The Man Who Was Always a Father
He had always been a father, from birth and even before, at a restaurant, in a car,
storming back and forth from the office; now and then they all ran to his desk, patting his
back, saying, calm down, man, for he breathed in such a heavy way, punching the air,
tearing his vest, but this was because he had always been a father, and so never had time to
develop.
He ran from his office and into the street, for he had one passion, and that was all, really;
who will be my son, he shouted at anyone; I am the father of myself, I wear loose pants; I
want a son badly, as I have never had a thought about myself; won't you hurry and be my
son; consider this; be my son rapidly, and it will be perfect; come along, he gestured,
though they only regarded him quietly in the afternoon sun, then, suitcases in hand, they
moved on; barring that, he said, I will produce you; to produce someone new is best and I
will do it unreservedly; I will produce a new son properly though emergently; hurry please,
I must produce someone quite soon and quickly; isn't this wonderful, he said, and turned
to the pillow.
He wanted a son especially badly, in a way of wanting to be strongest and best; not odd,
though, really, in a nation with such a contagion of these fathers and speeding, defensive
rocket ships; hurry, he said, the production of a son is imminent; I arrived at this idea, and
will carry it through quickly; I am to produce a son now, for I want really to be living; I
will do it any way I like; say please; it's going to happen any moment now; look at me as I
do this--
He sank back in his chair; squeezing his face; I'm going to chew some gum, he said to the
twig, I am the father of myself, and also your father; therefore, it reasons, I am your
paternal grandfather; I am your provider, too, but also, I am really you, so you must come
now to work at our office; hurry up, won't you; manage your urges; then he shouted over
his shoulder, I am happy!--so later, to celebrate, I will need some adult entertainment; for
now, I need coffee and forty copies of everything I own, and when I return, I will need a
copy of my son; then he stood and left for the park, tying his son to his waist with a wire.
Strolling along, the father said, son, I will now tell you the only story I know, and it is
this: you have no ancestors; I was the father of myself; no one came before me at all, or
ever raised me; following that logic, there can be no one, really, to come after me; because
that is true, you are not really you; neither, for that matter, is anyone themselves at all;
everyone you thought you saw does not really exist; the world. then, is quite empty of
people besides of course myself and a few servants, and that is life as we understand it--
He looked down at the twig's eyes, which were scratches he had dug in the wood with
his nails; do you hear me, he said, then snapped his son in half, hurling him through the
park and beyond the fence; wait, he said, but the son had already begun his life in pieces,
nothing in the world around him except cars and gravel and, every night, his grieving
father, who searched madly for the broken twig, but never found him.
Copyright © Stacey Levine 1994
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