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Farewell, Fraught Father
A past that included dog fighting, boxing and, always, running
On Wednesday I found out via e-mail that my father died. A woman calling herself Essential dropped me a line.
"Oh, wow," I said, pulling back from the screen. I hugged my girl and began packing my gym clothes. The work would have to wait. I had no tears, but needed a place to think. In the bathroom mirror, it hit me that now there's less pure expression of the Alexander look. Our resemblance had grown by the year.
***
In more ways than the biological I'd not have my life without my father. Five years ago I published a book about our time together and apart and its contents were regarded as incendiary enough that I couldn't get work for years after. Whatever though; the memoir was real. My father agreed, or so I heard. After the book came out, he and I failed to speak again.
My father was the seminal figure in my life because I inherited his penchant for trouble. He was a prison boxer who got heavy into heroin and, even after he straightened up, flirted off and on with homelessness. I was a failed track star who fancied himself an outlaw journalist. In the mode of Hunter Thompson, I'd tell friends and reporters. Actually, in the spirit of Delbert Alexander Bilal's realness, it was my father's mode. Even before he showed me the prison writings that in part inspired Ghetto Celebrity, I'd known about his scribe impulse. He and I would smoke marijuana and talk about my early writing endeavors, back when I was making my way across America. Dope in a small shed on Sandusky, Ohio's black side of town. Dogs barking all around with me in this landing strip between Fresno and a summer internship at the Boston Globe.
"Oh, wow," I said, pulling back from the screen. I hugged my girl and began packing my gym clothes. The work would have to wait. I had no tears, but needed a place to think. In the bathroom mirror, it hit me that now there's less pure expression of the Alexander look. Our resemblance had grown by the year.
***
In more ways than the biological I'd not have my life without my father. Five years ago I published a book about our time together and apart and its contents were regarded as incendiary enough that I couldn't get work for years after. Whatever though; the memoir was real. My father agreed, or so I heard. After the book came out, he and I failed to speak again.
My father was the seminal figure in my life because I inherited his penchant for trouble. He was a prison boxer who got heavy into heroin and, even after he straightened up, flirted off and on with homelessness. I was a failed track star who fancied himself an outlaw journalist. In the mode of Hunter Thompson, I'd tell friends and reporters. Actually, in the spirit of Delbert Alexander Bilal's realness, it was my father's mode. Even before he showed me the prison writings that in part inspired Ghetto Celebrity, I'd known about his scribe impulse. He and I would smoke marijuana and talk about my early writing endeavors, back when I was making my way across America. Dope in a small shed on Sandusky, Ohio's black side of town. Dogs barking all around with me in this landing strip between Fresno and a summer internship at the Boston Globe.
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