Page 1 of A Father's Bliss

Here’s what I’ve discovered about liking men who aren’t my age. When I found someone younger, I somehow got an emotionally unavailable, exploring every vagina in the state, douche. And when I found someone older, he ended up being the hot dad of said douche, who also happens to be my own father’s sworn enemy.

Now, when I say enemy, I’m not talking battlefield-ready, we-ride-at-dawn type enemy; just a coworker who happens to also be a rival—a competitor, if you will. They’ve worked together for the last ten years, and in the four since I’ve joined the same company, I’ve spent every waking minute pretending that I didn’t have cartoonish hearts pulsing in my eyes for him.

See, my first day on the job is one I can remember as if it was the start of what’s supposed to be an Emmy award winning movie, but ends up being a complete flop. And to fully comprehend it all, I have to go back to the opening scene. The day it all began. Maybe then, I can be met with more understanding and fewer knives in my back.

At least, one can hope.

Four Years Ago

“Thank shit I finally have a coworker who isn’t a seventy year old wrinkled-scrotum man who takes his coffee black.” The voice comes from my left and curiously, I shift to see who it belongs to.

Turns out, it’s an over six-foot tall male, with blond locks that fall gracefully over his forehead, and is dressed as if dipped in a vat of Vogue’s finest. Tailored navy slacks, crisp white button up, and chocolate leather shoes that match his belt so perfectly, it’s as if they were made from the same hide.

He holds out a slender hand. “Name’s Troy Banks. Been working in the mailroom here for a year now. I enjoy long talks at the cooler, procrastinating on the office’s coffee runs, and gossiping about Betty’s pearls, which she claims are from a survivor of the Titanic.”

A laugh bubbles out of me as I move my briefcase over from my right hand to my left before shaking his. “Name’s Renee Porter, daughter to one of those wrinkly men you work with, though, he’s only fifty-three and I’d rather not know about his scrotum, and I too would love to gossip about Betty’s pearls.”

His grip is firm but friendly. “I think I’m going to like you, Renee. And in a completely platonic way, mind you, as you’re missing a few bits, such as a long phallic member that I very much enjoy.”

This time when I laugh, I snort, garnering a few glances from people at their desks not too far away. Everyone is hunched over, their eyes either glued to a screen or an open manuscript. Soft taps of clacking keyboards echo in the slightly stale air, and the constant hum of the many computers fills in the rest.

While some may look at this scene and be reminded of that one scene fromBeetlejuice, I see a secondary home. I smell the subtle scent of aging books, hear the sweetest hums of people reading a line that resonates with them, and can already feel the euphoric bliss of falling into the pages of another world.

I hold up an apologetic hand to the few I disturbed, and shake my head at my new work friend. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

Present Day Commentary: He did and still does, but it’s always so much fun.

“Well, I’d love to grab some of that community water after I get settle?—”

“There she is.” My father’s deep boom erupts into the air like an underwater cannon, and the amount of rolled eyes that follow are enough to create a tsunami. “My sweet little angel.”

My teddy bear of a father wraps his arms around me before I can even get a word out. His familiar cinnamon scent and softness envelops me whole, and for a second, I melt into it, the slight nerves I’ve ignored since this morning fizzling out.

Ever since I was old enough to read, I’ve always had a book in front of my face. Whether it’s from seeing my father do the same, or the fact that the universes between the pages were so much better than my real one, it was that way from age five to now. When I was a teen, my father broke off from the publishing company he worked for and joined other executives that opened a smaller, more inclusive indie publishing company. He’s a literary agent and it was my dream to one day work with him.

Fast forward to now, after graduating a little early with an English and Communications degree, my next steps changed, and it definitely wasn’t what I’d initially wanted. In fact, the position wasn’t even offered by the company until my father brought it to a board meeting. They said it was a risk and because there’d be a lot to prove if it happened, to say I was stressed would be an understatement. In the end, the CEO decided to meet and listen to my proposal, and after a bomb ass presentation, I was offered the job.

Present Day Commentary: I’m pretty sure afterward I even blacked out in the car for a hot second from excitement.

My position as a social media scout isn’t in the same league as my father, and I’m simply a cog in the machine, but it’s something I’m incredibly passionate about. Something I’m also hell of nervous about. And for a moment, his hug serves as a little comfort.

“Hey, old man.” I sink into his chest momentarily before prying myself away. “I thought we said we’d be a little more inconspicuous.”

Troy laughs next to me. “Mr. Porter inconspicuous? That’s like asking a rooster not to crow.”

“Hush, Troy.” My father waves him off before throwing his hands around me. “I want everyone to know this sweet angel is my daughter and to keep their eyes averted.”

My cheeks pinken from the slight embarrassment as I parrot Troy’s words. “From who? The wrinkled-scrotum seventy-year-olds?”

My father lets out a boisterous laugh, his belly shaking as he continues to walk us through the rows of desks. The entire office is shaped like a boxy U. Smaller offices make up an L along the front and right wall, a conference room is on the left, along with a decent sized library that holds all the books the company has published. Nestled in between both is a vending machine and cooler sitting inside what I assume to be a lounge, while on the floor, three long rows of desks sit to house the majority of the staff. There’s a singular copier at the font, and…a fax machine?

Present Day Commentary: The entire office was out of some sad seventies sitcom and now looks completely different after my father let me have my way. Productivity is up at least five percent from the bean bags alone.

He runs his free hand through his silver hair before pivoting and taking us to one of the glass offices adjacent from his. “Actually there’s just one.”

After opening the door and ushering me inside, he closes it and juts a thumb over his shoulder. I follow where he points, and opposite of me sits an office. At first, I notice how it’s the most modern space in the entire space, noting the floor to ceiling emerald bookshelves behind an oak desk, the tall black lamp, leather furniture, Mac desktop…but then I see him. The man sitting in the corner chair, one tailored pant leg propped by his ankle over his opposite knee, a book open in his lap, and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

---