"Is Mr. Shamus there." I blurted out.
"Who may I say is calling?"
I didn't know how to answer that. I could have said that this was the son he left behind to fend for himself while he was busy screwing you. Or this is his queer son whom he left behind to be bullied by all the neighborhood kids during the day and to be made pure at night by a God-fearing alcoholic mother.
"This is Greg." was what I ended up saying.
There was silence for a moment.
"Oh," she finally said, putting down the phone to go and get my father.
Suddenly I wasn't sure why I called because I hadn't seen him in twenty-two years.
It's not like my life hasnāt been fulfilling. I'm in a relationship with a man I care about, I have friends who like me for who I am, and I really don't need a father anymore -- because I can take care of myself.
I was about to hang up when I heard the receiver pick up. "Greg."
His voice sounded just like I remembered. Strong with just a hint of used car salesman.
His voice did sound the same. Only older. "Greg is that you, son?"
I couldn't speak. It was as if someone had ripped out my vocal cords. I tried to speak and all that came was air.
"Son," he pleaded. "Please talk to me."
I could hear the strength in his voice begin to break and I still couldn't talk.
"I love you, Greg," I heard the emotion well up in those words. "I missed you... Buster Brown."
With the nickname he gave me came my tears.
"Hi, Dad."
We talked for two hours. I finally had to hang up because I had to get to work at the Jack of Hearts.
We agreed to meet for lunch soon.
The sex club was particularly busy that night. A lot of buff dudes and our usual swarmy mixture of regulars.
I wonder what Dad would think of me working at the Jack of Hearts? He'd probably think it's some kind of boutique.
In a way, he'd be right. Richard said I was "out of it" it that night. I had my family on the brain while I men were having sex with each other all night long.
Who wouldn't be out of it?
