When I first decided to feature some of my (IRL) friends and other bloggers as guest posts during my absence I KNEW I had to have Hilary write for me. Hilary found me first and we started chatting and reading each other's sites this past summer. We met at BlogHer DC: The Reach-Out Tour and I wrote about my girl-crush on her here. Since meeting, I read her site daily and I have fallen deeply for her writing. Her stories, wit, sarcasm and ability to bring characters to life is riveting.
Before I met Adrian my Father had told me and my Sister all about him. My Father hired Adrian to drive him to and from Denver's airport to his house twice a week when he lived in Boulder. It was a smart decision since my Father both fears and detests flying and loves and depends on a cocktail of scotch and Xanax to make the flights bearable. The cocktail impaired my Father's ability to operate heavy machinery as you can easily imagine. It was a safety precaution and one I supported, albeit with a roll of my eyes.
What my Father liked best about having a driver was that he was able to talk about "his driver," thereby making himself sound important. On the phone one day my Father excitedly told me he had come up with a nickname for "his driver," one that he was sure I would "appreciate."
"I call him Leroy!" He squealed.
"But his name is Adrian, right?" I asked.
"Yeah! But I call him Leroy and he calls me Master! It's a joke and he knows it's funny."
I breathed in and shook my head. My Father laughed into the phone, mimicking the exchanges he and Adrian had over the hilarious nickname.
Adrian was in his early 40's with sandy blond hair. His was a Lincoln Town Car with incredibly soft leather seats and a tv built-in for the passengers. Inside the car he had Diet Pepsi stocked just for my Father who at the time consumed at least ten cans of the stuff everyday. I had been asked what soda I wanted prior to landing in Denver. I had asked for Mountain Dew. There was a chilled six pack waiting for me.
My Father sat in the front seat and talked at Adrian about his new sunglasses and driving gloves- both of which were made by Porsche and purchased at the dealership as accessories for his new Boxster. Adrian was polite and acted interested. I sipped my Mountain Dew and watched the Rockies grow ever larger ahead of us. A few times my Father might have said things about me and Adrian probably nodded but I don't remember.
When we arrived at my Father's house at the end of an unpaved road, high atop a mountain, my Father pointed out the new landscaping and I told him it was great. Adrian laughed and smiled in my direction, knowing no 17-year-old cares about landscaping. Before he left, my Father thanked Adrian and handed him a fistful of cash. Adrian smirked and bent his back awkwardly, leaning forward, "Thanks you Mas'ah!" My Father erupted in laughter and said, "See you Sunday, Leroy!"
Adrian laughed as he got back in the Town Car and sped down the dusty driveway out of sight.
Years later I visited my Father over the summer when I was in college. My Father picked me up with his then-wife from the airport. The visit did not go well. I hadn't realized then the extent of the turmoil between my former step-mother and my Father. It was thick and suffocating in their already cold and sterile house.
On the last night of my visit my Father and I had one of our biggest fights. There was yelling and screaming and running and crying and the slamming and locking of doors. You could say it was stressful. It started over my Father's disapproval of my college. He called it "third rate!" and I had give it right back with "Syracuse isn't an Ivy. And you dropped out during a war and got drafted. That was an awesome decision." And on it went for what felt like a thousand years.
I remember sitting on the front steps of the massive house with my step-mother after my Father mercifully fell asleep, smoking Camel Lights and asking her why she stayed with such a tyrant. She never really answered. After we separated to our own bedrooms, she called Adrian to set up an early morning pick-up, before my Father would be awake. Before 6AM she knocked gently on my bedroom door. I hadn't slept but was ready to go. She whispered the plan, that Adrian was coming to get me, that she had changed my flight time to leave earlier.
I was ready with my bags in the driveway when Adrian's black car pulled into view. Without speaking he loaded my things and opened the door to the front seat. Immediately I knew my step-mother had explained the urgency of my departure and the fight and everything. I got inside and Adrian handed me a Mountain Dew. My step-mother waved from an upstairs window and looked like a prisoner because she was one.
I thanked Adrian for coming to get me and he said, "It's no problem at all." I told him my Father was kind of a dick and he nodded, "I know." I told him he was a pretty patient guy to be willing to drive my Father four times a week. He hesitated for a second and then said, "Your Father is a total prick. I charge him double what I charge everyone else. " My smile broke into a much-needed laugh.
"Are you kidding?!" I asked him.
"Hell no! To deal with his bullshit? Are you kidding?!" We both laughed. We headed towards the airport and talked about driving, how Adrian had driven Peter Jennings when the Columbine Massacre had happened and how Jennings wept in his car. Adrian had met all kinds of people and made connections all over the world. He and his longtime girlfriend had traveled all over to places recommended or hosted by former passengers. He seemed like a really nice guy.
Adrian let me smoke cigarettes in his car and indulged himself in a cigar.
As we got closer to the airport Adrian's tone became more serious, "Listen. You and your sister are such nice young ladies. And this isn't my business but you don't deserve to have to put up with that dick of a Father. I have always enjoyed you both but nothing would make me happier than to never see either of you visiting him again."
I headed back to school with my head too full of emotions, discoveries and exhaustion. It would be years before I saw my Father again. Our early ride to Denver was the last time I saw Adrian and I hope now that as the months and Christmases passed without a trace of me, Adrian was, as promised, glad.
Comments