When I was young, I was convinced that my father was a gangster. I’d watched him pummel a guy who had stolen from our garage. The man ran away with a bloody face and tears in his eyes. Another time, my father caught Eric fighting behind our high school. With a bout of overconfidence, my brother tried to take on a couple of jocks. He might have won the fight too, had our father not broken them up.
From the field, I’d watched as my father slammed his SUV into park and marched towards us, his sleeves rolled up, and his fists clenched. When he began tossing kids off my brother, I knew it was time to leave. Eric was dragged into the backseat of the vehicle, and we drove home in silence.
Later that day, seated across from my father, I watched as he ate his dinner as though nothing had happened. Still wearing his white button-up dress shirt, he placed a napkin over his lap, held the knife and fork in his hands, and cut his meat.
When my mother asked him how his day went, if there was anything new at Sherman & Coleman Investments, he simply stated, “Nope. Nothing new.”
My father’s eyes never left his plate, and my brother never said a word. I almost laughed out loud. My father, the gangster, it was a ridiculous notion.