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And Then He Moved

Stephen V. Ramey

    Michael’s father was a billionaire, self-made and proud. He owned factories and distribution chains, flower shops and funeral homes. He ate caviar for breakfast, and brushed his teeth with champagne.
    It was the night before Michael went off to college that they sat down to have “the talk”. Michael had known this was coming for months, but it was still disconcerting. The secrets a father shared could make or break a son’s life. Michael wasn’t certain he was ready.
    His father nodded to a chair across the polished desk. Michael sat. Sweat collected in his armpits. Did it show?
    “I came from humble roots,” his father began.
    “I know,” Michael said. “We’re very proud—”
    “Let me finish.”
    “Yes, sir.” Michael gripped the chair arms.
    His father nodded. “My father, your grandfather, was barely a millionaire, and yet he was a wise man in his way. I’m going to share with you the advice he gave me when I was your age.” He leaned forward. Michael leaned forward too, stomach packed with butterflies and bees.
    “Beware the killer drug,” his father said. “Your friends will tell you it lifts you up, but it will only take you down. Do not reduce the lifetime of responsible wealth I have amassed to mere moments of joy, Michael.”
    “I won’t, sir.” Which drug did his father mean? There were so many, and he had already experimented with a few.
    “You will know it by its cloying smell,” his father said. “The sweetness on your tongue. You will know it by the smiles of others, their fond embraces and shining eyes. One sniff, one taste, Michael, and you are lost. Do you understand?”
    “I think so, Father.” Cocaine? Some of Michael’s friends had done a line or two.
    “Good,” his father said. He leaned back and slapped his thighs. “Good.”
    “Just to be certain,” Michael said. “This is cocaine you speak of, correct?”
    His father’s trimmed brows pulled together. “No, Michael, cocaine is fine. It helped me through many twenty-hour days.” He sighed. “No drug should be abused, of course. You must retain mastery of your appetite.”
    “Yes, sir. Is it heroine, then?” That horse was said to kick harder than cocaine.
    His father shook his head.
    “LSD?” A hippy drug. His father despised hippies. Another negative. Michael tensed. How could he run his father’s companies if he could not even understand a simple thing?
    “The drug I speak of,” his father said, “is TLC.”
    Michael’s gut went cold. “Marijuana?” He was already lost. He’d smoked pot, ingested it, rolled it into his cigarettes.
    “Not THC,” his father said, “though I do not approve of that, either. Have you smoked the stuff?”
    Michael stared through the window.
    “Well, stop,” his father said. “It undercuts drive, and turns you sloppy.”
    “Yes, sir.” He would miss that soothing smoke, the slow, steady stroll of conscious thought.
    “The drug I mean, is love, Michael, empathy, sympathy, affection. Do not partake of that emotion, or you will be lost. Now, do you see? Will you heed my advice, son? As I heeded my father’s?”
    Michael sat, unmoving, expressionless, as grains of understanding trickled down. This explained so much about his father, his mother, everything.
    “There’s a good man.” His father stood, and checked his diamond-crusted Rolex. Their appointment was at an end.
    Michael stood on unsteady legs, and walked to the exit. He turned the knob, swung the door open—so smooth and uncomplaining on that substantial hinge—and stopped. He couldn’t help himself.
    “Does this mean, Father, that you do not love me?”
    His father’s lips pursed full. “What do you want from me, Michael, an empire or a kiss?”
    For the longest time Michael waited halfway in, halfway out. And then he moved.

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