I’m Doing Nothing Wrong

Myfather,Dale,hitsonP.J.Harveyatherrockshow.Actually,itisaP.J.Harveylookalike.Therearedozenslikeher,wannaberockstarswearinganklebootswithpin-sizedheels.Theothers,boyswiththriftshopteesovercrispoxfords,menlikemydadwhomeveryoneassumesisaroadiebecausehelookslikehe’sinaheavymetalband,andolderwomenwithscatteredhairanddrylips,jostletoprovethey’reuptoit.Ipreferthelatter.Theyhaveastartled,somewhatembarrassedlook,asiftheytendtopeople’svanityandailmentslikeabikini-waxerorhospitalattendant.Undercover,withtheaidofprotectivegear.Ithink,thesearethewomenmydadshouldbeinterestedin,nottheoneseveryoneelsewants.Ithoughtmydadwasanoriginal,butIamwrong.

"ThisisnotNewYork,"Daletellsmeinhisvan.Onitssideisasignthatreads,"Daddy’sLittleGirlFlooring."It’salarminghowmanycallshegetsoutofthis.Heusedtoworkwithanotherguy,Greg,inManhattan,buthediedsoIcametoworkwithhim.Now,ifwe’rerefinishing,there’susuallyawomanatthedoorwhowillsaybywayofgreeting,"YoumustbeDaddy’sLittleGirl."IimaginepeoplewonderedwhothelittlegirlwaswhenitwasjustmyfatherandGreg.

"Iknowthisisn’tNewYork,"Isay."It’sbeenages."Iamfondofoutdatedexpressionsthatmakemefeelmadcapandcarefree.Hedoesn’tmeanweleftNewYorkahalf-hourago,andarewellintotheheartofNewJerseyorConnecticut.Hemeans,weleftNewYorkforgood.Wedid,fouryearsago.AfterayearofdoingfloorstogetherinNewYork,wemovedthebusinesstoFortCollins,Colorado.WhatDalereferstoisthetrafficoutsideDenver,wherewereheaded.We’reidlingonI-25.Unlikesomepeoplewhowould’vesaid,"What’stheholdup,thisisn’tNewYork,"orifthey’rereallypissed,"Whatthehell,thisisn’tfuckingNewYork,"myfatherstatestheobviousasifhe’sunsureofit’sveracity.

MydadlovesP.J.HarveyasmuchashelovesFleetwoodMacandTheEagles.Headmitsitisodd,giventhefactthatmostparentsfindhermusictobejustalotofnoise,butsomethingaboutherspeakstohim.HeheardmyboyfriendLarryplayingheralbumToBringYouMyLovewhenhecametopickmeupforwork,andaskedifhecouldborrowit.LarrytriedtoconvincehimtotakeherfirstalbuminsteadbutDalewouldhavenoneofit.Thiswasacardinalsin.Larrybelievesinlisteningtomusicchronologically,fromthefirstalbumtothelast,always.Ihavequestionedhimonthisextensively.Whatifthefirstalbumsucks,andyourfavoriteisthemostrecent?Oryouhearasongontheradio,andgotobuytheCD,onlytofindthesongyourlookingforisonthesecond,orthird,orfourth?Whatthen?AccordingtoLarry,you’rescrewed.Youhavetostartfromthebeginning,everytime.Infact,thewholenotionof"favorite"isblasphemous.There’salargerpicturetosee.Hedoesn’tlistentotheradio,forthisreason.LarrygoesnutswhenhecomesacrossaGreatestHitscollection.Concertsareoutofthequestion,sincetheyreaGreatestHitscollectionwithampedupapplauseandbadfeedback.Hence,hisabsenceattonight’sshow.

"Youneedtodumpthatdumbass,"Daletellsme."He’sprobablygettingfrieswiththatshake,ifyouknowwhatI’mtalkingabout."NotevenP.J.Harveycanmakemyfatherhip,I’msadtosay.

Butweallhaveourmusicquirks.Itoleratealbumcoversthatfeaturethebandbyawarehousefar,farawaybecauseIhaveto.Asforsoloartists,I’venoticedthatmostwomenartistsIlikeareoftenontheground,playingdead,butdoneupglamorously,theymightaswellbeonasatinottoman.Theonlydifferenceisasmudgeofbloodandbruisearoundthelipandeye.Myfatherhasnothingbutcontemptformusicvideos,especiallyonesthatfeatureanartisttiedtoachairwithabunchof"thugs"aroundhim,whoendsupinapsychiatricward,unshaven,inadirtyrobe.

MyfatherhasneverlikedLarrybecausehewearsshortsallyearlong,andhasoneofthosejobsthatarehardtograspforpeoplewhodon’tdowhathedoes.Aftercarefulscrutiny,followedbyanafternoonoflightstalking,I’veonlybeenabletocomeupwiththis:heworksinalaboratory.Larrydoessmellantiseptic,withatraceofSweetn’Low.Thefirsttimewehadsex,Ithoughthehadacold,andwasoverdosingonthroatlozenges.

Itwasasadsmell,andaswewerehavingsex,Ivowedtostopseeinghim.

IchangedmymindmidwaythroughitwhenForeigner’s"FeelsLiketheFirstTime,"cameontheradio.Itdidtoo,andnotonlybecausewewereinmyHondainaparkinglot.ThetruthisthatIhadn’thadsexinayear,andthisoccasiondidn’tmakeupforlosttime.YouwouldthinkthecoincidencewouldhavesolidifiedmydecisiontobreakupwithLarry,butacatchytunethatbeliesadarkermeaningislikealighteningbolttopayattention.SoIdidn’t.

Attheshow,myfatherandItaketurnsgoingtothebar.Iwatchthecrowd,whichcanonlybedescribedasapanoramaofdéjàvu.Themusicsceneissmallhere,andpeopleappearandreappearnomatterwheretheyare.Tonightisarealhappening.Wefindagoodspotagainstthewall,totherightofthestage.It’simportanttobeontheright,sinceIlostsomeofmyhearinginthatearwhenIwaseleven.Mybestfriend,Gabe,triedtodrownmeatthepool.Ikickedhiminthestomachsohesmashedmyheadagainsttheconcrete.Theyevacuatedeveryonefromthepool,andthebloodinblueandwhiteremindedmeofarocketpopIhadbeforeIwentin.Afterward,everythingsoundedasifIwasunderwater.

IwasnevermadatGabeforwhathedid.Hewastryinghishandatbiggerthings,andwouldgobacktowhatheknewbest,torturingsmaller,defenselesscreatures.Ifigured,theworstisover,andinvitedhimtoasleepover.Aftersomepleading,mymomconsented.ShemadepopcornandRiceKrispietreatsbutrefusedanytohim.Hedidn’tcomplain.Outoffear,Iguess.Iwasterrifiedofmymother,whodivorcedmyfatherayearlater.

WhenLarry’spissedoff,he’lltalkinmybadear,ormovehislipsasifhe’sspeaking.ButIknowthere’snosoundcomingout.Ihavegottensousedtonotbeingabletohear,ittookmeawhiletorealizethatsometimesIcanhearlikeeveryoneelse.LikeP.J.Harvey,whoisfamousforwhisperingandgoingsoquietit’simpossibletounderstand.Shetreatshermusicasifit’sasecretshe’sreluctanttoshare.

Myfatherhandsmeabeerbeforetheshow,andturnshisattentiontotheplethoraofyoungwomenaroundhim.Doesn’theknowthismakesmeuncomfortable?Ofcoursealltheheteroboysaredoingthesame,andthegirlsgobywithgrimfacesandstiffnecks.Notseeingbutseeing.Theyoungestoneslaughtooloudly,andsprintdowntheaisles.Theboysfallforthisact,willingtoseemysterywherethereisnone.

"Dale,what’syours?"mydadshoutsovertheopeningact,apunkbandfromKansasCity.Thewomanisaboutmyage,withlowbreastsandtattoosupanddownherarms.Sheshakesmyfather’shand."Laura,"Ihearherscream.

"Thisismydaughter,Penelope."Heputshisarmaroundme,andsqueezes.Icanbeaprop.

"Nicetomeetyou."Herhandisstickyandcool.

"Thatissosweet,"shesaysandgivesmeasmileafiveyearoldwouldfindcondescending.Ioffertogotothebar.LauraordersaJackandcoke,myfatheranotherbeer.Hemakesabigdealofhandingmeatwenty.WhenIgetback,Dalegivesmeahalf-smilethatsreallyaquestion.Ipathisarm.Yes,Ianswer.Illgetlost.

P.J.Harveycomesoutinawhitepantssuit.Shestiny,buthasavoicethatdefieshersize.ImseveralrowsbehindDaleandLaura,andwatchthemheadbangtothemusic.Iwanttomoveaswell,butamsurroundedbyapassivebunch.Theyfeignthoughtfulattentivenessthroughcockedheadsandclosedeyes.DuringaballadIcanbarelydiscern,myfatherliftshisleftarmhighandsways,alighterpoisedinhishand.Thesingularflamehoversoverhiscompanionshead,threateningtocatchitonfire.

Lookingathim,unabashedasthesolelighterpossessorintheentireplace,Irealizeheshappy.WhenwefirstmovedtoFortCollins,weweresickfromthealtitude.Withthemountainssofarwest,wedidntthinkwewereupsohigh.Eachdaypresentedanewsymptom.Bloodynose,earache,vertigo.Myearsfeltfullandhollow,andIcouldnttellwhatwascloseorfaraway.Mydadhaddreamedoflivingoutwestallhislife,butbegantothinkhehadmadeamistake.Thewestmyfathersoughtdidnthavesuburbansprawl.Nevertheless,hehasthrivedbeneathitssunnydisposition,whereafternoonsarewarm,eveninwinter.

Aftertheshow,Iwaitformydadinfrontofthetheatre.Thesmellofsmokeiseverywhere.DaleandLaurawandertowardme,new-fangledandaffectionate.Theybegintowalkahead,intheoppositedirectionofwherewe’reparked.

"Thevanisthisway,Dad."Lauralaughs,alittleuneasily.Shegrabsmyfather’sshoulder.Theveinsinherhandsareprominent.ShesolderthanIthought.OnherarmisatattoooftheVirginMary,doneuplikeacowgirlandsurroundedbystars,withalassoinherrighthand.

"Yougoonwithoutme,"mydadsays.Ihearonewordofthis.Itis"oust."

"We’regoingthewrongway."Isay.Myfatherstops.Underthestreetlight,theybothlooksoft,withpinkskinandtranslucenthair.

"You’llbefine,Lope.I’llseeyoutomorrow."We’reanhourawayfromhome,andhaveasevena.m.appointmentinthemorning.Hemustbethinkingthesamething,becausehesays,"I’llcatchthebus."

IfIhadknownearlier,Iwouldn’thavehadsomuchtodrink."OK,"Isay.MyfatherhumsP.J.Harvey.Irecognizethesong,"YouSaidSomething,"whichalwaysmakesmemissNewYork.Igointoa7-Elevenforacoffeeandbottleofwater,tosoberup.IthinkofLarrywaitingathome,eyeingtheclockwhilelisteningtoKrisKristofferson.Atthislatehour,itsmostlikelyWhostoBlessandWhostoBlame.

Outside,Idrinkmycoffeeinthecoldair.IseemyfatherandLauracrossthestreet.Theirhandsarestuffedintotheirjeanpockets,andtheirpaceisbrisk,purposeful.Eventhoughhesblocksawayandmyearsareringing,Icanhearhimsing:

AndImdoingnothingwrong

Ridinginyourcar

Theradioplaying

Wesinguptotheeighthfloor

Drivinghomewiththewindowsdowntokeepmeawake,theshapeofthemountainsglowabovethecitylights.Inthefouryearswevebeenhere,wehaveyettovisitthem.Theyreasforeigntousasapicturepostcard.Beautiful,butnottobetrusted.