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“Well, Livy, it was a long time ago. Must’ve been ’83, ’84. We were still in El Paso.” So it was before I was born. Makes sense. “Look at those pants.” Artie covers his mouth, and his cocoa-brown eyes grow misty. I may have lost my dad but he lost his best friend. If Imani died, I think I’d be misty-eyed too. “We were so young back then.” Then my super tough, auto mechanic uncle wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
See, all bark.
I let him have a moment to take it in. At the same time, I’m ravenous for the details. “So what’s the story?”
“Well, he loved stand-up. Just like you. When we were kids, we worked at the nightclub sometimes. This place, The Hoot. Setting up band equipment. A lot of low-key music—jazz, R and B, that kinda thing.”
“So then what?”
“Then they started booking stand-ups and one day he decided to go onstage. He didn’t really know what he was doing so he’d mimic other comics with his own material. Sometimes he was like Cheech Marin and sometimes he was like Steve Martin and sometimes he was like Eddie Murphy. He never really found his own style.”
I laugh, easily able to imagine him putting on a show in a Marin, Martin, or Murphy flavor. “Is that why he stopped?”
Artie hands the photo back to me. “I don’t know. I think once your mom got pregnant with you, it got harder and harder for him to do things like that.”
Knowing her, I’m sure she ditched us both any chance she got. I let this sink in. “So he gave up his dream because of me? Do you think that’s why he never told me about it?”
“Who knows, mija? Only he could really say. But knowing him, I think he was okay with growing up to take care of you and just being a fan of good comedy.”
That sounds familiar but it still doesn’t add up.
“I just don’t get it. How could he discourage me from stand-up when he himself did it? I mean, what a hypocrite. Then he leaves the evidence for me to find like he’s playing some mystery game that I can never solve. It’s not fair!” I have half a mind to tear up the photo, forget I ever saw it, forget everything he said about stand-up, and move on.
Artie exhales a heavy sigh. “You’re right. It’s not fair. And you have every right to be angry. But your dad, well, he didn’t know anything about raising a daughter by himself. He just had to figure it out. At the shop, he’d always say to me, ‘If I can just get her through this next year, it’ll be okay.’ He never knew if he was doing the right thing but he did his best. And when you went away to UT, he was so proud of you. Like he knew you were gonna be okay. But when he found out you were doing comedy, it scared the living shit out of him.”
“Really? He said that?” I ask.
“In so many words, yeah. I dunno, maybe on some level he knew he wouldn’t always be there to take care of you if you needed it and he wanted to make sure you could take care of yourself.”
Something about his words rings true, but the truth is, we’ll never really know how he felt. Or what he wanted me to take from finding the photo. I lower my head, wishing that somehow I could have a little more time with my dad to ask these questions and so many others. “If only I could talk to him, you know. There’s so much I want to know.”
“Then talk to him,” he says, making the idea sound so easy. But it’s not, even if all I have to do is say things out loud. “There is one thing I do know for sure.”
“What?” I ask.
“He loved you no matter what. And speaking as a father myself, the rest doesn’t really matter as long as you’re happy.”
Who knows if my dad would share his sentiments exactly but it’s nice to think he might. After all, I don’t think I’d choose anyone over stand-up but he chose me. How can I be angry about that?
“Thanks, Tío,” I say, relieved to have some questions answered. “You still have his records, don’t you?”
“Right where you left ’em.”
—
Artie and I retire to our respective rooms, careful not to wake Nick—assuming he’s even asleep with both eyes closed. The poor guy must be exhausted. I creep over to the guest room closet and crack open the door, quiet as a country mouse. There it is. The box of my dad’s vinyls. Then, I hear someone slinking down the hallway. It’s Nick coming out of the bathroom. “Psst,” I hiss, waving him into my room.
“What’s up?” he whispers.
“C’mere, I want to show you something.” I shut the door and lift the top of the storage box, inviting him to sit on the floor next to me.
“What’s this?”
“These are all my dad’s records.” I begin pulling them out one by one. “George Carlin. Richard Pryor. Rodney Dangerfield. Redd Foxx.”
Nick holds each of them like priceless artifacts of the past. “These belonged to your old man?”
“Yeah.”
