It's less than an hour from his house in the valley but Bill could not remember
visiting Santa Cruz in the past five years since his near-death car accident in
the first autumn rain in 2017. He said that he wanted to go just to get Tim on
board.
The chubby little boy in the backseat who always ended a statement with a cute
"Right Dad?" had gone. The years have molded him into a solemn bulky young adult
who walked with an undue gravitas and almost never smiled. Last year, Tim quit
martial arts, stopped going on weekend hikes, and poured after-school hours and
often weekends into building robots. In his room, he was always busy on games,
SAT, or school works. The teenager wanted to stay away from his parents.
Words do not help. Life lessons or the wisdom Bill has gathered in the last decade
on cardio, strength, philosophy, etc., only seem to bore. Before they are even
uttered, there comes an almost imperceptible stir, a dismissive haste out of
despise for cliches. The platitude is aggravated by Bill's latinate multi-syllable
GRE-ready vocabulary. It's best that dad shut up.
The boy's filial affection comforted him, nonetheless. Tim was the one that gave
him a hug after hearing grandpa passed away. He bought for him dark Trinidad
chocolates after hanging out with friends in town. And it was the teenager who
sometimes used "I love you" as a parting shot.
It is the thought "He's flying the nest in two years" that has made every shared
moment precious. Instead of "having to" drive the boy, Bill cherishes the time
they spend in the car, listening to music or Garrison Keillor. Often, the kid
would fall asleep, too tired after school and robotics. The quietness would
remind Bill of the first time he brought back his treasure from the San Diego
Hill Crest Hospital 16 years ago.
They arrived at Santa Cruz around noon, parked near where Swift Street
dead-ended into the scenic West Cliff Drive, hopped on the trail, and headed east
toward the municipal pier. It was a gorgeous day. Under a cirostratus sky, a
gentle breeze caressed the land and sea, and traffic was light. January's record
rainstorms had left their mark. The pavement looked as if scrubbed. The cliff
eroded and caved in at a few places and parts of the road were corralled with
orange-red plastic blocks.
Approaching Woodrow avenue, Bill spotted a graffito on one of the traffic
blocks penning in a flood-damaged spot, showing a pig's face under a hat with
a star on the forehead, above which were three letters, FTP.
"Look! It's Second Senior Brother! Good to know he's so popular here."
He was of course referring to Bajie in Journey To The West, the Chinese classic
that he enjoyed so much when he was a kid.
"No. Dad. Pig means the police and FTP says 'F*ck The Police.'" Came Tim's
nonchalant reply.
"What!?#@"
Bill gagged on the answer. In his two dozens of years in North America, he had
seen that figure many times. He was curious but never asked and nobody explained
what it really meant until today! He would've stayed puzzled at what the File
Transfer Protocol (a term in his profession) had to do with the beloved Chinese
fiction character.
He bounced back in time as the two marched toward the lighthouse. It was after
all a beautiful walk on a beautiful day. Cormorants perched on the lips of massive
rocks reaching into the ocean where the jade-green waves carried and swept the
tightly clad athletic surfers. It must be therapeutic down there, Bill thought.
To the left, most estates sported window walls or balconies facing the sunny
bay. The immaculate buildings and gardens were part of the scenery.
It was before the Catholic church to the left and when passing the surfing statue
on the right that Bill heard a shout from across the figure. The words didn't
register, which was usual for him. Working in high-tech had not improved his
social awareness. Sometimes he thought he qualified for benefits for his cultural
handicap. He often heard things wrong and felt embarrassed afterwards. After
studying English for so many years, he was hopeless, and he blamed it on the
genes--grandfather had very poor hearing.
Tim, however, came to his side right away: "Did you hear that? 'What's up, spy
balloon?' That guy is a racist!"
"Oh. Really? Okay."
"How could you!? That's not okay! He's a racist!"
"That's fine. There are always going to be racists. It's been a great day. Let's
move on."
Bill was a bit surprised at his own flat voice. The lack of emotion was alarming.
Was he getting mellow? Or was he turning into a coward after 50 years on earth?
One decade ago, a pre-diabetic fatso knowing nothing about fighting, he would have
gone back and, in his broken English, given the SOB a piece of his mind, or at
least showed that he was not afraid.
Inside, he felt a peace as never before. He had no answer to his son for the
moment except that it was a great day which shouldn't be ruined. Father and son
left the matter behind and were able to enjoy the boardwalk and the rest of the
trip had no more surprises.
Back in the car, it suddenly occurred to him: "You know what the ancient Stoics
did? They trained wrestling everyday and said 'Good for you' to a verbal insult
and moved on."
