Listening to the Radio and Talking About Girls

We listened to the radio and talked about girls. Really, my dad didn't talk about girls so much as he listened. I rambled. He would ask a few questions, nod his head and pay close attention to me -- but this time was mainly about me and bonding and CCR. We would go out, my dad and I, every Friday after school and just drive. Inevitably, we would end up at Foster's Freeze for dipped cones and he would get the guy at the counter to double dip for me. We would sit on top of the bench-tables -- butts on the table-tops and feet on the benches -- while the ice cream melted under the chocolate and ran down our hands.

"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.

"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.

"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"

"Yep."

"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.

We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"

This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.

Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:

"What are you so happy about?"

"Nothing, ma. Nothing."