The gift of Chance.

            He was reading a news paper and sitting on a bar stool in the middle of an alley way on an early summer night. He wore a tan trench coat and round rimmed glasses. His slicked back hair reminded me of Christian Slater. I thought the fortune teller was full of crap. I never thought this guy would be here. But sure enough, it was exactly as she said. The alley way was the length of a football field.
           I felt uncomfortable approaching him. Like I had no right to be there. I stood there waiting for him to look up from the paper. But he never did. I finally broke the silence "Are you Chance?"
          "That is what people call me." He still did not look up. He simply turned the page of the news paper. I had hoped he would be more welcoming. I didn't know how to go about proposing the business I was there for. I felt foolish. I froze. Again, I expected him to interject or to alleviate the disturbance I had caused in his reading. But he just kept on with the paper. After another minute or so I inquired,
         "I've been told you can...answer things."
         "Yes. That is a way of putting it." I was relieved. If you have ever tried to buy pot from someone that you've only heard sells pot, you get very apprehensive when you approach them.
          "You have the money?" he added still looking at the paper.
          "Ye- yea. It's all here. You can count it." I handed him a sealed manila envelope. He took it and grabbed my hand as if we were shaking. But he was not giving me a salutation.
         "It's all there. Follow me." He folded the news paper and tucked it up in his arm pit.
         "How long were you waiting for me?"
         "I wasn't waiting for you."
         "Why were you sitting in an alley in the middle of the night?"
         "I was stationed there. Now, if you please, I'd like to keep the conversations to a minimum. I was about to apologize but he sent me a glance which silenced me. As we continued through the alley for what seemed like an hour. Gradually the stench of the city seemed to sterilize. The smells of urine and garbage melted to nothing and then flourished into a pleasing aroma. Like an old cellar. We arrived at what I could only describe as a fallout shelter. But it looked like it was Egyptian. It was made of yellow and orange stone and pictures were carved into the wall.
        "This is it?" I asked.
        "This is it." He retorted. It dawned on me that he had been doing this for a long time.
        "Give me your hands and close your eyes." Chance commanded. I hesitated. I expected him to sting me or something. But I knew I had no choice and did as he commanded.
         "Connection is a two way street. Just relax and let them pass," he assured me as he grabbed my hands.
         "Let what pa--?" But before I could finish I was bombarded with images. A burning barn, a mother giving birth, a girl tricker treating as a princess. The images accelerated. A dog run over, two women between the sheets, a man throwing over a table... faster and faster. Then Chance let go of me and I fell to the ground.
         "What was that?" I demanded.  Chance had a hand against the wall. He was recovering too. He pushed his glasses back into place with his index finger. "I told you to relax." He went over to the door of the shelter. He took a deep breath with his hands in front of his heart. With his exhale he "pushed" an invisible something into the door and held his hands flat against it.
         "It's ready for you, James." he instructed.
         "You get my name from our 'exchange'."
         "I got more than your name." he snapped back. I pulled myself up from the ground.
         "What will it be like when I go in there?"
         "I don't know. It's different for each person."
         "You've never been in there?"
         "The temperature dial doesn't go into the oven." I grimaced at the metaphor.
         "What if I want to leave?"
         "Just call out my name. I should be able to hear you."
         "Should be able to?"
         "Sometimes the trance is too strong. But that rarely happens. Don't worry about it. Shall we?" He gestured to the door.
         "Okay...okay." I took a deep breath. He opened the door. I was in another place.

        My father sat at this work bench. He looked exactly like I remembered him. With one hand he held a bottle and with the other a long pair of tweezers. He was assembling a ship. It was the Santa Maria. It would come to sit on the mantle piece above the fire place. Eventually, I would come home one night and in a drunken rage, throw it against the wall, completely shattering it. Mom would never talk to me the same way again. The tears welled up in my eyes and an enormous lump swelled in my throat. I found my hand in front of my face, knuckles at my nose and my thumb and index finger massaging my upper lip as my whole fist trembled.
       "Chance." I managed to inaudibly squeak out, in a weak plea. It was already too much.
       "James! I didn't hear you come in. Would you hand me a glass of water?" I went over and opened the cupboard next to the sink. I've not seen these glasses in almost a decade. A red plastic one from a Mr. Ghatty's Pizza. A commemorative Spider-Man Collector's cup picturing the Maximum Carnage crossover. Sarah's hand painted 5th grade art project cup, with flowers and the sun, smiling and wearing sun glasses. Then there was Dad's favorite glass. Tall and slender with divits along the center. It was from an old glass ware pattern we previously had and this was the sole surviving piece from the set.
        I carried the glass to the refrigerator, flipped the switched to "crushed ice" and filled the glass half way, then flipped the switch to "chilled water."   Focusing on the details on the kitchen gave me refuge from looking at him. It allowed me to collect myself. The water filled to the top and I stayed there stalling.
      "James? Are you going to be much longer with the water?"
      "C-" Another breath and I swallowed. "Coming." And I handed him the water.
      "How was football practice? Is your arm better?"
      "Yea, it's doing better." I just went along with it. I had no memory of hurting my arm at all.
      "Good. You can help me build the addition next week."
      "Sure. Looking forward to it." With that he put down the model, took off his glasses and gave me a hard look.
       "You are awfully, agreeable.  Did you fail Mr. Olsen's Chemistry test?"
       "What do you mean?" I felt like an impostor in my own skin.
       "There's always a fight with you to do chores unless you've done something. Out with it."
       "Dad, there's nothing wrong." Only, that I was preparing to confront my dead father on something I'd been holding back for over half my life.
       "Whatever it is James, I'm going to find out sooner or later. You mother or I will have to sign something. And don't you dare try to forge my signature again or you won't be going to Homecoming this year." I didn't want to bring it up yet. I wanted to linger in the past for just a little while longer. But then I remembered, I wasn't here to relive the past. I was here to say what needed to be said.
       "You always were so damn sure of yourself."
       "You had better watch your mouth, young man."
       "I watched my mouth for years. We all did. We let you do whatever you wanted." I had always pictured this moment with me yelling at the top of my lungs, blunt at a hammer. But instead I found myself as the sarcastic passive aggressive teenager I was pretending to be.
       "How dare you use that tone of voice with me James Mattheiu Mitchell. I am your father and you will give me the respect I deserve."
       "How about you be the father that Mom, Sarah, and I deserved?"
       "I don't care if your arm is still hurting, I will get my belt and give you so many lashings you'll be sleeping on your stomach for a month! I've worked 6 days a week for 20 years to give this family what it deserves--
       "And to give the Olsen family what it deserves." With that he froze solid trying to make sense of it. "Yea, I know about that."
       "What are you talking about?" he denied.
       "Don't do that." I insisted.
       "Look, I don't know what you think you know."
       "Believe me. I know. We all did. But we will let you get away with it. Mom won't have the courage to confront you. She's... she's too scared she'll lose you. So she will play dumb for years until you finally do leave. You wait until Sarah goes to college. Then you finally go. And you tear this family apart. "
       "James, whoever has contacted you is obviously trying to hurt this family. I don't know why--"
       "Stop lying damnit!" I yelled louder than I ever have in my life. "Nicole Olsen in Hartford, Connecticut. She has a hair salon she owns and runs.  You already have a son with her. In two years you'll have a daughter, too."
       He was absolutely dumbfounded. People are very good at leading different roles in different situations. Some people would consider it a mask. They aren't necessarily lies but often are.  But when person is forced to reconcile those contradictory parts, it's like having the identity ripped from your face.
      "How do you know all of this?" he capitulated.
      "Nicole contacted Mom. That confirmed it. But all the 'business' trips, that was when we first started to know."
      "What about all that future stuff? The daughter and when I leave you?"
      "You wouldn't understand."
      "It's worth a shot."
      "I didn't come back to explain. I came here to tell you what an asshole you are."
      "Came here?"
      "All the years you went back and forth, you weren't fooling anyone. Any reprimand you thought you were avoiding, and hell you thought you were escaping, by not getting caught, pretend that is a measurable tangible thing. And instead of you feeling it, the rest of us did. We suffered. But we kept it hidden, like you kept your secret family hidden. Only we were better at it."
      He went over to his chair and sat. That chair was his throne. He was running away. Like he always did when he didn't have control. His eyes darted around. He started to speak, opening his mouth but then almost immediately closed it again.
     "You don't have it in you to apologize. Never in my life have I seen you ever own up to anything."
     "Get out." He weakly commanded. I scoffed.
     "You know, I had always thought, given the chance, you'd have some explanation. Some saving grace that you just didn't say. But you don't. You are just a selfish coward of a man. This was a waste. I'm glad you left, you failure." He was still sitting on the chair staring into space.
     "Chance. I'm ready." The door appeared and I went to escape once and for all. But I was interrupted.
     "Wait. Please." With my hand on the knob, I still didn't look. I just waited, like he pleaded. My heart was pounding. I couldn't decide if I wanted to hear him or not. But I knew that if I left, I would always wonder. That's why I came here.  I turned around. And now my father sitting in his thrown was 15 years older, the age when he died.
     "I'm sorry for the way things turned out, James. You are right. I was a miserable failure. I failed you as a father. I was not a decent man. I indulged and I ran from my responsibilities. That's no excuse and I don't have any good explanation. But what I had with your mother was not a good situation and the life I was living was so far from what I needed, it ate at me until I had no soul. I made a choice when I met Nicole. For me it was the right choice even though it wasn't a good choice.  But I want you to know James, I was always proud of you. I kept an eye on you. You made better choices than I did. And I'm very glad you turned out the way you did."
     "Bullshit. If that were true then why didn't I ever see you again?"
     "Because I was afraid of you. You were right. You always were. I ran from so much and if I ever saw you again, I'd have been forced to face it. I was a coward and I just couldn't take it. But for what it is worth I'm sorry."  He started to leave up the stairs.
    "Where are you going?"
    "I don't think your friend Chance can give you any more time."
    "Wait what? How do you know about--"
    "You've only got a few seconds. You can just leave or maybe lay into me again. Or you can say good bye and let it go once and for all." I didn't expect any of this. I still couldn't forgive him. 2 minutes of an apology didn't undo a whole life of grief. But I couldn't be angry any more.
    "Well, I understand. I don't deserve to be let of off the hook." He continued up the stairs again.
    "Dad!"
    "Yes, James?"
    "I don't love you, but thank you." He smiled and left me for the second time.

     I found myself outside the door lying on the floor. Chance helped me up.
    "How'd it go? You get your money's worth?"
    "Would it matter to you one way or the other?"
    "No, not really." He adjusted his glasses again with his index finger. I dusted myself off.
    "Tell me one thing, Chance."
    "Yes?"
    "What happened in there, was that what really would happen if I confronted my father," then clarifying "and then he came back several years older?" Chance looked perplexed.
    "I mean, was it just purely in my head. Or were you just telling me what I needed to hear."
    Chance took a moment, looked me up and down, gave a sideways grin and said, "James, I honestly have no idea."