Chapter two of my novel "The Trickster."

Skip

Don’t grow up to be like your grandfather, Skip’s voice rose from the floor. I’m begging you. He was lying on his back, studying the plumbing underneath the bathroom sink.

The recollection startles me. The flash of the heroic sire from which my youth had sprung wrenches open memory banks that flood me with nostalgia. Vice-grip in hand, Skip cursed at the leaky pipe he was wrestling with. Son of a bitch!

Why? Gramps was alright. I was 18 years-old, naive, filled with an unwavering faith in myself.

He never worked an honest day in his life. Skip slid out from under the sink and sat upright.

But he was happy.

He was an entertainer and a charismatic… I’ll give you that. But he never provided for his family. The head shake was quintessential Skip: totally dismissive. What little money he made from playing music, he gambled and drank away. Pause. Is that your idea of happiness?

I ignored the question and jump-started ahead to what my father really wanted to talk about. Just because I want to be a painter doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into an asshole.

Climbing onto his feet, he placed a hand on my shoulder. I know that.

We’d fallen into this conversation countless times after Skip learned that I was enrolling in art school. In retrospect it all seems so laughable. Those hot-headed debates about art and my future are meaningless shadows now. By the end of his life Skip was my biggest fan, a convert who was convinced that painting was my true calling. But back in ‘81, my father feared that his firstborn would become entangled in the same dark web that undermined his own father’s artistic ambitions: drugs, alcoholism and depression.

Skip was still in his prime. A year shy of fifty, he was as strapping as most men fifteen years his junior. His green eyes were clear and sparkled with an unwavering certainty about the world they interpreted. A no-frills sort of person who laboured hard for the betterment of his family, he was a pragmatist who looked the part. Void of flash, from the clothes he wore to the car he traveled in, practicality was the force that motivated him. A much respected, no-nonsense high school teacher, he was the polar opposite of his Dionysian father. Where gramps was compelled by his muse Skip, the stoic, shied away from her call.

What stratagems he formed what toils he bore! For months he cajoled and encouraged, pressing me to study engineering or law… anything but the Goddam arts. But the harder he pulled the more I pushed. It was maddening; he was in such complete denial about my nature. He just couldn’t accept how similarly gramps and I were hard-wired.

I just think you’d be better served with a degree that is going to make you a little money.

I exaggerated a yawn.

Don’t give me your attitude... Skip started to lose his temper, but managed to keep it in check.

The thought of another lecture about me ‘wasting my life’ was making my skin crawl. So I steeled myself, bracing for the obligatory speech about irresponsible artists and the life of poverty I should expect.

Skip sighed: Listen. Do you want me to support your decision?

I was caught off guard by the tactic and answered him hesitantly: Ah… absolutely.

Then you have to promise me something.

Our eyes met. What?

Promise me that you won’t attempt to live on painting alone. Skip took a deep breath. You can’t believe the burden my mother had to carry around. If it wasn’t for Margaret, there wouldn’t have been any food on our table. Skip messed up my hair. I don’t want you to be the kind of person who can’t provide for his family.

Beloved old man! Benevolent as wise… I nodded my head.

If your grandfather had been a bit more grounded. Had he been willing to take a part-time job, something that brought in a steady income… Skip shrugged his shoulders; his eyes glazed with concern. But Ray was too proud. He was so obsessed with his music he ignored his responsibilities.

I laughed.

What’s so funny? A look of irritation flashed upon the Skip’s face, but quickly disappeared once he’d heard my explanation.

I’ve been working part-time jobs since I was fourteen. I’d be lying if I told you that I believed I won’t have one when I’m sixty-five.