It could happen, he said. When you least expect it. Some kind of disaster takes place. A car crash. Some guy holds you up in an alley. Tornadoes tear through a small town. Your house catches fire. All of this could take place. It’s part of living, I suppose, the older man said. Just part of living. Or not.

You could get lucky,  his son told him. Skate through life. There are those who are quite fortunate.

Yes. They never leave the house. No risks. Never gambled in life, he said. The old man poured a cup of coffee. He pointed the pot at the kid.

Please, the son said. Thank you. His father nodded. Placed the pot back on the burner.  Take my in-laws, the kid suggested. Look at them.

Bob and Thelma?

Right. He has skated through life. Nice house and two cars. A daughter and a son. Grandkids. 

He’s quite lucky.

Dad. He sells insurance. This is not the most ethical man. He looks good on paper, but he has no soul. His idea of risking it all is in the fine print of a life insurance policy.

Yes. The house always wins.

I remember you leaving us when I was young. I wondered what you were doing. Why? And it didn’t strike me till years later. You were trying to discover yourself. The old man laughed. No. Really pop. All those years ago. You had no idea who you were. Just some man carved out of soap.

Hmm.

Mom cried. I cried. Out of anger, I guess. You never see it coming. You’re right about that.

I’m sorry. Sorry, I did that. I was on some quest. Some kind of journey. I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing. Took it one day at a time. And here I am. Living in a rented room above a dirty bookstore. Paying monthly rent. Nothing to show for my work.

They both looked at the card table in the corner. A typewriter and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. Papers scattered, tossed all over, no order.

What’s all that?

The beginnings of a great novel, the old man said. I got a kick start, but never finished. Maybe a page or two every other day, but nothing beyond that, he told him. It’s true what they say. There are writers, artists, who never finish. They talk a good game, but they never complete the task. No sacrifice. Just a lot of heartache. No drive, he sipped his coffee. Your father-in-law doesn’t know about that. That kind of life. He is linear.

Yes, pop. He has one purpose. To take care of his family. That’s what he’s about.

And that’s fine. It just never suited me. He reached for the whiskey. Oh, I’d send money when I could. A job here or there. Tax returns. I sent it to your mom. Figured I owed you two that much.

His son sat there motionless. He looked at his dad. He placed his arm on Pop’s shoulder.

They sat silently. Not a word. The kid patted his dad’s back and walked towards the door.

Don’t be a stranger, the father said.

Right.