Working Up

by Dwayne Phillips

It was the spring of 2006. I had been in California visiting the Contractor for several days. I flew home on Friday, caught the usual cab, and walked into an empty house.

Adam, my youngest son, was playing in the high school jazz band. He was playing bass while his friend Arash was playing guitar. The South Lakes band was playing in a multiple-day band appearance in South Carolina. Karen, my wife, had driven down with Adam and Arash and they had spent several days there. They would return on Saturday evening.

Nathan, my second son, was somewhere. He usually did things with his friends on Friday afternoon. He worked at Champps on Friday evening with his shift beginning around 5 or 6 PM.

As usual for returning from a trip, I had a lot of work to do. Given the weekend schedule, I had decided to work my extra hours on Friday night. I was on the California time zone, so I felt I could work to 9 or 10 PM without becoming too tired to know what I was doing.

I decided to go to Champps for dinner at 5. Nathan would probably show up there while I was there. It would be the first chance of seeing him all week.

I walked into Champps and was escorted to the perfect seat for the evening. It was on the upper level closest to the kitchen. I sat and ordered a hamburger, fries, and soft drink. Not very original, but I wanted some beef and potatoes.

I sat, ate, and looked for my son Nathan. He wasn’t around. I wasn’t sure when he was supposed to arrive for his shift. Maybe he wasn’t to work this Friday evening. I could have been mistaken about his work schedule. I ate and waited.

Nathan walked into the kitchen area from a back or side door. I was happy to see him, but he didn’t notice me yet. I was also happy to see that he was happy to be at work. He greeted his co-workers with a smile and laugh, and they greeted him in a like manner.

As far as I could tell, Nathan didn’t notice me sitting in the area eating dinner. He served himself a bowl of soup – the one thing they could eat without charge – and went somewhere that I could not see him.

I returned to eating my dinner. My gaze went down to my food for a few moments and so did my thoughts. The next thing I knew Nathan was at my table, pulling out a chair, and sitting down with his bowl of soup.

My 19-year-old son, right in front of all his co-workers, had found me in a crowd and sat down to eat dinner with me.

This was the best dinner of my life.

I once wrote to a discussion forum on the Internet that the best thing a child can say to a father was either,

“Dad, watch me do this,” or “Dad, help me do this.”

One person, Weinberg, replied that he felt the best thing a child can say to a parent is, “Dad, –anything–.”

My son walked over and without speaking said, “Dad I want to eat dinner with you.”

Sometimes I read too much into events. I don’t think I am putting too much into this event. I took this is a sign that perhaps I had been a pretty good father all these years. This six-foot two young man, the kid who was born early on a Sunday morning in Warrenton, Virginia, he was okay with sitting with his bald, gray-haired, non-descript man who was his father.

This was perhaps the greatest compliment anyone had ever paid to me.

Maybe there will be a day when I will have such a moment with my other two sons. Maybe they would have done the same. Maybe Nathan would have done this regardless of what he thought of me as a father.

I may never know anything of these “maybes.”

I do know that one this evening Nathan carried his bowl of soup over to my table, sat, and ate dinner with me.

This was the best dinner of my life.