The wind picked up and Sal raised his hood and scurried across the intersection. March, typical March weather on 17th Street, he murmured. Wind from the North and west. Crossing over Delores Street, he quickened his pace. A man with his child straddled upon his shoulders, rounded the corner.
“When are we going to eat the Burrito, Daddy”
“As soon as we get home. You hungry?”
“Yes, Daddy.” The little girl with only her back to Sal patted her father’s head.
He held onto her leg walking in tennis shoes that had seen better days; the heels worn on the left; and his jeans had known the passing of time.
Sal was about ten paces behind, but delighted with the conversation. It was far better than the one in his head. (You spend too much money, It’s your fault, Sal. Did you really need to have so many massages this year, socks, more socks, shoes–three jackets. He was disillusioned by the taxes he owed and the savings that would soon be diminished by a few grand and some change).
“Daddy when am I going back to school?
“Tomorrow, when you wake up. Your friends are already excited to see you. They love you. You’re a leader.”
He was sure of himself and certain of her—something Sal wasn’t given but had worked for.
“Oh, that isn’t too far away now is it, Daddy? There was delight like a lollipop audible in her voice.”
“No. Not at all.”
“What are you going to do tonight?
“Help your mom with the laundry.”
“Read me a story, Daddy?’
“Don’t I always?”
Impressed and uplifted, Sal walked on. What a gem. Lucky girl. He really talks to her. He slid his hand in his jacket pocket.
Gaining speed, Sal wanted to pass them but not startle. “On your left,” he said and gingerly stepped around them and cocked his head like a crow. The good father with the slightly graying hair, a day-old beard and solid brown glasses cocked back.
“What a great Dad you are.” Sal raised his head–the clouds, above him, stretched like puzzle pieces, with a gentle crimson hue announcing the coming of dusk. Sal slowed his pace and met Papa’s eyes,
“That’s so nice of you. I don’t know how many years of piggy back riding I have in me.”
“You’re doing pretty well and the way you talk to her is impressive—really–I don’t hear that a lot–touching actually.”
“Oh, so nice to say. Say hello to the man, Sally.”
“Hello Mr.” Her voice was high–her hair subtly wavy.
Sal turned slightly, “Enjoy your Burrito little one.”
“Thank you,” she flapped her hand; “Good bye. Good bye.”
Her father’s voice, almost buoyant, blew forward in the wind; “Isn’t it nice when people say kind things.”
“Yes, Daddy, very nice.”
“He noticed us.”
“I know Daddy.”
Without looking back Sal waved. What a gift. Pivoting slightly, he hesitated at the corner now all up in his head. You know what my dad told me once, Sally? You kids are all fucked up. Then he took off for good. That could mess a kid up, you know, Pops. Without uttering the words, Sal zipped up his jacket, lit a cigarette and turned the corner.
Andrew has been writing in multiple genres for many years and grateful for some wonderful mentors. He published an anthology of works from The Intergenerational Writers in San Francisco with whom he still participates, By trade, Andrew is a psychotherapist and graduate educator.
