For a lot of people, the word “Dad” represents an image of strength, honesty, a safe place, a teacher. All laudable qualities, and for those people who got to have that dad growing up, it may have made all the difference. That’s how it’s supposed to be, right?
My experience has been a bit different. The man who held the title of “Dad” in my life, I’ve recently realized, probably never wanted the job. When I look back on the behaviours that he presented with a critical and detached eye, the man begins to make a whole lot more sense to me now than he did when I was eight, or ten. In my own life, I’ve seen other guys that either didn’t use protection and found themselves in a situation, or those who stuck with a relationship that was abusive to them out of some sense of honour and loyalty that was instilled in them by their fathers. I believe that guy – the self trapped one – was the one I got.
As a kid, it was normal for me to be handed a roll of quarters and sent off to the nearest arcade when my dad had me for the day, so that he could find the nearest bar and dull whatever pain he was feeling. He never talked about it, being from the old school of “feelings are for women”, but in retrospect I can absolutely see what was happening. From the beginning, I was something he probably hadn’t wanted to deal with. See, I was adopted, as was my sister. Before the adoption, my dad was a swingin’ hotelier in Calgary, out partying every night in his powder blue leisure suit (I’ve seen the pictures.) Once my sister and I were in the picture, our mother assumed the standard role of stay at home caretaker, and began building the facade of the perfect family. We went to the right schools, wore the right clothes, and said the right things to the guests that came over to the house for Bridge parties.
Which dad, being the person he was, wanted absolutely no part of. He went downstairs with a few of the other husbands and got ripped at the bar in the basement of the house. Or the bar down the street. It was a nightly thing, and for most of my life I had no idea why until I went through the same period. I spent ten years inside a bottle, trying to do the right thing in all of my relationships, and not understanding that the incompatibility between myself and my partners was eating at me and keeping me there.
During all of that time, however, I had tried to fill the hole left by his absence with other figures, whether tangibly in my life or not. Early on in my adult life, I met a guy named Chuck that rebuilt hot rod motors, had a shop, and had a need to be a teacher I suppose. He gave me the time I needed from someone older and, I thought, wiser. I learned about cars, and I learned about the local weed trade from him. He wasn’t perfect, being from the same kind of old school of thought that kept women in a box, but he was better than the one I’d grown up with as he didn’t drink. I always got it straight from him, and he helped me learn to stand on my own two feet in a world that was a lot harsher than I believed it could be.
When I got married, I moved away from where Chuck lived and his presence in my life became a footnote. When the marriage went sour and I was out on my own again, he wasn’t around anymore, and left to my own devices I crawled into a bottle and watched every relationship I entered into crumble. I was not ok, and as such, every other person that decided to get with me was some form of broken as well. We all fed off of each others negativity, even though we both, in our own ways, were trying to do the right thing. We were all staying in the relationship for all of the wrong reasons.
It was during this time I found my two TV dads. People I could relate to and try to emulate in a way that would help me deal with what the world was giving me, and hopefully become a better person for it.
The first was a bit of a mistake. Jeremy Clarkson, and to a lesser degree James May and Richard Hammond from the BBC’s Top Gear became my newest obsession. The comedy and levity their show provided gave me a sliver of hope, and emulating Jeremy in certain situations gave me respect from some of my peers. The other side of that coin though, was the false bravado that came off as “asshole” to anyone on the periphery, and I never saw it happening. I was safe in my assumption that I was doing the right things and that being the stern, forceful type was what was needed in every situation. “More poweeeer…”
Then came the one that actually worked, though it took years to manifest. This guy was actually a genuine, caring individual that had been thrust into a world that didn’t work. Against all odds, and even through the pitfalls of a heroin addiction, he still managed to make it in the world and become a success without needing to step on anyone to do it. Not only that, but he had shared a lot of the same career path as me at that point.
Anthony Bourdain was the perfect target for me. A loser, suburban kid that went through the lowest of the low and still came out on top, while at the same time never letting it go to his head. The man was always humble, and never forgot where he came from no matter how lush his life became. He wasn’t perfect though, which I think is the most important part of this story. He was relatable because, like the rest of us, he was fallible. His demons continued to haunt him on one way or the other throughout his storied career, and in that image that was presented through the TV, I could see bits and pieces of myself. That gave me the courage to keep starting over when life took everything away from me.
When he died in 2018, it left a massive hole inside me. I realized at that point how much hope and promise I had instilled in this man, but it also taught me one more lesson. For some of us, there may never be a way to be completely free from the things that conspire to hold us down. But, as long as we continue to get up in the morning and try again, there will always be hope. And hope is the key.
Had it not been for those surrogate fathers, I may have never found the hope I needed to be able to continue on. I might never have seen that there was a bright side to the morass I was in at the time, no matter how distant. In their own, fucked up and twisted ways, each of them gave me a little bit of who I am today, and for that, I thank them.
Earlier this year, while on a work trip, I made the decision to get the tattoo pictured at the top of this post. It’s my first, at the ripe old age of forty-nine, and it’s been waiting for about twenty years to happen. It’s a phoenix, and represents the ability to rebuild from the ashes of a previous life. I believe that now, I’m finally at a place where I won’t have to endure that ever again, so to mark the occasion I had it permanently etched onto my shoulder. Chuck and Anthony each had a part in making that happen, and for that, I will forever be in their debt.
