Managing
Managing
One summer, I killed my father. OK, I didn’t actually kill him, but he died, nonetheless. He wasn’t my real father, either, but he felt that way a little bit. I probably could have stopped it from happening, but in my youth and fear, I failed to do the right thing.
The Darmstadter Hof was and still is a local icon. Some would call the granite building a relic, but a family member of ours had owned it and managed it for nearly ninety years. The ‘Hof’ sits snugly in the middle of the town marketplace, and over the years, though the area's fortunes rose and fell with the economy, our place stayed open to welcome travelers. Its Art Deco design went in and out of style, but the patrons always came; some left a lasting impression on me.
I am now the General Manager, but I didn’t start that way. Throughout my school years, I’d work in one menial position or another, finally making my way up the gold jacket of the desk crew, a prestigious position in our fine hotel. I started as a busboy in the restaurant for two summers. Then, I was a driver for the shuttle van for two more summers. That was fun because I interacted with people more and got out of the building. Even though most of my driving was only to the airport or seaport and back, getting out and seeing the city was always an adventure.
Most times, my passengers would engage with others in their party, discussing their trips or business dealings. It was the lone travelers who brought the best conversations for me. I met a few cool people, a lot of chatty types excited about their adventures, and more than one older woman who would have liked to show a younger man an interesting time. At least, that’s what my young man fantasies hoped for.
The first summer I drove, one man in particular caught my interest. He barely spoke to me the first time I transported him from the airport, but he had an almost recognizable air. I didn’t notice right away, but as I was loading his luggage, I was soon struck by how he stood, his stance, and the cut of his shoulders. There was something familiar in them. We drove along, and I’d peek at him in the rearview mirror to see his salt and pepper hair as he stared intently out at nothing. Even his button-down shirt and lack of a tie were reminiscent of someone missing from my life. And it finally hit me: my father.
Now, at this point, my father had been gone for eight years. Not dead, just disappeared. He left my mother and me in the mid-‘80s to live his life and hadn’t been in touch since. The man in the van certainly wasn’t my actual father, but his presence, his similarity to my father, stunned me into an uncomfortable silence. I don’t think he minded because he just stared off into the distance and sat quietly the whole ride. At the hotel, I wordlessly unloaded his belongings and was rewarded with a $20 bill, a firm handshake, and a genuine “thank you.” I don’t know why, but I remember feeling like crying.
I saw him again the following summer, but this time, the early morning drive was to the airport. He recognized me from the previous year, said a fond hello, and sat in the van's front seat. He sat quietly for the first ten minutes of the ride, but then he looked at me and told me a story.
“My wife and I used to both come on these trips to the ‘Hof’ for weekends back when we lived in the area. Back when …,” His words trailed off.
“Yeah?” I said. I wasn’t sure where to go with this at the time. I didn’t want to step into saying or asking something upsetting. “Is she...still with us?” I thought this was a smart and diplomatic question.
“Yes,” was all he said. After a deep breath and a sigh, he continued. “It was for our anniversary weekend, and we thought it was a good way to rekindle some fun or romance or...,” he waved in the air to indicate he couldn’t find the words, “or whatever.” He paused for almost a full minute. I could see he wanted to say something, but he hadn’t found the words or the energy yet. Now that he had been in the van longer, I could smell what must have been last night’s alcohol coming through his pores. I’d driven enough hungover guests to recognize the odor.
“She stopped coming with me a couple years ago.” He let out another sigh. “I wish she would start trying again.”
Arriving at the airport saved me from the awkward situation. Another $20 bill, another firm handshake, and another genuine “thank you” later, he was gone again.
The next time I saw him was the following summer, my first in the gold jacket and on the 4 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift.
He had just left the hotel lounge when he saw me across the lobby. “Hey, kid,” he said a little too loudly for the late hour. “You’re moving up in the world. Gold jacket looks good on you. Who’d you sleep with to get that?” He approached slowly, in slow, smooth, controlled steps, and I could smell the whiskey that had loosened his tongue.
"I worked very hard to get here,” I said a little indignantly. Then, with a little smile, I let the truth slip out. “Well, my mother is the General Manager, too.”
“Oh, shit!” he said, leaning back from the countertop. “I didn’t mean anything by that.” He shooed away invisible flies as if to wave away his faux pas. “Anyways, good for you. You’re probably livin’ the dream, aren’t ya?” He leaned back onto my counter with both hands as if the answer to this question was really important to him.
I didn’t like the question or what it implied. I didn’t like it because I wasn’t livin’ the dream. I was livin’ my mother’s dream: graduate with a BA in Hospitality Management, follow up with a master’s in business administration, work all the positions at the family hotel, and eventually take over for her as the general manager. If I just follow that path, I’ll make her happy. But it wasn’t my dream. I wasn’t sure what my dream was back then.
I lied. “Yes, sir. I’m working towards my professional goals.”
“That’s great, kid. I’m so glad to hear that. I’m proud of ya. I remember you when you were a busser in the restaurant. Now look at you.”
“You saw me back then?” I said, only half believing him. But how else would he know if he hadn’t seen me?
“Sure. I been coming here for years, you know that, and I see what’s what. Now look at you. Well done, young man.” He leaned back from the counter and shot me three times with the finger guns he drew from his side holsters. “Pew! Pew! Pew! Congratulations, bud.” He toddled off to the elevator down the hallway and disappeared.
I’d been seen. This man, who wasn’t my father, saw me. This man, who reminded me of my father, was proud of me. I was profoundly shocked to the edge of tears. My mother, granduncle, and co-workers had expressed pride and pleasure for my promotion, but it wasn’t the same as if my father had done so. This man, this stranger, was the closest thing to it that I could imagine.
It would be another year until I saw him again, the late summer of ‘95. Again, he was coming from the bar, and it was again whiskey that loosened his tongue. He leaned on my counter as if he owned it. “I don’t see a ring. You married? Engaged?”
“No, sir. That’s not in the plans for me just yet.” The truth is I had no romantic options at the time that would make marriage even a remote possibility.
“Good. Don’t rush into that. Once you do, everything changes. Same with having kids.”
I never knew if he had kids. It never came up. He wanted to say more but seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. His mouth would open like he was about to speak, but then it would close. He held his hands in front of him like he was holding an accordion. Still, the words didn’t come, so I helped.
“Has today been a rough day for you?”
He dropped a bombshell on me. “You can say that. I finally left my wife. Or, maybe she kicked me out. I’m not sure.” He gave a little laugh. “She said not to come back from my little pity vacation this year.”
How does one respond to that? Instead of trying to say something wise or comforting, I went with the first thing I could think of. “Yeah?” Wise words, indeed. If the end of his relationship wasn’t enough, he shared some more disturbing information.
“Yeah. Our son disappeared eleven years ago. Fourteen-years-old and he just up and vanished from the neighborhood. We’ve never heard from him since. We’ve been trying to keep our shit together since then, but I just can’t anymore. I can’t be there for her. I can’t stand being without him, and…,” he looked down, avoiding my eyes, “I can’t stand being with me. I can’t stand being me. I guess we’ve both had enough of it all.”
The lobby was silent except for the whir of the ceiling fans. From the bar, I could hear the staff closing for the night: the clinking of glassware, the moving of tables, and the laughter from the employees enjoying the end of their shift. There was nothing to break the silence of the moment except more from the man.
“I want him back so badly. There’s so much I want to say to him. I want to hold him, ya’ know? I want to tell him I love him and that I’m sorry I wasn’t there for him. I just want him back.” He wasn’t crying, but it seemed he was close to it. The alcohol and his demons were doing their work. His left arm leaned on my desk, his eyes were still downcast as if in recollection, and he stayed still in place, as if any movement would scare away all the memories of his son.
This was outside the bounds of any other discussion I’d had before, and at that point in my life, I didn’t know my social obligation in that situation. Part of me wanted to shuffle him out of the lobby so no one would come in and get upset by such a conversation, but another part, the part that had been left behind by a father, wanted to hug the man and let him tell me all the things that he wanted to tell his missing son. I love you. I’m proud of you. I’ll always be there for you. Instead, I sat stone quiet as he let his mood pass.
He looked back up at me. “I’m sorry to drop that all on you, kid. I don’t know where it came from. It’s just been a helluva day, ya’ know?”
“I’m sure it has,” I said in a voice softened more from timidity than true compassion. I had no idea how to handle so much weight. Rather than being bold enough to find words of comfort for the man, I was stunned into silence because of what I wanted to hear. I love you. I’m proud of you. I’ll always be there for you—instead, nothing.
After a moment, he collected himself, took a cleansing breath, and straightened out his shirt and coat like it would wash the sadness off of him. He apologized for sharing so much and mumbled a quiet good night to me. I watched him walk down the hallway to the elevators and disappear. A few hours later, he would be dead.
The next evening, I came in to work to hear that the man had passed during the night from an apparent overdose of prescription medication. The loss hit me more than one would expect, more than just a regular guest's passing would. We’ve had guests die before and plenty since then, but it always seemed more of an administrative problem than an emotional one. This was different.
The shift passed with as little human interaction as possible. My behavior was curt yet professional with those who came to the desk, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk in-depth with anyone. There’d been enough of that for a while. I wanted that man to come in again. I wanted to let him talk some more. I wanted to ask him about his son. I wanted to ask him question after question to keep him talking about what weighed him down. I just wanted to see him again, to know that he was ok. But he wouldn’t come in.
All these years later, and many times since then, I’ve thought of that man and my lack of courage, of my selfishness. The man died because I wanted him, my ghost father, to tell me he was proud of me and that he loved me. Instead, in that instance, I was the only person in the world who had the power of life or death over him, and I could have said the words that could have let him live, maybe just for another day, but he would have lived. I should have talked to him and told him that his son knows that his father loves him. It might have made no difference at all, but I’ll never know because I failed.