. "You know what I hate most?"

I blink at him slowly. "People who aren't like you?"

He frowns at me. "Liars. Liars are cowards. And cowards are the worst kind of scum. So, I'll ask you again: who is he?"

"I don't know."

The words fall from my lips like stones, and my dad furrows his brow and stares at me with the hard, glaring stare of an inquisitor hell-bent on a confession.

"You don't know? You regularly hug men you don't know?"

"No."

A smirk of triumph curls his lip, and he moves in for the kill. "Well, I happen to know that he's your professor's son, he's a confirmed fag, and you spent a month at that ridiculous summer camp with him. So, let's try this one last time."

I stare at my plate of mostly uneaten food. This time the words leave me in a whisper. "I don't know him."

My dad's face flushes with anger. "Charlie, I hate a liar. A liar is—"

"I'm not a liar."

I look up and meet his mean, hateful gaze. Something in my demeanor seems to be throwing him off—the cold calmness in my tone, probably, which could be mistaken for confidence but is merely the resignation of a condemned man who's accepted his fate.

Still, I don't have to die on this hill. I could tell my dad what he wants to hear—that the videos were taken out of context; that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time; that sure, I know Hazel, but I'd never associate with him. I could even throw in some false enthusiasm for Big Oil, and he'd probably let the whole thing go. 

I could, but I won't. I'm tired of living in fear.

"Hazel called me a liar, too, but I've never lied," I say. "You can call me a coward, if you want; I didn't tell you things because, yeah, I was scared of you. But I'm not a liar." I nod towards the phone. "That's Hazel MacDowell. I slept with him. But I don't know him. I thought I did. I was wrong."

My dad stares at me, rendered speechless for once in his life. Taking some perverse pleasure at the sight, I press on, driving full speed towards the metaphorical cliff.

I tell him everything. Everything about who I really am and why I hid it for so long; everything about falling in love, and being afraid, and about how much I hate him for making me hate myself.

"I don't want to hate you," I say, when I finish at last, shaking and drenched in sweat. "You're my father. I want—"

"No." Abruptly, he stands. The look of revulsion on his face is like a shot to the heart, and it tells me everything I need to know. "I don't want to hear another word."

He turns to leave.

"Wait—Dad." I reach towards him. He draws away, lip twisted with disgust. "The bill..." I finish weakly.

Shaking his head, he pulls out his wallet and extracts a twenty, dropping it on the table as if it were smeared with shit.

"I said I'd take my son out for a meal," he says. "But you're no son of mine. You can pay your own way. You're not getting another dime."

He leaves. I sit very still for a while, knowing that if I move a muscle I'll shatter like glass. When the server brings the tab, someone from another table picks it up, having overheard what was said. It's not like my dad was being quiet.

The kind stranger says something—some words of comfort and support, I think—but I'm still in that cold, frozen state, lost in the void or at the bottom of the sea, and I don't know if I even make a reply.

Somehow, I get home. Thankfully, Hazel is still out.

I gather all his things and pack them in boxes—neatly, respectfully—and place them outside the door, which I lock. I strip the sheets off my bed to get rid of his scent, and lie down on the bare mattress.

The icy shock still numbs me, but the pain and sorrow aren't going anywhere. They can wait. Anger, too, is a patient beast, and crouches, wounded, at the bottom of my heart.

There's something else there as well; a new lightness and space; maybe something beautiful, given time. It's the knowledge that the worst that could happen has happened, and there's nothing left to fear.

Finding it strangely comforting, I shut my eyes and sleep like the dead.

***

Author's note: Well, that part was kind of a downer, huh? But at least it's all up from here 😝. Also, that rooster joke is a real joke my dad once told. Unlike Charlie's dad, my dad is wonderful—he's the inspiration for all my good fictional dads—but a long time ago he worked with the sort of guys who told jokes like that and he brought that one home. For some reason I still remember it. My dad is better educated now; he buys me Pride merch and wants to read my books (though I don't let him 😆). Anyway, it's weird how something like that can stick with you. You never know what kids will remember.