“What do you mean you’re still a virgin?” my father asked with a mouth full of hard, crumbling cheese and sitting above a colony of broken breadcrumbs on his wine-stained table throw he’d had for years.

Before he ate, he always threw the dirty cloth down as some sort of food-related ceremony or act of decorum. It was a delicate piece of fabric and embroidered with flowers. It was as if this single gesture would signal his manner as being the person of high regard that he was in his own mind, instead of the brutish ex-con with a bad temper and poor handle on language that I knew.

“Well, I’m still young. I don’t know what to say,” I replied through the listless haze of dust floating between us. Watching my father eat used to demolish my appetite, so I instead focused on things like the amber light in his Harlem apartment or the collection of religious iconography sitting on shelves where books should be.
“When I was your age, I had tons of women. Well, girls, But women, too,” he replied.

“Well you and I are basically the same person, as we know.” The sarcasm was my tool in most conversations. I knew that he struggled to parse through tone, being that English was a second language for him. So derision became a way to abate his madness. But I think that even if my father had a complete understanding of all of English’s complexities, that he still wouldn’t have engaged with the irony. My father’s ego was like an impenetrably thick membrane that filtered out clever insecurity.

“We are the same person. One day you’ll realize that,” he said, this time making his way to the kitchen to retrieve some brandy.

“I don’t think so,” I defended. Sitting down at his table, I looked up to a figure towering above a discounted stove, powerfully framed by the galley and poised to cut more bread.

“I know everything you’re going to do before you do it. And more than that, I know why. You understand what I’m saying? Every fucking thought you have is also mine. You know why? Because you’re my son and I’m your father.That’s the way it works. As God as my witness. That’s the way it works. So when I tell you that you should be with more women by now it’s because I was.”

“Well, I just haven’t been. I’m focused on school and painting. Women are a distraction.”

“You don’t know distraction my friend. Ask your mother how she distracted me from building my empire. Focus on school, but focus on everything at once, too.”
I adjusted in my chair and thought about the God he believed in and the power my father was convinced he had. The din of a siren rang outside onLenox Avenue and I watched the shadows of life pass through his old golden curtains in the living room.

“Well, I can figure it out for myself.”

“Do you want me to get you a prostitute?” he replied. His thick accent made the words sound funny to me and the humor helped to soften the blow of the offer. Did I really need my father in this way? To spoon-feed what should be my imperative? Why aren’t I craving the opportunity to feast on the opposite sex? When willGod help me get laid?

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“It’s not a problem. I can organize this for you. It’s important just to get it out of the way so you can be more relaxed. You have a lot of pressure, man. You’re like, very tense.” A bit of brandy was collecting on the side of mouth. With a smooth gesture, he attacked it with the outside of his hand, the thick black hair now glistening with its residue. Just outside the straps of the white tank, my name was tattooed on his shoulder. This, a remnant from time in prison. I watched myself in that arm that wiped the brandy and cut the bread and pointed to the Gods above the yellowed drop ceiling. Behind me, the painted Easter eggs, surviving the summer of unbearable humidity and my father’s fear of air conditioning, collected more dust and took the place of my copy of The Wasteland.

“So do you want me to set this up for you? It’s very safe. It’s not like the movies or some old New York shit. We can hire a good one. A clean one without drugs or anything like that.”

“Sure,” I said, knowing the sarcasm wouldn’t penetrate.