The summer was over, and fall was in full swing. I’d walked away from my job with Teddy and was living off the funds I had set aside to purchase a home. I had no desire to work, to mingle with outsiders, or to ever go back to the donut shop where Jess and I met.

Nights were spent on my motorcycle, and days were spent at home. Be it from not working, or as a result of missing Jessica’s company, I had fallen into a state of depression.

My only escapes were music and riding my motorcycle, neither of which provided much comfort.

Convinced I’d made the right decision, and that the pain I was feeling was confirmation that I had no business in a relationship, I swore off women completely.

I sat in my parent’s living room, staring blankly at the television. I had no desire to watch it. I hadn’t had a television in five years and doubted I’d ever have another. My home was also void of any access to the internet. My phone was my only link to modern-day technology.

“So, what’s going on?” my father asked.

“Same old shit,” I responded. “Riding the bike and hoping winter never comes.”

“How’s that pay?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

I shifted my eyes to meet his and rolled them dramatically.

“Something you need to be aware of,” he said. “Sooner or later, you’re going to run out of money.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“You won’t be alright forever. Not to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong, but you need to pull your head out of your ass, Son.”

I looked at him and raised my brows. “Excuse me?”

“Your head,” he said. “It’s up your butt. When that happens, it’s too dark for you to see what’s going on around you. Pull it out so you can understand just what it is you’re doing. From my vantage point, you look like a damned idiot. I have the luxury of knowing that’s not the case. Pull your head out of your ass, Son.”

I didn’t always agree with my father, but his observations were typically spot-on. I didn’t have to agree with him, but I needed to consider what he said.

I shifted my eyes to the television. “I’ll have a look at it.”

“If you get confused,” he said. “There’s another dead giveaway that you’re head’s in your sphincter.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my tone deadpan.

“It stinks,” he said, equally flat in expression.

I chuckled. “Thanks for the hot tip.”

“Anything I can do to expedite getting you back to normal.”

I had no idea what normal was. It was different for everyone. I certainly wasn’t my usual self, I knew that much for sure. Knowing my father could see the changes in me was disappointing. I didn’t like disappointing my father. I hadn’t done so since I was a child. Even then, I doubted he was truly disappointed.

Throughout my legal matters he supported me one hundred percent. Although my mother didn’t agree with me not accepting the offer of probation, my father did. Admitting to guilt was something he never would have done. There was no doubt I was my father’s son. I saw a lot of him in my decisions and actions throughout my legal battle.

We had always been close. During my prison sentence our relationship changed. We became best friends. Every week, without fail, I received a letter from him. They were written on Sundays, the day we normally met.

Often, he’d scribe two letters, as he was unable to get everything he had to say stuffed into one envelope.

Through the course of the letter writing, he told me he was proud of me.

I beamed with pride upon reading that letter.

Fluent in Spanish, he taught me slang. He further educated me on Spanish customs, culture, and what was perceived as disrespectful. All of this was done through his letters. It was truly a step back in time for me to write a letter asking a question, and to wait two weeks for him to receive it, and then respond.

His assistance allowed me to communicate with men who were either unwilling or incapable of communicating with me otherwise.

Early in my incarceration, I met a man from the state of Chiapas, Mexico who simply went by the name Chiapas. He spoke no English whatsoever. With my father’s assistance, I learned to communicate with him. Soon, we became friends.

I learned that he was going to be taken to the border and released after serving his prison sentence. He had every intention of returning to his home state, but it was several thousand miles away from the border. The journey, he explained, would be on foot.

Upon finding out they were going to simply drop him off at the border, my father took it upon himself to deposit money into Chiapas’ account.

Chiapas was elated to the point of being in tears when he received it.

When I advised my father that it was a federal offense for him to deposit money into another inmates account, he simply stated the federal prison system was comprised of a bunch of fucktards.

With winter now approaching, I wondered if it would be feasible that I ride my motorcycle four thousand miles to the Guatemalan border and see him. Mexico’s warmth would be a nice change of pace.

Still staring blankly at the television, I broke the silence. “I think I’m pissed that winter’s coming.”

After a few moments, he peered over the top of his Kindle. “Instead of bitching that you can’t ride your bike, you ought to thank God for the car you’ve got.”

“I feel free when I’m on the bike. When I’m in the car, I feel like I’m confined.”

He lowered his Kindle. “You’ve been out for what? Three years?”

I nodded. “Give or take.”

“You’re a free man whether you’re on that motorcycle or in the comfort of your car.”

“I don’t feel free.”

“Prison was a drop of rain on the windshield of life, Son. Don’t let it become any more than that. Separate yourself from that part of your life and move on. If you dwell on it, they’ve beaten you.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “It isn’t easy.”

He spit out a laugh. “You’ve never been prone to taking the easy way out of anything. Stop whining and lift your chin a little.”

“I’m not whining.”

He went back to reading. “It’s cold outside and I can’t ride my scooter,” he said in an exaggerated whine.

“It’s not a scooter,” I snapped back. “It’s a chopper.”

“Fuck you. It’s a scooter.”

“It’s a goddamned chopper.”

“It’s a piece of purple shit.”

“It’s black with purple flames.”

“It looks like a girl ought to be riding it. Surprised those degenerates you ride with allow it in the clubhouse.” He lowered his Kindle. “They don’t make you park it outside, do they?”

“Go to hell, Pop.”

“As long as I’ve got to look at you wear that long face you’re wearing, I’m already there,” he said.

My father had an odd way of getting his point across. Hearing him say those words caused me to realize the hell I was putting him through.

He’d aged considerably during my incarceration, and even more so since my release. Although he claimed his time at home was much easier than the time I spent behind the walls, I doubted that was entirely true.

I had no intention of causing him any more pain, stress, or agony.

Living as a hermit was slowly killing me. I needed to get my life in order. Settling down with a woman and living a conventional life was the answer. I knew I could survive being in another relationship.

I doubted, however, that I could endure another breakup.