Everyone is hurrying to get inside. Halted cars block each other between intersections, as cyclists and pedestrians nearly collide while navigating through the chaos. The city lights flicker and wane, barely shining through the storm—traffic signals fail to change color at the appropriate times, leaving a line of disgruntled drivers and fender benders. Cars move in irregular beats, abruptly starting, then stopping, then starting again, as drivers slowly inch through narrow streets towards their destinations.
Bayer watches anxiously as sleet rattles the windshield. His father, Paul, is behind the wheel, waiting for the traffic signal to turn green. He flinches every time his father leans towards him. “You gettin’ hot air?” Bayer ignores the question, looking out the window, willing the stoplight to change. “I’m glad you came with me. I haven’t seen the piping in this apartment yet, but I’ll need your help.” Losing patience, Paul slowly proceeds through the frozen red light, ignoring the angry drivers’ horns. Bayer shifts uncomfortably as Paul searches for his toolbelt behind the seat. “Here, grab the wheel.” Paul attaches his belt while Bayer holds the wheel. “Actually, I need your good looks to distract the fella that lives there.” Paul chuckles and winks at Bayer. “I’ll focus better on the job without him wooing me.” Bayer lets go of the wheel early, forcing his father to quickly course correct. “Alright. I get it. I’m number two. You’re stuck with me and I’m no—.” The truck’s wheels skid as Paul suddenly veers into a tight parking spot, causing a crescendo of jangling beer bottles as they topple over each other on the floorboard. Looking around, Paul nods towards a nearby school before exiting the vehicle, “Least you have the weekends. Work follows ‘em home.” Bayer watches a couple of students cling to their umbrellas as they run by, then exits the truck to follow Paul inside.
The resident quickly disappears into his bedroom—too busy to speak with either of them. Without a word, Bayer and Paul move into the basement to examine the many intersecting, interconnecting pipes. The boiler struggles to send heat through the apartment as its rumbling reverberates around the room, producing a discordant tone. Paul ignites a dangling lightbulb, eyeing the various pipes and valves before waving for Bayer to come and examine the boiler nearby. Bayer approaches slowly, pausing to inspect sections of piping along the way. Paul growls above the churning boiler “Hey! Why are you so slow? You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” His eyes twinkle as they reflect the lone lightbulb swaying in the black. Bayer glances up, then quickly away. “You know something? You keep taking your sweet time to get over here then,” Paul pauses, wryly chuckling, “then I’m liable to come get you.” The boiler’s rumbles grow louder and more intense. Bayer’s forehead is beaded with sweat. He picks up a wrench as he approaches, staying within range of the staircase. As the rumbles reach a crescendo, Paul shines his flashlight into Bayer’s face, forcing him to squint. “What are you doing?” Bayer’s hands stop trembling and he relaxes. “Show me what you see.”
They return to Paul’s place after finishing the job. Paul grabs himself a drink and offers one to Bayer. Bayer accepts and attempts to leave the room, but Paul grabs his arm. “Hang on.” Paul turns away. “I wanted to tell you, ‘Nice work.’ That leak you caught saved us a few hours today.” Paul relinquishes his grip, but Bayer remains in place, eyeing the case of beer in the kitchen. “Even with your mom gone, I still only drink one case a week.” Paul shakes his head and laughs, “I may go through two soon, with you around.” Paul hands Bayer a beer, and the two stand in Paul’s unkempt living room. Fold out chairs are positioned nearby, close to the television. A lone picture hangs on the wall: Bayer and his mother sharing a moment he was too young to remember. The walls look like they’re melting: dried paint bubbles and runoff unevenly reflecting the wavering light cast by a wobbling, whirling ceiling fan. Paul takes a seat and Bayer follows suit.
“Do you want anything?” Bayer shakes his head. “You know, you—” Paul stops himself and takes another drink, then continues, “I don’t know what you heard from your mom. I should probably tell you myself, though.” Bayer notices the picture of his mother across the room. “I wish—” Paul pauses, then stands up and removes the picture from the wall to bring back to Bayer. Bayer looks at the photograph, but quickly averts his gaze. “I wanted kids, but never wanted my own.” Paul hesitates, “I just can’t stand the idea of another version of myself running around fucking things up.” Bayer stares at Paul’s drink. “That’s why I hoped you’d take more after her.” Bayer covers his mother’s face with his thumb, pressing hard on the photograph as if trying to wipe away a smudge; Paul quickly rescues the picture from him. “I know you miss her. I wish you and I had more time together, though.” He balances the photograph carefully back on the wall, affectionately brushing his ex-wife’s image with his finger.
“You’re making a mistake. Taking me back.” Bayer’s voice quivered, struggling to stay flat and unfeeling. Paul sits down again and says with a sigh, “I made my decision for a reason.” He wets his lips while staring at the ceiling fan before adding, “Anyone comes with baggage, but, really, your mother and I helped carry each others’ loads.” Paul looks at Bayer, then quickly takes another drink, “I’m hoping that you and I can… you know, do that for each other.” Paul takes another quick drink, but coughs after swallowing too much beer. Through his sputtering, Paul gasps, “Most say you gotta plan, but when you’re passionate about something and the going gets rough, you know what I do? I cover my eyes.” Bayer squints at Paul, “I’d rather die not knowing how far the mountain was to climb, or how far I had to go—so long as I chased what I wanted.” Bayer smiles for the first time. “Yeah, you laugh. You probably think, ‘he’s an idiot.’” Paul leans forward, “Do you want to hear something even dumber, though? Your mother was the opposite, and she still married me, and we still had you.” Bayer shakes his head. “I proposed four times—that’s right—before she had enough confidence that we could even work well together! Can you imagine?” Bayer asks, “Is it the only mistake she ever made?” Paul pauses, then takes out a cigar and lighter from his back pocket. “Two. That, and marrying your piece-of-shit stepfather.” Bayer lifts his drink to Paul. “My unplanning, persistent ass kept trying and she figured, ‘I never roll the dice, but I’ll give this asshole a shot.’” Paul lights his cigar. “Then there’s you.” Bayer looks at the floor. “When you were little, you used to skip as many stairs as you could while bringing dinner to the basement—you remember our little jerry-rigged theater room in the basement for watching movies?” Bayer nods. “Well, you missed a step one day and tripped, spilt roast all over your face. You were crying and your face was covered with meat. Your mother rushed downstairs and thought you split your head open and had your brains leaking out onto your face.” Bayer starts laughing while Paul imitates his wailing mother. “‘Oh my god! Oh my god!’ She was really howling. I came over and reached down, pulling off the roast, saying, ‘Honey it’s just roast! Relax.’” Paul reaches over and playfully tries to pinch Bayer’s forehead, pretending to pick off the meat, then continues, “I guess we all do stupid things in this family; so long as you pursue what you love, I don’t care.” Paul glances at Bayer, “Would it be too stupid if we took a picture together? I want to show my girlfriend how close the resemblance is.” Bayer nods and the two get close, Paul putting his arm around Bayer’s shoulder, his cigar crammed into the right side of his mouth while the two smile the same smile into the camera.