Page 4 of Coral Prince Conundrum
I hastily toss my salad with chicken cutlet bits. “The chicken here is really good,” I say.
“Great. I hope I can say the same about the steak.” Dad digs into the meat with his knife and fork, and I fixate on my food. I wish I could do more to hasten this awkward family lunch. “After a long day of being the king of tuna, the last thing I want to eat is fish.”
He chortles, and I politely nod. Dad loves touting how his fishery company is “his own empire”—his words—and how he’s one of the few African American executives currently thriving. He may be a successful jewel to the Black community, but I know how shady my father’s company can be.
“Mm,” I mutter while shoveling salad into my mouth.
“You in a rush, son?”
I nod. “Kind of. I have a shift after this.”
“Your little coffee stuff?”
I grip my fork and attempt to focus on food. “It’s my job.”
“Daryl, I could get you a real job, a career where you sit in on board meetings and you don’t need to depend on tips.”
I bite back a frustrated noise. “I’m aware, Dad.”
He continues his meal and studies me. “And yet, you don’t want to take up my offer. One might even say you’re the prince of the Tishman’s Fishery empire.” He laughs at his own joke, but I don’t even dignify him with a smile.
“There are a lot of princes in the world, Dad. I am certainly not one of them.” I focus on my food again. “I live in a tiny apartment for heaven’s sake.”
“Then come back home.”
“We’ve been over this, Dad.” I dab my mouth with my napkin. “I don’t feel right living in a big house funded by your…principles.”
“Principles?”
“Unsustainably siphoning creatures from the ocean.”
He scoffs. “You make it sound so dramatic. My only principle is that I pay my workers a fair wage. And there are plenty of fish in the sea, literally.” He giggles again, and I gaze out the window to prevent an eyeroll.
I want to retort that the rate at which he’s fishing will cause extinction in less than a decade. I want to bring up all the articles about his boats callously destroying sharks, sea turtles, manta rays, and several other species in his quest to catch tuna. My whole life has been about shedding light on his irresponsible fishery, but it’s always been in one ear and out the other. My beliefs don’t matter to him; I’ll always be a little kid, not atwenty-four-year-old man. The less I need to depend on him financially, the happier I’ll be.
We eat in silence for a few minutes more. Dad seems to get the hint and backs off. After we’re nearly done eating, his voice is softer when he says, “I want to chat with my son, is that a crime?”
“Nope.” I put down my silverware. “You can ask me anything about my life.”
“How is school?”
Finally, a topic I love. I grin and say, “It’s tough, but I’m getting a lot of hands-on time with the animals. I might even go on some research trips next spring for my dissertation.”
Dad gazes at me with skepticism. “And taking care of these animals pays a lot?”
My smile falls. “It’s…important. To the world.”
Dad leans forward. “Look, Daryl. I had to bust my ass off to climb my way to the top of the business world. I did that to make sure you never had to work nearly as hard. You don’t want to grow up with a tough life like I did.”
I shrug. “My marine biology studies are crucial. You can call me a bleeding heart, lazy hippie all you want. But I need to live my life the way your drive led you forward all these years.”
Dad sits back, clearly unsatisfied. We’ve gone over this month after month, and it seems we’re both stubborn. But my ideals are trying to protect nature, so I refuse to apologize. I check my phone. “Sorry, but this lazy hippie has to get to work, Dad.”
He sighs. “You’re not a lazy hippie. I just wish you’d prioritize a life of financial success. The world expects people like us to be thugs and failures, son, so?—”
“We have to work extra hard, I know.” I finish his sentence, a sentiment I’ve heard time and time again, and then stand up. “And I am working extra hard.” He has no idea that everythingI do is to counteract the toll his company has on our oceanic ecosystems.
I stand up and give Dad a brief hug, thanking him for lunch. It’s as awkward as ever, but the Tishman men both have greater callings. His requires running a fishery, and mine requires coffee beans.
