The Rock at the Bottom Virtual Book Tour

But no matter where I laid my head, no matter which of the three houses I’d been forced to live in while growing up, none had been my home.

We weren’t so wealthy as to live in one of the leftover mansions from Millionaires’ Row along Euclid Avenue or in the esteemed residences of Bratenahl just east of downtown Cleveland along the lakeshore. The Fifth City, as Cleveland was called back then, was changing. The wealthy had shifted east to the so-called “Heights.” Our dilapidated first city home had new construction beside it. Towers that seemed to touch the sky were underway. My pal Ben and I were leaning toward making a buck working with such projects.

The old man and I inhabited an oversized brick home along Liberty Boulevard. He feigned at making a better name for himself to the outside world. A different woman would come over every weekend. He even threw parties with some of his buddies from work, but I knew him better. His parties were as empty as Jay Gatsby’s. I’d read Fitzgerald’s work shortly after its release the previous year and found it mirrored the current times and trends well. As for how I saw my father in that fiction, I guessed from his vacant stares into the bottom of a bottle, where he thought he could somehow erase my mother’s absence.

So, it was no surprise when I entered the living room that second Saturday in June to find my father in his easy chair, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.

“Where’d you get this round of giggle juice?” I motioned toward his empty bottle.

My father scowled, the heavy creases framing his mouth deepening. He dropped the dead soldier, and it rolled until it stopped at my foot. I picked up the bottle, shook my head, and tossed it aside. It gave a satisfying shatter.

Prohibition hadn’t stopped the old guy from getting zozzled whenever the urge hit.

“What d’you want?” He got to his feet.

I stepped up to him, and he recoiled.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Then what’re you waitin’ for? Get outta here!” He pointed with a quivering finger toward the front door.

“I have a few things to say first.”

My father gazed up at me and seemed to shrink more. “Well, out with it.”

“I’m a writer. I’ve been writing stories since I was a little kid, and you won’t stop me.”

He snorted. “What do I care about those rags?”

“I thought you’d like to know, Father, that you inspired me.”

He squinted, then raised his eyebrows. “Huh? What’s that?”

“Your hatred inspired me to imagine a life better than this hellhole, and you”—I poked his chest, hard—“are the villain.”

He raised his fist, but I caught it before he struck. As I pushed back with the force of a stronger, younger man, his legs buckled, forcing him into his chair.

“You come to gloat, boy?” His words were the only weapon he had left.

“I came to tell you the truth. I pity you, Father. You’re pathetic.”

His gaze dropped to his lap. The man reached into his pocket and fumbled for another cigarette, then lit it with shuddering hands. Letting out a long plume of smoke, he said, “Maybe, but the fruit don’t fall from the tree.” He jabbed the cigarette at me.

I shook my head. “I’ll never be like you.”

A hollow laugh filled the room. He laughed until coughs overtook him. Then he went quiet, until a sob escaped. “No matter what you think, boy, you can’t change who you are. You were born a killer. No fancy dreamin’ will take away your reality. You think I haven’t tried?”

I turned and took a few steps until I stood on the threshold to the outside. Glancing back at my father, I knew that would be the last time I saw him. “Maybe you should’ve tried harder.”

Maybe you should’ve loved me.