My father, Dale, hits on P.J. Harvey at her rock show. Actually, it is a P.J. Harvey lookalike. There are dozens like her, wannabe rock stars wearing ankle boots with pin-sized heels. The others, boys with thrift shop tees over crisp oxfords, men like my dad whom everyone assumes is a roadie because he looks like he’s in a heavy metal band, and older women with scattered hair and dry lips, jostle to prove they’re up to it. I prefer the latter. They have a startled, somewhat embarrassed look, as if they tend to people’s vanity and ailments like a bikini-waxer or hospital attendant. Under cover, with the aid of protective gear. I think, these are the women my dad should be interested in, not the ones everyone else wants. I thought my dad was an original, but I am wrong.

"This is not New York," Dale tells me in his van. On its side is a sign that reads, "Daddy’s Little Girl Flooring." It’s alarming how many calls he gets out of this. He used to work with another guy, Greg, in Manhattan, but he died so I came to work with him. Now, if we’re refinishing, there’s usually a woman at the door who will say by way of greeting, "You must be Daddy’s Little Girl." I imagine people wondered who the little girl was when it was just my father and Greg.

"I know this isn’t New York," I say. "It’s been ages." I am fond of outdated expressions that make me feel madcap and carefree. He doesn’t mean we left New York a half-hour ago, and are well into the heart of New Jersey or Connecticut. He means, we left New York for good. We did, four years ago. After a year of doing floors together in New York, we moved the business to Fort Collins, Colorado. What Dale refers to is the traffic outside Denver, where we`re headed. We’re idling on I-25. Unlike some people who would’ve said, "