Father's Day

by Buzz Bissinger

  I could not bear those gasps. I went to the small waiting room down the hall and bought a bag of chips and watched television. I think it was Seinfeld. I came back to his room five minutes later. His gasps had stopped. That’s how we left it. Or how we never left it.

  He was dead.

  III

  I run through the corridors looking for the camera bag. I think about the wallet and how I inevitably lose what is vital when I cannot cope. I am convinced now: I forced the trip down Zach’s throat, a snake oil salesman selling him on the dazzle of driving across country when the country is a haze to him without the introspection that comes when the horizon floats, with glassy shimmers of heat, and the sun lowers like the loss of a relationship, and the night gently takes over your soul.

  How could I have lost this bag with all this information that can never be retrieved or replicated? Because I am a wreck. Because I am boring into my son like a lab rat by asking him intimate questions that make him sad or confused or nervous. I am subjecting him to hours in a car where I can see his squirming boredom no matter how much he fights to ward it off. I see him performing for me, trying to be good for me. It only makes me more selfish. I have responded to so much by getting angry with him when he has done nothing.

  I run outside to the car and push the sliding door back, but the bag is not there. I run to the front desk and ask if anybody has left it, a ridiculous question since anyone seeing its contents would steal it, even in the goodhearted Midwest. I give them my cell number and at least they write it down. Then I think that maybe I left it outside the room when I checked in. I ask the cleaning woman if she has seen it. She says no, but she will look. That’s what everyone says when they have no intention of looking for anything. Just like saying everything will be all right. I sit on the bed in my room, running my fingers through my hair again and again. I have the urge to turn around and go home.

  Zach comes in and looks at me. He touches me on the shoulder.

  —It will be okay.

  I feel the delicacy of his fingers, as if he realizes that touching me too hard would make me cry in pain.

  —Thank you, Zach. That means a lot to me.

  —Yeah.

  We get in the minivan. We forge ahead. We still may turn around and go home, but we will go to the amusement park first. It is the least I can do for my son. I try to make conversation.

  —What do you think about me losing the bag?

  —I thought it was not good because it is very expensive you bought it like last year June 27 2006.

  —It’s because I am stupid.

  —I’m sorry you lost it.

  —I know.

  He points to the upper front cover of his knapsack.

  —You know like I keep my cell phone in there I always keep it in there.

  —You’re more careful than I am.

  —Yeah.

  —Are you going to get another tape recorder you probably need one maybe we should stop somewhere.

  —I guess so.

  —We can put it somewhere where you won’t lose it.

  We get onto Interstate 55 South toward Six Flags. I ask him if he is excited about the amusement park. It is a pro forma question. Silence sets in on a day in which there should be excited noise. Zach stares out the window with his tilt. The miles crawl. Drizzle falls across the windshield in streaks. It is 9:00 A.M. and we have traveled 1,384 miles. It is roughly a third of the trip if we make the final two-thirds.

  My phone rings. Who the fuck is this? I don’t want to talk to anybody I know right now. I answer because I’m unfamiliar with the area code.

  —Mr. Bissinger?

  —Yes.

  —The maid found your bag.

  —YOU’RE KIDDING!?

  —No, sir.

  —I WOULD KISS YOU, BUT I’M UNSHAVEN!!

  —No problem.

  —Where was it??

  —Behind the rear tire of the car that was parked next to you. Must have been there all night. It was a miracle that car hadn’t left. The bag would have been crushed.

  —I must have put it there when I was taking the bags out of the car last night. It was late. We have a lot of them.

  —Yes, sir.

  —We’re turning around right now to pick it up. And thank you. Thank you so much.

  —No problem.

  I hang up. I turn to Zach.

  —THEY FOUND THE CAMERA BAG AND TOOK CARE OF IT!

  —You think they probably took a picture maybe?

  That had never occurred to me.

  —When did you get the camera where did you get it where did you buy it did they deliver it to you because you bought it online?

  —Yes yes yes yes.

  —I’m glad you found your camera for once.

  —Say funny things, Zach. Make me HAPPY!

  —Now it’s good that we found the camera that’s one good thing but now the next good thing is let’s hope we get to the park and the park is open in the rain I’m sure it will be open.

  —Maybe it will be just the two of us.

  —Yeah.

  —Wouldn’t that be a dream, just you and me?

  —Yeah.

  —Thanks for being so kind and patient with me, Zach.

  —It’s okay.

  10. I’ll Do Anything

  I

  WE STAND IN a darkened stairway of grated metal. There are patchwork clusters of gum hardened into the tiny holes. There is a wait. Giggling teenage girls, making a beeline from the adjacent water park, line up in still-wet bathing suits. I feel like I’m in a damp cave. I assume that’s the point.

  Scratchy theme music from the Batman movies builds up in volume. We inch further up the stairs. Small knots of people around us are discussing how to exit without embarrassment. Fears are expressed over what will happen if they remain in line. “I’m taking off my shoes,” announces one of the teenage girls. It must mean the ride is so fast that footwear tends to fly off; among all the eventualities I had prepared myself for, losing my shoes was not one of them. Somewhere people a fifth of my age are screaming.

  We make it to the top of the stairs and get in one of the cars. I am concerned my glasses will fall off since the shorts I am wearing do not have pockets suitable for holding glasses. Plus for reasons I cannot explain, they are also three sizes too big. I have to hold them up when weighted down with tape recorder and wallet and car keys. I feel like a clown at some low-grade circus where nobody has been paid for months and the only act I can do anyway is the drop-your-pants routine that hasn’t gotten a laugh since Rock Island.

  Zach is pensive. If he looks worried, then what am I supposed to look like? I already know what I look like. My shorts are continuing to slide. Zach continues to be silent. That makes me more nervous. What does he know about this ride? I’m in no mood for punking.

  —What are you thinking, Zach? Tell me exactly what you are thinking.

  —About the ride.

  —Is it gonna go fast?

  —Yeah.

  —Are you gonna be scared?

  —A little.

  —Gonna scream?

  —Maybe.

  The elevation is ten and a half stories. The length is 2,693 feet, and the speed is fifty miles per hour with maximum G forces of four. The ride features five “head over heels” moments, with the trains traveling on the outside of the track rather the inside in which I have to assume you hang upside down like a bat. As a bonus, the floor drops from beneath the riders’ seats. I have no idea why this is a bonus.

  The ride makes its first ascent with calculated slowness. There is a cruel pause at the top, then we drop into the first loop. This thing is fast. My stomach is now in my ears. Yet I am screaming in elation.

  —ZACH!!!!!!! ZACH!!!!!

  Zach’s eyes are open. The faster we go around a loop, the greater the G forces sucking our bodies into emaciation, the more he luxuriates in it. The ride ends after two minutes and four more loops. My paraphernalia has remained in my pocket. My s
hoes did not fly off. Zach is just getting started. I follow like his pet.

  —I need to go on the rides all day I can’t stop going on the rides.

  —Why do you like them so much?

  —I just do.

  He has the map of Six Flags in his hand. He has figured out the next ride. It is called the Boss. That can’t be good. We pass by Miss Kitty’s Saloon and a gift shop called Thrill Seekers filled with tacky junk. They have a belt adorned with the Six Flags logo. I put it on so my shorts won’t fall down.

  —What do you think?

  —Good.

  Zach as usual is being diplomatic.

  I now officially look deranged. Even for an amusement park.

  The Boss is said to be one of the top five wooden roller coasters in the country. It reaches a maximum speed of 66.3 miles per hour. It has four drops of 150 feet, 112 feet, 103 feet, and 72 feet. There is a 570-degree spiral helix. I don’t know what that is but it can’t be good. There are numerous 52-degree high-banked turns. The track length is 5,051 feet and the duration three minutes.

  On the ride, I scream Zach’s name again. We lift our arms high over our heads to imitate the more experienced riders. We get an eight for enthusiasm, but only a three for style. My arms are a little rubbery at the end.

  Next is the Sling Shot, which is true to its name. Zach and I sit side by side in adjoining seats that remind me of dental chairs except that we’re strapped in. I think a lot about dental chairs. The Sling Shot catapults us up, then heads back down again. It does this for far too long in my increasing squeamishness. Zach is impressed.

  —The Sling Shot is my favorite so far.

  —The Sling Shot? The one where we went up high and then went upside down? That was your favorite?

  —Yeah.

  —You’re insane. That was one I hated.

  Zach is not focused on my feelings.

  We go on the Screamin’ Eagle and the Rush Street Flyer and the Ninja and the Joker and the Tidal Wave and Mr. Freeze and the Log Flume and the River King Mine Train and Tony Hawk’s Big Spin. We eye the Superman Tower of Power, the amusement park equivalent of scaling K2. It is a relatively new ride, manufactured in Switzerland. It is twenty-three stories tall, or 230 feet. Then the contraption you are in drops sixteen feet per second and has a free-fall speed of approximately sixty-two miles per hour. Zach eyes it with longing, but it is closed. A year earlier, a young woman on the same ride at another park in Louisville had both her legs amputated at the ankle when a cable snapped in mid-flight.

  The day winnows down, the thick humidity muted into slick vapor. The park has emptied out, all those thrill rides now forlorn without anyone to thrill, the sadness of empty roller-coaster cars still in forced climb. I sit on a bench and watch Zach as he rides the Teacups; he’s the only one aboard. It is a kids’ ride, far too demeaning for crusty souls of the Boss and Mr. Freeze. They would never be caught dead there, too much to live down. But Zach doesn’t care. I can hear the gentle whir as the red and yellow teacup cars undulate up and down. A few screams scatter in the distance like a faraway car alarm. Zach’s arms are spread out behind him. His eyes are closed, his head bent back slightly. The warm air encircles him.

  II

  We sit across from each other at a blue Formica table. He eats French fries and I eat a foot-long hot dog with a crumbling bun that leaves bits of soaky mustard on my shirt. It is only a matter of time before I become the official Six Flags mascot, unshaven, barely belted, flecked with mustard like some rare skin disorder. We are done for the day after seven hours. We need to head to Oklahoma so we can make Texas by tomorrow.

  We walk to the exit. I see a ride I haven’t noticed before. It is called Dragon’s Wing. You are hoisted 153 feet high to the top of a crane. Then you pull a ripcord and basically bungee jump in a horrific free fall. I make a terrible error in judgment.

  —You want to try it?

  —Yeah.

  Wrong answer.

  —It’s dangerous, Zach.

  —Yeah.

  —We could get killed.

  —Yeah.

  —I don’t think your mother would like you to go on this.

  —Yeah.

  —It’s really dangerous. Are you sure you want to try it?

  —I’m sure.

  I am screwed.

  The line moves far faster than I thought. I see other people do the ride. I ask them what it’s like as they get off.

  —Just don’t pull the ripcord.

  I once again gauge Zach’s willingness to go on this thing.

  —Hey, Zach, do you want to pull the ripcord?

  —No.

  —I don’t think this is a good idea. I really don’t.

  —Yeah.

  —Do you want to get hurt?

  —I don’t want to get hurt.

  —Are you sure you really want to do this?

  —I’m sure.

  —All right, fine. We’ll fucking do it.

  —Okay.

  —But it’s stupid.

  —Okay.

  —We went on every other ride today. What’s the point of doing this one?

  —I don’t know I just want to do it.

  —What does that mean?

  —I just want to do it.

  I can handle the roller coasters and the like. I have been on them many times before and have learned to brace myself for the worst. I have never been hoisted up by a crane and then dropped. Why would I? Why would anyone?

  We put on our bondage outfits, which resemble wetsuits with Velcro straps and strategically placed hooks. We are yoked together tightly so that we face each other, nose to nose. A cord is attached to the hooks and we are slowly hoisted to the top of the crane. At the top, two workers stand on a little perch. It’s hard to hear them, but I think they’re talking about hair, or nails. Through their headsets, they get clearance from down below. They count down for us.

  —Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go.

  Fuck it . . .

  I pull the ripcord . . .

  We free-fall, our bodies initially parallel to the ground that rushes toward us. My arms are wrapped around Zach. His arms are wrapped around me. His eyes are closed. Mine are open. We fall faster than I thought possible. My mouth is dry. The churn of nausea in my stomach travels upward with far too much speed. We miss the roof of the entrance by what seems like inches. I can feel Zach holding me tightly. Then we swing high, flinging out into the sky. I feel an exhilaration I have never felt before. I am screaming at the top of my lungs. When we swing low, I can feel Zach holding me more tightly. Then we swing high again over the amusement park.

  Zach and I merge into one, arm around arm, shoulder against shoulder, the press of his body against mine. I never had that when he was an infant in the hospital. I wore a gown and mask much of the time. He was almost always attached to the tube of that ventilator, the in-and-out hiss of the breathing he could not do himself. I held him in my arms and clutched his matchstick fingers, saw his infinitesimal toes emerge from beneath the blanket, ran my hand over the little cap he wore. I saw those brown eyes the size of a faraway star you can barely see. He was so strong. He was so hopeless. Was I holding a baby or was I holding a medical specimen, a miracle, yes, to be alive but a miracle of what? But now he is my lifeline, and I am his. If we let go of each other, both of us will surely shatter.

  We swing low again, until a worker on the ground pulls on a rope attached to the cord and reins us in. We are lowered to the ground and disentangled. I stride and strut in my wetsuit back to the entrance, offering expertise to the terrified virgins.

  —Don’t pull the ripcord.

  Most images fade in life, no matter how hard you try to keep them. They become hazy and blurred. At best you use your memory to inflate them back up. But this memory will always stay as it was. Just like my son’s memories, it will always be set in concrete, no need to gussy it up or dress it in new clothing. This moment is momentary. I know that. But maybe for the first time in m
y life I feel that Zach and I share the same mental ground, think the same way, seize the world on equal terms.

  —It was quite beautiful when we were arm in arm.

  —Yeah.

  —I will never ever forget today. I will never ever forget being with you.

  —Yeah.

  —Will you ever forget it?

  —I won’t forget it.

  —You promise?

  —I promise.

  —Do you love me?

  —I love you.

  —Are you sure you love me?

  —I am sure I love you.

  —And I love you.

  —I know.

  —How do you know?

  —Because you’re my dad you have to love me.

  11. Scene of the Crime

  I

  WE LEAVE SIX FLAGS and head to a nearby Waffle House. Zach chooses it because there is a Waffle House in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where Gerry went to college at Dickinson. If nothing else thus far, he has learned that the country is bound together by certain institutions wherever you are—Embassy Suites, Waffle Houses, Best Westerns, Holiday Inn Expresses. It is almost as if Zach, because of the way his brain organizes, planned the country himself with reliable monuments that always orient you. Zach has also invoked the Waffle House in Carlisle because he misses Gerry. He’s proud of what he has just done and he wants to share the joy of it with his brother. Zach makes a call.

  —Hi Ger I can’t wait to see you Thursday we went to the amusement park it’s like Great Adventure in Jersey but it’s Six Flags near St. Louis Dad and I bungee jumped Dad pulled the cord we went on all the roller coasters and we went on this one the Boss and I went on the Teacups myself and we went on Mr. Freeze and Batman we went on Ninja we went on the Log Flume we went on another ride where it got very wet the Tidal Wave!