Friday, September 29th, 2023
8:17 p.m.
I place the semi-automatic paintball gun on the glass counter at Sinkers and Bullets Pro Shop and tell the salesman I need magazines. He looks at my knitted hat and then checks out my Sigotto Uomo slip-on loafers. He snickers. My wife packed them for Parents' Weekend at Breanna's college. Meg called them casual walking shoes for around campus. They were the darkest pair with me.
"It's my son's gun," I say.
The guy shrugs and walks to the other end of the counter. I grab the rifle and see a black pistol under the glass. It looks easier to hold. Smooth to the touch. A quick pull of the trigger and a finger-snap shot of paintballs. I point to the gun when the guy returns.
I speed south on the highway and pull off the exit, focused on my mission. I park at a gas station and load a magazine into each gun. Trees line the parking lot along the back of the station. The billboard rises tall over the leaves. A chain-link fence is the only defense protecting it. I carry the rifle over my shoulder and hold the pistol. Richie's backpack has the extra magazines.
"That man has a gun," someone screams.
I toss the rifle over the fence, stick the pistol down the back of my pants, and scale the top.
I climb the billboard pole and flip over the railing onto the platform. The LED floodlights installed along the top help me see the target. I aim the semi-automatic and unload the magazine. Neon green blotches cover a section of the billboard. I shove a new magazine into the gun.
A group of people have gathered at the gas station and record me on their phones. I shoot the billboard, and the paintball cartridges explode yellow shots against the surface. I am unstoppable. A God. My chest fills with a fiery sense of love and justice.
A police officer's voice comes through a bullhorn and rises through the treetops to where I stand. "Put the paintball gun down and turn around with your hands up." My stomach flip-flops and I look over my shoulder. I cannot see him below the trees. "We'll get you help."
It feels like I'm floating.
I place the rifle by my feet and slowly turn around.
Breanna's playing soccer right now against the university's biggest rival. Meg is there, probably checking her phone for a text. I lied about my colitis acting up so that I could skip dinner. I promised I would meet up with them for the game.
Meg will divorce me, no doubt, and Breanna will not talk to me for years. Her kind heart will eventually forgive me, but it will never be the same. I will go to prison. When I'm released, I'll have no home and no job. My daughter is safe, but all our lives are forever changed. The night breeze dries my sweat and tears.
What did I do?
The officer shines a flashlight through the leaves and blinds me. "Slowly climb down the pole."
I pull the pistol out from my pants and point it at my temple. I shoot. The paintball smacks the side of my head and shatters. It stings and punches at the same time. I'm blinded by a flash of white light and I bite my tongue before I pass out.
I come to, facedown on the platform, cuffed behind my back. My tongue is bleeding. The officer calls in an ambulance. It is hard to breathe, and I have a headache. I wonder if Richie will get the gun back.
Back in the hotel room as Meg took a shower, Richie asked if he could skip dinner and the game. I told him sure. Meg was not happy that I made the decision without her, but she was running late. Richie and I ate fast-food in silence, and he watched Cartoon Network.
I put on his camouflage knit winter hat, and he glanced at me with pressed lips. He was confused, as though he knew I was not going to the game. He opened his mouth to say something but the color drained from his face. He shook his head and watched the cartoon.
Friday, September 29th, 2023
2:30 p.m.
After lunch, Richie goes back to the hotel for a nap. We head to a rhetoric and composition class, and Breanna talks about an assignment. They have to explore the writing process, keep an online journal, and share their journals with the class for each stage. The challenge, Breanna says, is that the thesis has to connect to their major. Breanna shudders because it's her turn today.
Meg and I sit in the back with other parents. Some students read and a few whisper. A slender adjunct professor lumbers in with a lot of bags, and I wonder if they weigh more than her.
"Welcome, friends." The adjunct introduces herself to the parents. She hands papers to the students, who pass them behind until I'm holding the stack. I don't know what to do with them, and my stomach sours. Meg grabs the handouts and shares them with the other parents.
Breanna and the adjunct boot up Breanna's blog on a pull-down screen, and I look out the windows. A cold day drizzles on the cars, and a flock of wild turkeys peck at the grassy knoll. One stands tall and watches for trouble.
At lunch I'd casually asked Breanna when the billboard was coming down. Meg scowled and Breanna told us usually after the holidays, but this time it would be taken down after spring break.
I count the cars because it is easier to do than count the ones zipping by the billboard in my head. It's eventually coming down. I can wait. I have no choice. I grind my teeth and wonder if six months is a long or short time.
The adjunct sits in a desk in the front row. "Let's hear about stage one."
"Alpha wolves," Breanna says, and a wolfpack appears on the screen. "Are they real? I'm a First Year Veterinary Studies student, and even I know this is crap!"
The class chuckles. Meg blushes because our little girl used the word crap in class. I lean forward in the chair and study the four gray timber wolves. The dominant wolf stands with a bowed head in front of the pack. A second wolf, the mother of his pups, sits in the snow like a sphinx. The litter climbs on her back, blissfully unaware of the dangerous world.
I stare into the yellow eyes of the dominant wolf, amazed how these fierce creatures, killers when they have to be, fathers and fighters, can look so serene and wise. He stirs awake my own animalistic warrior as a pacing sensation in my chest.
"Biologist David Mech is an expert in wolves."
A picture of Mech in a heavy winter coat replaces the pack on the screen. I'm surprised by Meg who's been holding my hand.
"He also wrote the book that popularized the idea of an alpha wolf. It's had such an impact. Not only in popular culture, such as the alpha man," Breanna sneers," but also in science. For many years, field-researchers wrote about all kinds of animal hierarchy and its alpha." She makes air quotes. "David Mech knows he's wrong and has worked so hard to dispel this myth. On his website, you can read his plea to the publisher to stop printing the book." Breanna brings up the webpage.
The wolf's eyes bore into my consciousness, and my quiet rage feels like a confession. Those around me want me weak; my wife, Mr. Meyers, Dr. Sun, even my own kids sometimes. They all have an agenda. A weak man is a gullible man, a pushover. People are usurping my power, and I'm letting them. I breathe through my nose like I have been running.
After class as we wait for Breanna, Meg exclaims how proud we are. "She's going to be a brilliant vet one day."
"It's projection," I say. "Mech saw the wolf as a leader because he wants to be strong. Maybe a wolf isn't the alpha, but Mech is. He wants to be the hero. Alphas are therefore real, at least for guys."
"I'm so impressed." Meg looks at me crossly.
Friday, September 29th, 2023
10:00 a.m.
Breanna is a Trilly McGovern Scholarship recipient for Athletic Excellence in Women's Sports, a university scholarship that started shortly after the passing of Title IX. It helps Meg and me keep Breanna's college costs down. The girls used to receive enough money for two years and had to reapply for a second scholarship. It was understood they'd get it, but now the girls have to apply every summer, and they face steep competition. The Athletic Department has arranged a morning conference and Q&A session for Parents' Weekend.
We give Richie money and see him to the school shuttle for Downtown. Meg tells him about the Sinkers and Bullets Pro Shop and the comic book store, but nothing opens until ten. Richie is resourceful and will probably play video games on a bench somewhere.
Meg and Breanna sit on the edge of their seats posed with pens and notebooks, ready to jot down notes, important names, and contact information. My job is to listen and confirm what they heard, usually by nodding. The captain of the girls' volleyball team gives the welcome speech, but I don't pay attention.
Over a million cars will drive by the billboard, which means a billion people will see it, see her. They will laugh and point. Make jokes. Take Pictures. My stomach turns. Righteous pride roosts in my chest.
The hall erupts in applause, pulling me out of my head, and Breanna blushes. The people closest to her are a flurry of pats on the back. I am confused and look around the room. The captain waits for everyone to settle.
"A Parents' Weekend tradition since 1982, that billboard," she says, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise, "had only advertised the men's sports, but not this year! For the first time, women dominate the board!"
The crowd cheers again, and some players jump to their feet, including Breanna. She pumps the air with her fist. Licks of hazel burn in her brilliant green eyes. I've never seen her so enraptured in her passion for soccer, and so proud. My heart flutters. I do not want to ruin the billboard for her, just get rid of it.
"It's an honor to introduce our keynote speaker, Dr. Jerry Sun, Deputy Director of Athletics," she says and proceeds to tell the audience about his accomplishments. "Phew, what a list!" She swipes a hand over her forehead. The audience chuckles.
Dr. Sun shakes the captain's hand and clears his throat.
"I had the honor of choosing the billboard picture," Dr. Sun says. "It was a tough decision." He takes the mike and steps out from behind the podium. "So many rising stars, and so many players to celebrate. All the pictures blew my socks off, but our soccer players really depict the courage and grace we hope to inspire in our women's sports program."
People clap. My anxiety tightens in my chest, and I smile. Dr. Sun talks about the Student Service Department and the scholarship programs. He lauds the department for their expertise in navigating scholarship applications, and then introduces the administrator.
I decide to confront him, man to man.
Dr. Sun exits the hall. I tell Meg and Breanna I need to use the bathroom and look for Richie, thinking he could use a break even if he does not have to go, but then I remember he is not here.
I surprise Dr. Sun just as he unlocks the office door, and I introduce myself as Breanna's father. He invites me in and praises Breanna's accomplishments on the field and in the classroom. I force a smile for the moment but remind myself I'm here for Breanna. Dr. Sun opens the blinds and puts a shriveled plant on the sill. The desk phone flashes a message light, and he throws a legal pad over it. When he sits, I do, too.
"I'm sorry for bombarding you," I say.
"I always have time for the parents." He searches my face.
"I want to talk about that billboard."
"What a boost for the department, and an amazing opportunity for Breanna."
"I'm not so sure," I say. "It's inappropriate. She's vulnerable, possibly being exploited." I look at Dr. Sun. He leans back in the chair.
I use the slang term for it because any other way would require a lot of details. He screws his face at me.
"It has to come down. For my daughter's sake."
"You're serious? You really..." he taps a pen on the desk. "You're wrong about that. Do you understand what you're doing? And what it will do to your daughter?"
"When you're a father, you'll understand."
"I am," he says. "Daughters. One's in college. The other's in high school." He takes a deep breath. "You're putting a lot of people at risk, especially me."
I feel sucker-punched by my own ignorance and stutter as I get my thoughts in order. I did not think about how this accusation would affect him as the Deputy Director. I bristle at my cruelty, even if unintended. He is right. I apologize and stumble through the words that acknowledge my mistake.
I need to do better.
His expression softens and he pyramids his fingers together. "When my oldest went away to college, I felt helpless. I couldn't protect her anymore. So, I became a helicopter parent to my other daughter, and oh boy! Did we fight." He checks his cell for the time. "She's still your little princess, but your role has changed." He stands and informs me of a meeting.
I am careful not to slam the door.
The owner of the Lexus dealership told me the same thing when he broke the news; he'd sold the dealership. I was General Manager and over the years, Meg and I had planned to purchase the business when old Mr. Meyers was ready to sell. He and I talked about the down payment, the payment plan, the interest, and how long it would take.
It was like he'd kicked me in the throat.
Mr. Meyers knocked on my doorframe. I shook his hand. He asked about my family and talked about the cruise with the wife. We chitchatted numbers and customer complaints.
He cleared his throat. "I sold the dealership. I'm giving it to you like a man."
I gawped at him instead of screaming, even though my anger stomped like a child. "I don't understand. We've talked about this—"
"Rich, I know, and believe me, I'm sorry," he says. "They're able to buy it outright." He picked up my diamond-shape 2017 dealership award for excellence and examined the bottom.
Just like that, I was broken, stalled at general manager. I needed to take a drive and let my resentment dissipate. I clenched my fist.
"One more thing," Mr. Meyers said. "They have their own GM. A smart gal. I brokered a deal. You'll keep your salary and benefits, and you'll earn commission. You'll be making more money. Only your role has changed."
"Thank you." I grab my keys from the drawer and imagine strangling him. Would he stare at me while I did it, and would I see a flicker of recognition?
I walk back to the hall with my hands in my pocket. My cell dings, and I figure it's a text from Meg. I have a tension headache. I open the door and search the crowd for my family. The people's faces are like leaves on treetops spread across the night, each face blurring into the forest. I fumble up the steps and take my seat next to Meg.
Friday, September 29th, 2023
7:37 a.m.
We wait for our breakfast at IHOP surrounded by other families here for the weekend. Breanna wears a crimson college sweatshirt and waves to her friends. Richie plays games on his phone with bangs in his eyes. Meg spreads paper napkins on her pleated khakis. I lean back in the booth and partially listen to Breanna as she tells us about her new friends.
This morning in the hotel room, Meg said, "Where did you take my son last night?"
I told her about the billboard.
"What's wrong with you!" She hands me the diamond pendant necklace I gave her for making partner at the firm. "You're nuts." She turns and lifts her hair.
"You're not her father. You wouldn't understand."
"Oh, I get it, but this weekend's about Breanna, not you." She jabs a finger into my chest. "Do you understand?"
I stretch my arm along the back of the bench and hit the plexiglass that separates our booth from the one behind me. I stare out the window and wonder if Meg and Richie are right and I'm overreacting. My stomach bottoms out every time I recall the billboard. I know what I saw, but I'm powerless. The smartest thing to do is nothing, be quiet.
"It's our VIP," comes a booming voice from across the restaurant.
Breanna scored the winning goal at last night's game, the one I missed. She jumps from the booth and meets a guy in a matching sweatshirt for a long, hard hug. I warm in my chest, jealous that the young can forget the rest of the world and carry on like they're all alone.
"That's DJ," says Meg. She takes a picture with her phone.
"Her boyfriend?" I stir my coffee to dissolve creamer grease spots and clink the sides of the mug. "I'd like to meet him." I take a sip and imagine shaking his hand and introducing myself as Breanna's father. Meg and Richie stare at me. I square my shoulders.
"DJ is gender neutral," Meg whispers. "They use they and them." She studies my face for something to read, and I do my damnest to give her nothing. I take another sip.
If I'd known, I would've used the correct pronoun. Some fathers say things privately to me like, 'I just don't get it,' or, 'glad it's not my child,' but I don't doubt the science, and I want to be an ally.
When I was Richie's Cub Scout leader, I was the one who insisted anyone can join, but no little girls were interested.
Breanna and her friends, her teammates, pose for a picture for someone's mom.
Meg laughs. "They're recreating the billboard."
DJ stands behind the group with a soccer ball like a goalie throwing it back into play. I'd been so obsessed with Breanna, I did not recognize DJ as one of the people on the billboard. DJ smiles with teeth, like they're caught in a laugh, and I wonder if they are smiling just as big on the billboard.
These guys—this time I know for sure; they look like my old, college buddies—elbow each other. The one with messy hair stands next to the mom and takes a picture with his phone.
He says something, I cannot really hear him, but I think he says, "Stand toe-to-toe."
I grind my teeth, hearing his voice over and over in my mind, deconstructing each moment, each sound, and each flex of time that blended the two together, until I'm sure.
"Did you hear him," I say just as the server drops off our plates of pancakes, French toasts, sausages, turkey bacon for Meg, and fried eggs.
"What?" Meg says, not really interested. She waves Breanna over.
People are making fun of her. My eggs taste metallic, like blood, and I recall a summer when I was a boy at my grandpa's farm. We gathered eggs from the henhouse and found a rooster eviscerating a baby rat with his beak. Grandpa laughed and said there was nothing left to do for the pup. It was best to let the rooster be. He was protecting the eggs.
I force myself to swallow the loose yolk.
Thursday, September 28th, 2020
7:42 p.m.
I speed south on I-95 with my fifteen-year-old son. He thumbs out a text to his sister Breanna, no doubt, who's probably already talked to their mom. That means Breanna knows about the fight, the one I'd picked with Meg in the hotel room. The highway lights sweep over the car and illuminate the glass-cleaner streaks left behind by a carwash employee at my dealership. He is not much older than Richie.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"That billboard."
"I already saw the damn thing."
Richie looks just like my dad. I place a hand on his shoulder, and he slouches in the seat.
The fight with Meg was about the weekly card game with the guys. Zeke showed up last time. Meg hates him; he looks over her head when they talk. Her rule is we cannot hang out unless she is there. I told Meg I sat next to him and we made plans to go hunting, but really I was across from him and laughed at the jokes about Hillary Clinton, which he still makes. They're not that funny. I voted for her. Zeke just makes me laugh.
On my way out of the hotel, I grabbed Richie and threatened grounding if he did not take the ride. I'd loaded the car with our bags for Parents' Weekend at Breanna's school and found his paintball gun left behind in the trunk. I slammed the hood when I heard Meg coming. She would've harped the whole ride that Richie never follows the rules.
"Why am I here?" Richie watches the billboard pass on the sidelines of the opposing lane.
"I need your help." I take the exit and swing left onto the street. "If you see it..." We're alone at the intersection, so I run the light and get back on the highway headed North. "Confirmation."
We approach the billboard and I slow to thirty-five. Breanna, dressed in her soccer uniform, stands front and center flanked by her teammates. The billboard reads, 'What Real Football Players Look Like.'
"Do you see it?" I point out the window.
"See what?"
I take the exit and tell him to hold on. We hop on North and drive the route back to the billboard. I tell him to look closely at her crotch.
"What! Why?"
"It's a matter of family honor." I slow down. "There! Do you see it?"
Richie looks at his shoes.
"She has a camel toe," I say it more shrilled than I intended and immediately regret it. I take a breath. "I get it. No brother wants to see that, but you've got to understand..."
"I don't want to be here anymore." He turns his back to me and presses his forehead against the window.
