Some men are preceded by their reputations when they walk into a room, my dad is trailed by his. Not that this makes his command of a crowd any lesser a commodity but it does remove the luxury of time. Still, once the air of authority finally anchors, its spell is all but intractable. That's how he kept thirty years of listless west-side teenagers engaged in high school biology and managed to promote and cultivate one of the most progressive IT departments the Chicago Public Schools has ever seen. My dad is a force of nature, a silent, powerful maelstrom against the peaks.
As is usually the case when I cross him unexpectedly, my dad was in the process of debating a band of strangers. Unknowns flock to him, slowly at first, doe-like, but eventually, after convincing themselves that he's safe they'll jaunt forward and engage him in whatever was on their minds. This evening it was the Super Bowl, a topic my dad knows precious little about. Nevertheless, when I foundearlier this evening he was leaning against an iron banister in one of the airport's less opulent vestibules. Waxing dyspeptic over the Bears loss to the Panthers last week, he looked like a softer Geraldo Rivera.
"The defense just wasn't its usual self," he said, repeating the refrain every sports analyst north of St. Louis had been parroting ad neasueum.
But despite being out of his element he still looked comfortable. Reclining, he had unfastened the top button of his shirt and both his tie and long black overcoat stretched weakly towards the floor. The men around him couldn't have been much younger than he, yet they peered at him with a reverence usually withheld for tribal elders of some kind. Not this is not unusual, my dad has always had way of imposing veneration even when it was least warranted. Especially then. He bid his acolytes adieu as soon as he saw me coming.
I guess I should say here that my visit wasn't wholly unexpected; I was picking him up at the airport. Still, the plan was that I was to call once I'd arrived so that he could dart out and I wouldn't have to pay for parking. And I was going to do that but one of the policemen patrolling the ramps that truncate O'Hare's metallic façade told me I could illegally park for a moment and the idea of surprising my dad was too tempting to ignore. My dad, in lockstep with most former high school teachers, deals with surprise the way most of us deal with a fly in our soup: clumsily. He's a constant planner but for some reason feels a strong rush of vindication when things don't go according to plan—another trait I believe unique unto high school biology teachers.
"What's wrong," he said after a quick handshake. "Is there a problem with the car?"
I hoisted his luggage over my shoulder and assured him there wasn't. He nodded sharply, saying nothing. Nodding is my dad's way of saying "I trust you," and I had brief impulse to follow suit. Nonverbal communication has always been the easiest mode of communication between men but it obfuscates as often as it clarifies and I wasn't willing to risk being misconstrued in a crowded airport terminal. Instead, I murmured a vague, "let's go," and trudged through the crowds like sap through bark.
Still, the declaration, wobbly as it was, helped ease us into a state of connectivity rare amongst the normally taciturn. It was if I'd eked out secrets of a discreet communicatory code that instantly turned Mandarin letters into solid Roman numerals. We chatted casually from the moment we got in the car until the directly after the Nagel exit on the expressway.
The night had grown thick by then. Furry. It was well after nine and temperatures had dipped into the very low thirties. Driving slow enough to crack the window, my dad gazed fixedly though the wind stream. His tie hung lower against this chest and his rings were removed yet it made him look even more distinguished. At a red light, I studied myself in the rearview. One of the women at Supercuts asked me if I was still high school the other day. Maybe one day I'll take that as a compliment, but right now all it does it make me wonder if a reputation for authority will ever follow me. Skinny me. Squeaky voiced, baby-faced me. We drove for a while contemplating where our reputations have found us.
"They offered me a position in Philly," my dad said finally. He works as a consultant for the Philadelphia Public Schools. "But I'm not going to take it."
I could tell this was something he'd considered thoroughly because his voice was harsh and raspy with sharp, midwestern overtones drowning sounds in pools of serenity. I knew he would never accept anything full time out there so his announcement was more a matter of fact than anything else. I asked him why, though, out of courtesy. He rolled the window down further an explained the things I already knew. After that all was silent.
He rolled the window down further. Neither of us was cold.
I congratulated him and he thanked me. Then we spoke of world events. Alito, the Canadian elections, Iran. Nothing earthshaking. Everything earthshaking. Talk fed the power rushing through us, propelling us forward like a comedian with brand new material. My dad even took out the Philadelphia Inquirer he purchased at the hotel. I wanted to compare it to our Chicago papers, so he brought it back on my account.
He outlined a few articles, and went on irrelevantly, "they pile these papers on the floor at the hotel. Makes the lobby look unseemly."
And that's when my dad's reputation emerged from somewhere in the back seat. Suddenly, he was an authority. I had to know what he had to say and I had to know then. A man in control. A man who understands. Rational. Reasonable. An independent voter. The specter of his reputation followed us home. It lingered long after we trudged through the heavy Chicago snowfall and placed his luggage on the floor beside his bed.
It lingered as I read the paper, heavy over coffee and toast at the Golden Nugget. It lingered at the bar where I met a friend for scotch and a few games of pool. It lingers still, a giant amongst the elves. Even as I type this I wonder when it will eventually press on. I glare at the empty page and ask for my reputation.
But the page can't give it, it doesn't have a clue. Tt might find out some day, though. And when it does it'll bring atoms from both perception and reality and allay them with the things about myself I know exist. It might be all wrong; a cheaters chance at consequence perhaps, but it would still mean something real against the crushing waves of anonymity. It probably will be all wrong but such is the price we pay for seeking ourselves. Because while the search may be unlimited, recognition is finite to the extreme.
"Are you cold?" My dad asked after pulling away from one oppressively long red light.
"No, I'm fine," I said. Satisfied, he turned away.
