After the show, I wait for my dad in front of the theatre. The smell of smoke is everywhere. Dale and Laura wander toward me, new-fangled and affectionate. They begin to walk ahead, in the opposite direction of where we’re parked.
"The van is this way, Dad." Laura laughs, a little uneasily. She grabs my father’s shoulder. The veins in her hands are prominent. She`s older than I thought. On her arm is a tattoo of the Virgin Mary, done up like a cowgirl and surrounded by stars, with a lasso in her right hand.
"You go on without me," my dad says. I hear one word of this. It is "oust."
"We’re going the wrong way." I say. My father stops. Under the streetlight, they both look soft, with pink skin and translucent hair.
"You’ll be fine, Lope. I’ll see you tomorrow." We’re an hour away from home, and have a seven a.m. appointment in the morning. He must be thinking the same thing, because he says, "I’ll catch the bus."
If I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink. "OK," I say. My father hums P.J. Harvey. I recognize the song, "You Said Something," which always makes me miss New York. I go into a 7-Eleven for a coffee and bottle of water, to sober up. I think of Larry waiting at home, eyeing the clock while listening to Kris Kristofferson. At this late hour, it`s most likely Who`s to Bless and Who`s to Blame.
Outside, I drink my coffee in the cold air. I see my father and Laura cross the street. Their hands are stuffed into their jean pockets, and their pace is brisk, purposeful. Even though he`s blocks away and my ears are ringing, I can hear him sing:
And I`m doing nothing wrong
Riding in your car
The radio playing
We sing up to the eighth floor
Driving home with the windows down to keep me awake, the shape of the mountains glow above the city lights. In the four years we`ve been here, we have yet to visit them. They`re as foreign to us as a picture postcard. Beautiful, but not to be trusted.