November 06, 2009
A talk with my boy
Originally published August 21, 2004
I called Quinton last night but got only the answering machine, as usual. I called again this morning and got the machine again. I left messages both times but never heard back from him and I didn't expect to.
But he called me about 30 minutes ago. I have not seen him since a brief visit on Father's Day. He told me that he STILL hasn't had a haircut and his locks are flowing past his shoulders now. "It's the STYLE, Daddy," he explained. I can't say much about his hair--- he's seen pictures of me from back in my guitar-playing days---and I had really long hair back then.
He also told me that he mows the lawn now. He's finally tall enough to reach the pedals and he weighs enough to keep his ass on the seat and satisfy the dead-man switch on the riding mower that Jennifer stole from me inherited in the divorce. I always told him that cutting the grass would be HIS job, not MINE, some fine day. It is now, and he is quite proud of himself.
He's going go-cart racing this afternoon. Bejus, but I wish I could watch that. I didn't even know that he could drive one, but he says now, "I have a need for speed, Daddy. And I haven't had a wreck yet. At least not a BAD one."
Jennifer can attempt to brainwash that boy to the best of her considerable abilities. But he's got a streak of ME in him that she can't erase.
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