Page 20 of Bull Riders Don't Swoon

I love riding bulls, but it never makes me feel like he does.

Maybe it’s the being-in-love thing? I’ve never been in love either, so I don’t know. But whatever makes Jackson so carefree and fun is what I want too.

I just don’t know how to get it.

seven

Griff

“Have you been eating, Dad?”

With the extended break between rodeos, I made the trip to see my dad in Fox Grove. It’s been a few months since my last visit. Winter is unpredictable in these parts, and after Christmas, I stayed away.

Knowing he never takes care of himself made it all that much harder, but my tiny Ford Neon is no match for the cruel snowstorms of an Alberta winter. My biggest fear is that one day I’ll show up to find him dead.

High-functioning alcoholism is shit.

“I eat,” Dad grunts and barely looks my way. Instead focusing on the CFL game between the Roughriders and the Blue Bombers. He loves the gopher mascot for Saskatchewan. I’ve never seen a grown man so excited for a life-size gopher, but he is.

After rummaging through the cupboards and fridge, the only thing I found that wasn't prepackaged was a single apple not fit to eat. I knew ahead of time he’d likely not have much in the house, and I came prepared after a grocery run in Kissing Ridge.

“Frozen pizzas and cookies are all you have here, Dad. Do you eat fruit and vegetables?”

He huffs from his chair as he pops the tab on another beer. The third one in the last hour, but I won’t comment on it. There’s no point.

“It’s expensive to eat that shit.” He swigs from his beer and throws his recliner back. “Come sit with me. How’s rodeo going? Have you met a nice girl yet to settle down with? You’re a smart kid. Why don’t you use that fancy degree you got?”

Gritting my teeth, I remind myself he’s not doing it on purpose.

“Dad…we’ve been over this, and you know it. I’m gay. There will never be a nice girl to settle down with.”

Dad wasn’t always like this. Before mom left, he was fun and a… dad. But his heart never let her go and he turned to booze instead. When I was little, he tried to hide it. He’d bring home a Christmas tree from the side of the road, claiming it was a surprise, and drop a bag of dollar store gifts under the tree when I was asleep, telling me Santa ran out of wrapping paper.

Sometimes I took money from his wallet to buy fresh fruit and just plain food before he could spend it at the bar. He kept food in the house, but not enough for a growing boy who often visited the office to grab from the snack bowl when it was supposed to be recess.

He’s not a bad man. He’s just a man who’s made some bad choices. I can’t really fault him for that when I’ve made plenty of my own.

“Right, right. You told me that. Not a phase, you said. It’s just my default, I guess, to ask if you’ve got a family of your own.” He burps before taking another drink. “So, when are you coming home for good? I could use help around here.”

Scrunching my nose, I tie up the overflowing garbage bag in the kitchen and wonder when the last time he washed the floors in here was. I’m certainly not moving back to be his maid.

“You could hire a cleaning service.”

“I don’t want a strange person here.” He pats the worn sofa next to him. “Come on, Griffy. Sit with your pop for a while. I miss you.”

It’s hard to keep the emotions at bay when he slips into that voice and calls me by my childhood nickname.

“Give me a sec, Dad.”

After dropping the bag of garbage outside in the can, I duck into the bathroom and cringe at the state of the cleanliness. Pressing a square of toilet paper to the dampness in my eyes, I suck in a steadying breath. This is why I hate coming here. It makes me far too emotional. I miss the dad I lost to alcohol and the family I never had.

Even walking by my childhood bedroom twists at my heart in ways I can’t always understand, but I’ll keep coming here for Dad and hopefully one day, he’ll leave this pit. After making sure I’m not crying, I grab a seat next to my dad, and he smiles a genuine smile my way.

That’s why I keep coming. He’s my dad, and I love him. I love that smile and the memories of conversations on this very couch. He’s all I have.

“Griffy. Want to order a pizza?”

“Sure, Dad. Cesar salad, too?”

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