Joe's Father (Hookfoot)
Alright I'm gonna be honest; this is my first ever post of any kind on SV or a forum style site like SB so I'm not sure how this works or what the setup is supposed to be. That being said, I left a review asking where to post an Omake of a scene I'd written a few months back and Roust very kindly PM'd me back saying this was the best place. With all that said; here goes nothing. And if there's any way I can do this better, whether that be formatting or there needs to be a certain time where it's posted, please let me know and I'll do my best to improve.
I'm not sure what to write here, other than the idle thoughts I haven't felt free to express in a long time.
I suppose I'll introduce myself.
My name is Jozef Slawomir Duris. My parents emigrated here to America when I was a boy, young enough that all I really remember is the small smile on the enormous green statue towering over our boat.
I married soon after my wife graduated college; funded primarily by money sent from relatives and the calluses on my and Groomsmen's hands.
I have three children, two daughters, one son.
…
This journal is supposed to be for thoughts I haven't felt free to say aloud. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Sometimes I think my wife only has two children. Our daughters.
My tiny office at my shop has pictures of the family as a whole. There's Alena's beaming grin up at the camera at a block party; Natalia's laughing face sticking out from a pile of leaves in our front yard.
My wife's open joy on our first anniversary and the picture of her face pinched in horrified laughter smeared with wedding cake as two of my Groomsmen fight in the background.
And the quiet, reserved smile on my son Jozef's face at his high school graduation.
There's a picture of us around my Late Mother which sits on my desk, and Jozef's smile perfectly matches hers in bearing.
Although sometimes I can't remember what exactly my son's smile looks like.
My fellow Mechanics have called me Joe since the day I arrived; so Jozef has always meant my son.
My shining son; my boy.
My wife has always said she didn't care that she had a son, but I've always suspected otherwise.
She dotes on our youngest and admires our oldest, but Jozef has never had either her support or her pride.
I…
I miss my son.
My wife drove my boy away, my daughter tore out his heart; and I sat there like a stump.
Like a fool.
I stare at my lunch like it might kill me. One of the many loving meals my wife has packed every day I've worked these long years; but today I can't eat.
I move my gaze to the phone sat next to it, and before I can stop myself I've punched in the number.
I sit back and barely breathe as the dial tones ring.
"Hello?" The voice is lower than I remember, raspy with tiredness. Not sleep, like I've woken him up; but exhaustion like a working man feels.
"I'm sorry, Jozef." I blurt, almost feeling like I could cry.
There's a long pause, as we both sit stunned at the words.
"Dad? Is this your work phone?" I nod, then grunt an affirmation when I realize he can't see it. We've almost never spoken over the phone, always after school or in person when he'd leave campus and share lunch with me here at the shop.
"Yes, I wasn't sure you would pick up if I called on my cell. I…"
He grunted, just like my father used to. Short but not harsh.
"Yeah. I know you're sorry, I do." He says, and the weight I've been carrying falls off me. "But…"
He stops speaking; but I know what he wants to say.
"But your mother isn't. I'm sorry, my son; that I haven't been braver. I've been a fool to let her treat you as she has."
The silence is longer this time.
"Why did you?" There's something about his tone, shaky and… vulnerable. I know what I say next could hurt my son; but honesty is where we both do best.
"I'm a coward, son." I admit, clenching my desk with my free hand. "I've been afraid of your mother for a long time."
Something in his voice turns painfully firm; the same firmness I used to have.
The zest for life and conviction that drew the young, upcoming powerhouse of a Lawyer that was my wife to a poor immigrant.
"Has she hurt you?" The tone is a growl, nearly a snarl.
"Not physically. But if she knew how I thought, she might do even worse."
"What do you mean?"
"I may be a coward; but I still have the audacity to know I have three children."
Air punches out of my son's lungs, not a sigh or a hum, but a sound like I've hit him in the gut.
"And she doesn't. I know."
"I'm sorry, Jozef." It's only when my voice shakes and the tear hits my hand that I realize I'm crying.
He picks up on it immediately; still the same darling little boy I picked up and held to stop him rushing onto the street to soothe the crying stranger on the other side until the car passed.
"Are you… crying, Dad?"
"Yes." It comes out in a gasp, as my eyes burn. "I'm so sorry, my little one. I don't know where it all went wrong." I hear a chair creak.
"Stay where you are. I'm bringing you lunch." I hear fabric rustle like he's throwing on a coat, and a door opens. "I'll be there soon."
"Okay." I croak, and the dial tone sings a dull note to me as I bow my head into my hands and weep.
I haven't had Giovanni's meatball sub since last year at the least, since the last time my son ate here at the shop. It's greasy and cheesy and the sesame seeds on the roll stick in my mustache and it's so much better than the healthy food I brought here in the tin lunchbox.
My son sits across from me, chewing on his food and chewing over his thoughts.
Neither of us have said a word; he'd appeared as if by magic in front of me when my eyes were still blurry with tears and had handed me a handkerchief to wipe them away.
We ate in silence, until the first half is cleared away.
"You look… well." It comes out awkward and stilted, but he shares the tiny smile that echoes the picture of the boy on the wall behind him and nods.
"Better than I have been." He says, and the first sign I have of my pride being visible is the way he sits up a little straighter.
"Good." I clear my throat. "That's really good, son. I would say I know what you were feeling when you left; but I didn't keep as good an understanding of who you were becoming when you were still at the house. All I remember from that night is how upset you looked." He chewed his cheesesteak and stared a little vacantly at the wall behind me after giving a small nod.
"Did you hear from Alena?" I shake my head.
"No, your mother relayed to me that you had a new job, and that you weren't planning on returning." I scan him up and down, understanding immediately how fine the fabric is on his work pants, the sturdy leather of his mud-sprayed boots and biker's jacket. There's a heavy silver belt buckle that I can see even from here is antique and very intricately engraved. Expensive. "You seem to be doing very well, emotionally and financially." He nods, with the ghost of a smug smirk playing around his lips.
"Better than Natalia." He chuffs a laugh and I find myself joining it, missing the light and free teasing banter my son had always perfected.
"I'm glad son. I'm proud of you." He smiles and we keep eating.
Jozef doesn't leave until just before sundown, when the Junior Manager, Mark, peeks his head in to ask if I'm good to close. We stare in shock at the clock and Mark shoots a wink to Jozef, and I find myself with the immediate thought that everyone I employ needs a raise for handling their jobs without me, simply so I could enjoy my time with my son.
Mark chuckles as we stand and mirror each other by rubbing the backs of our necks sheepishly, but Jozef's posture is so much stronger than even I've ever managed and he seems so much taller that it feels a little less like a mirror and a little more like I'm the child here.
"Well, I should get back home. And Dad, if you want to call me again, you can use your cell. I'll always pick up for you." Before I've even considered the ghost of a thought I've pulled him into a hug, squeezing with everything I have. My voice is hoarse when I speak.
"I love you so much, my dear boy." He doesn't just pause; he freezes, and I can do nothing but hold tightly until he winds his arms around me and hugs me back with crushing force.
"I love you too Dad." He says, and my heart skips.
It's a broken whimper of a thought, dazed with the realization: 'Oh, I had forgotten how I missed him calling me that. Nearly a year without my son.'
We break apart and I lead him out, locking the doors behind me. Parked in the little lot between the spaces left unoccupied by cars awaiting repairs is my car, kept running and well-washed; and a gleaming blue and silver motorcycle with a helmet sitting on the seat. He swings astride the bike with an ease I've never seen outside of an actor in a movie, and seals the helmet over his head.
The engine, a beautiful purr I can't even put words to, rumbles to life and he drives away with a wave and a nod. I nod back, and it's only when the final sesame seed stuck in my mustache falls onto my teeth that I realize my jaw is slacker than a broken fan belt.
I'm not sure what to write here, other than the idle thoughts I haven't felt free to express in a long time.
I suppose I'll introduce myself.
My name is Jozef Slawomir Duris. My parents emigrated here to America when I was a boy, young enough that all I really remember is the small smile on the enormous green statue towering over our boat.
I married soon after my wife graduated college; funded primarily by money sent from relatives and the calluses on my and Groomsmen's hands.
I have three children, two daughters, one son.
…
This journal is supposed to be for thoughts I haven't felt free to say aloud. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Sometimes I think my wife only has two children. Our daughters.
My tiny office at my shop has pictures of the family as a whole. There's Alena's beaming grin up at the camera at a block party; Natalia's laughing face sticking out from a pile of leaves in our front yard.
My wife's open joy on our first anniversary and the picture of her face pinched in horrified laughter smeared with wedding cake as two of my Groomsmen fight in the background.
And the quiet, reserved smile on my son Jozef's face at his high school graduation.
There's a picture of us around my Late Mother which sits on my desk, and Jozef's smile perfectly matches hers in bearing.
Although sometimes I can't remember what exactly my son's smile looks like.
My fellow Mechanics have called me Joe since the day I arrived; so Jozef has always meant my son.
My shining son; my boy.
My wife has always said she didn't care that she had a son, but I've always suspected otherwise.
She dotes on our youngest and admires our oldest, but Jozef has never had either her support or her pride.
I…
I miss my son.
My wife drove my boy away, my daughter tore out his heart; and I sat there like a stump.
Like a fool.
I stare at my lunch like it might kill me. One of the many loving meals my wife has packed every day I've worked these long years; but today I can't eat.
I move my gaze to the phone sat next to it, and before I can stop myself I've punched in the number.
I sit back and barely breathe as the dial tones ring.
"Hello?" The voice is lower than I remember, raspy with tiredness. Not sleep, like I've woken him up; but exhaustion like a working man feels.
"I'm sorry, Jozef." I blurt, almost feeling like I could cry.
There's a long pause, as we both sit stunned at the words.
"Dad? Is this your work phone?" I nod, then grunt an affirmation when I realize he can't see it. We've almost never spoken over the phone, always after school or in person when he'd leave campus and share lunch with me here at the shop.
"Yes, I wasn't sure you would pick up if I called on my cell. I…"
He grunted, just like my father used to. Short but not harsh.
"Yeah. I know you're sorry, I do." He says, and the weight I've been carrying falls off me. "But…"
He stops speaking; but I know what he wants to say.
"But your mother isn't. I'm sorry, my son; that I haven't been braver. I've been a fool to let her treat you as she has."
The silence is longer this time.
"Why did you?" There's something about his tone, shaky and… vulnerable. I know what I say next could hurt my son; but honesty is where we both do best.
"I'm a coward, son." I admit, clenching my desk with my free hand. "I've been afraid of your mother for a long time."
Something in his voice turns painfully firm; the same firmness I used to have.
The zest for life and conviction that drew the young, upcoming powerhouse of a Lawyer that was my wife to a poor immigrant.
"Has she hurt you?" The tone is a growl, nearly a snarl.
"Not physically. But if she knew how I thought, she might do even worse."
"What do you mean?"
"I may be a coward; but I still have the audacity to know I have three children."
Air punches out of my son's lungs, not a sigh or a hum, but a sound like I've hit him in the gut.
"And she doesn't. I know."
"I'm sorry, Jozef." It's only when my voice shakes and the tear hits my hand that I realize I'm crying.
He picks up on it immediately; still the same darling little boy I picked up and held to stop him rushing onto the street to soothe the crying stranger on the other side until the car passed.
"Are you… crying, Dad?"
"Yes." It comes out in a gasp, as my eyes burn. "I'm so sorry, my little one. I don't know where it all went wrong." I hear a chair creak.
"Stay where you are. I'm bringing you lunch." I hear fabric rustle like he's throwing on a coat, and a door opens. "I'll be there soon."
"Okay." I croak, and the dial tone sings a dull note to me as I bow my head into my hands and weep.
I haven't had Giovanni's meatball sub since last year at the least, since the last time my son ate here at the shop. It's greasy and cheesy and the sesame seeds on the roll stick in my mustache and it's so much better than the healthy food I brought here in the tin lunchbox.
My son sits across from me, chewing on his food and chewing over his thoughts.
Neither of us have said a word; he'd appeared as if by magic in front of me when my eyes were still blurry with tears and had handed me a handkerchief to wipe them away.
We ate in silence, until the first half is cleared away.
"You look… well." It comes out awkward and stilted, but he shares the tiny smile that echoes the picture of the boy on the wall behind him and nods.
"Better than I have been." He says, and the first sign I have of my pride being visible is the way he sits up a little straighter.
"Good." I clear my throat. "That's really good, son. I would say I know what you were feeling when you left; but I didn't keep as good an understanding of who you were becoming when you were still at the house. All I remember from that night is how upset you looked." He chewed his cheesesteak and stared a little vacantly at the wall behind me after giving a small nod.
"Did you hear from Alena?" I shake my head.
"No, your mother relayed to me that you had a new job, and that you weren't planning on returning." I scan him up and down, understanding immediately how fine the fabric is on his work pants, the sturdy leather of his mud-sprayed boots and biker's jacket. There's a heavy silver belt buckle that I can see even from here is antique and very intricately engraved. Expensive. "You seem to be doing very well, emotionally and financially." He nods, with the ghost of a smug smirk playing around his lips.
"Better than Natalia." He chuffs a laugh and I find myself joining it, missing the light and free teasing banter my son had always perfected.
"I'm glad son. I'm proud of you." He smiles and we keep eating.
Jozef doesn't leave until just before sundown, when the Junior Manager, Mark, peeks his head in to ask if I'm good to close. We stare in shock at the clock and Mark shoots a wink to Jozef, and I find myself with the immediate thought that everyone I employ needs a raise for handling their jobs without me, simply so I could enjoy my time with my son.
Mark chuckles as we stand and mirror each other by rubbing the backs of our necks sheepishly, but Jozef's posture is so much stronger than even I've ever managed and he seems so much taller that it feels a little less like a mirror and a little more like I'm the child here.
"Well, I should get back home. And Dad, if you want to call me again, you can use your cell. I'll always pick up for you." Before I've even considered the ghost of a thought I've pulled him into a hug, squeezing with everything I have. My voice is hoarse when I speak.
"I love you so much, my dear boy." He doesn't just pause; he freezes, and I can do nothing but hold tightly until he winds his arms around me and hugs me back with crushing force.
"I love you too Dad." He says, and my heart skips.
It's a broken whimper of a thought, dazed with the realization: 'Oh, I had forgotten how I missed him calling me that. Nearly a year without my son.'
We break apart and I lead him out, locking the doors behind me. Parked in the little lot between the spaces left unoccupied by cars awaiting repairs is my car, kept running and well-washed; and a gleaming blue and silver motorcycle with a helmet sitting on the seat. He swings astride the bike with an ease I've never seen outside of an actor in a movie, and seals the helmet over his head.
The engine, a beautiful purr I can't even put words to, rumbles to life and he drives away with a wave and a nod. I nod back, and it's only when the final sesame seed stuck in my mustache falls onto my teeth that I realize my jaw is slacker than a broken fan belt.
