text: They say that your life flashes before your eyes in the second right before you die. Multiply that by ten, and each time, over and over again, you get to relive a mistake you can’t correct. It started when I accidentally slammed my son’s fingers in my car door while standing in a parking lot across from my ex-wife and the guy who’s banging her and wondering how much his silver Lexus cost. My son’s howling siren of pain informed me that I was focused on the wrong thing during our weekly custodial exchange, and I managed to screw something up once again. Still, why did Sandra opt to show up with her new boyfriend, Duncan, and in his car, not hers? During my short meditation on the topic, I didn’t see our son, Stephan, double back to grab something from my piece-of-shit Hyundai, so I blindly closed the door. I thought he was out of the car. I was wrong. “Shit,” I yelled at Stephan. “What the fuck did you do?” This could’ve been another uneventful drop-off, but now it’s a whole thing. I blame everyone for this misstep. It was Stephan’s fault for not reading my mind that I was about to shut the door. It was Duncan’s fault for driving that damn car. It was Sandra’s fault for bringing Duncan. It was also Sandra’s fault for asking to meet at a park instead of her house. Stephan’s howling was going to attract all kinds of unwanted attention from anyone within earshot. And who was that location convenient for, anyway? If it’s near Duncan’s house, meaning they were taking my boy to his place, I’m going to throw an indignant shit fit. I’ve met the guy only once before, but I don’t know if he’s got dogs, guns, drugs, or Hustler magazines lying about. And while I’m at it, why are there no other adults my age named “Duncan”? What era did this guy drop in from? I wrenched the door open, releasing Stephan’s hand from between the body and the window frame. There was no blood, but those fingers were going to swell up like sausages. If I can comfort him with one arm, while getting his ice pack from his lunch box with the other, all while strategically blocking Sandra and Duncan from swarming in and taking over, I can totally fix this shit show of my own creation. In twelve years of marriage, Sandra was always the problem-fixer, bill-payer, tax-preparer, appointment-maker, decision-maven. My job was usually washing dishes and lifting heavy objects, no matter how much I attempted to get involved. Discussions went through her. Playdates were set up by her. Emails were sent to her. Parent-Teacher conferences would be conducted through the teacher and her, even as I sat there by her side. Hey, I’m a parent of this kid too! Yeah, I screwed this up, but dammit, I needed to fix it. I knew I was perfectly capable of fixing it. Back off, I’ve got this. I hoped the two of them weren’t about to swarm in and take over. “Careless again, David,” Sandra spat at me, rushing in from the side. Every syllable stung, all six of them, puncturing our entire history like pins in a voodoo doll wearing my favorite Batman shirt. “Careless,” as in You don’t care. You never do. You’re incapable of showing concern for anyone but yourself. You didn’t pay attention since it wasn’t about you. “Again.” A constant disappointment. Over and over, you screw everything up. Your only consistency is your ability to disappoint. It’s the only reliable part about you. “David!” I go by “Dave”. My friends call me “Dave”. I introduced myself to her as “Dave”. The only times she called me “David” was when I met her stuck-up parents, in our marriage vows, and at the divorce signing, confirming my full name on the decree. This time, she punctuated the second syllable as if she was telling a kindergarten class about curse words. Students, you aren’t allowed to say the word ‘Da-VID’. That word means ‘the selfish, and maniacal destroyer of lives.’ ‘Dave’ is an acceptable variation... if you must. Now I’ve got two family members upset with me. His cries and her utter disgust nauseate and paralyze me into pathetic inaction. There was an emergency at hand, and in an instant, I couldn’t function with that much disappointment swirling in my toxic orbit. Anyone else want to pile on? How about you Duncan? Got anything to say? “I’m a doctor, let me have a look,” Duncan said, right on cue. I may be a piece of shit, but since we broke up, Sandra and I have done everything we could to maintain a civil, if not wholly pleasant relationship, and not just for the kid’s sake. It took a divorce to realize we made better friends than lovers. As part of a rather amicable separation, we chose to be up-front and honest about our lives moving on, without obligating our nine-year old with secrets he had to keep from either his mom or me. Sandra moved on much sooner than I did, and it was with Doctor Duncan. A month ago, both she and Stephan told me about her new boyfriend. I unexpectedly met him recently, when I bumped into them at the market. I confidently noted he was physically nothing like me, strangely aiding my pride by looking at an awkwardly tall and lanky bird-faced man in denim and tweed. My balding, pear-shaped body mocked him silently at the time, before he crushed my hand in a vice-grip handshake, then telling me about his successful pediatrician practice. My whimsical existence as a high school drama teacher kept my composure realizing our tax brackets were quite far apart before they walked off. Now, here you are, on the scene, Dr. Boyfriend. Do you seriously need to announce your credentials to us, all to look at some pinched fingers? Want a real injury to deal with? How about I slice off your head, and shove it in that reusable shopping bag you vainly carried under your arm when we met? Thank God that in a city with thirty-thousand doctors, the only one on the scene is the one sleeping with my ex-wife . I’m still unsure when the two of them met. Maybe they hooked up prior to that fateful three-hour, tearful talk in the kitchen before I moved out. Perhaps Sandra hasn’t told me everything about her life moving on. Thanks, doc. “Mommy, my fingers” Stephan cried out as he pushed out from my arms and fell into Sandra’s, as she kneeled down to my right with the now-retrieved ice pack. He simply gave up on me, opting for her instead, regardless of the week we just had, regardless of the fun we crafted. I fed him his favorite foods, broke some of mommy’s TV rules, played a few violent video games, all to his delight. Everything I invested into the Stephan and Daddy account was just withdrawn in an emotional heist successfully pulled off by mommy. Does he blame me for crushing his fingers? Probably, but since I’m was pushed out, I wasn’t given the chance to fix this. As I stood next to the car door that started this whole mess, like a silent witness dumbfounded at what just happened, the three of them headed over to Duncan’s car in a wave of tears, soothing care from mom, and Duncan’s reassuring evaluation. “I know sweetie. I bet that hurts real bad. Keep the ice on it, ok?” “Don’t worry, buddy. Your fingers will be just fine.” The only thing I hate more than the weekly goodbye is when my only saving grace - my patented, routine farewell - has been hijacked. I love to tell Stephan how he’s the best boy ever, and how daddy loves him very much no matter what. I hug him too long and attack him with machine gun kisses on his cheeks till he giggles, and then give him a loving raspberry on the other cheek. I do it every week. It’s a genuine sign of the copious love and affection I have for him and have been showing him since day one. Admittedly, when I pulled into the parking lot, seeing the two of them there, I had a vision of doing it with a few more kisses, and getting a few more giggles out of him, just because I can. How much longer will I get to shower him with that kind of ridiculous affection? He’s nine, and any second now, he’ll instantly be fifteen, and too cool for any of that. Our time together is wasting away. These drop-offs take a little piece of my heart every week, and an agonizing departure like this is pure torture. His howls of pain transitioned to guttural moaning and runny-nose sniffling that I can’t do a damn thing about if he’s walking away, and it’s the last thing I’ll remember of our week. Worst of all, I can’t say the two words that at a minimum, will help. “I’m sorry.” They walked away with bags on adult shoulders, leaving no room for me to intercept. So, I stood there, helpless, pathetic, defeated, and unforgiven. When they opened their car doors, both of our notification systems created a chaotic chorus of chimes and beeps, alarming us that our keys are still in their respective ignitions. My car sounds like a cheap alarm clock, yelling “GET UP, YOU LAZY ASS!”, compared to Duncan’s Lexus which gently pings like a single harp string plucked by an angel. His opulent, fucking Lexus. It’s no rust-eaten, navy blue Hyundai, that smells like a burrito died under the front seat like mine, that’s for sure. I remained standing by my car, looking for any sign of hope, or positive welfare, or even a weak smile of “ Don’t worry daddy, it’ll all be fine” . All I see is the back of Sandra’s head in the car, turned towards our child, and away from me. The only final acknowledgment I get is goofy-ass Duncan, shrugging his shoulders like some hapless, detached father who has no idea what his own offspring’s food allergies are. Kids, what can you do? That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t have a fucking clue of what’s going on so you just kidnap my family and ride off in your luxury chariot? Screw it, I’m done. I give up for today. I sent them off on a safe journey to wherever they’re headed with my middle finger extended upwards in a salute. I think Duncan did a double-take, but I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it really landed or not, as I descended into my awaiting jalopy. I slammed the door shut, and started the car, immediately turning the radio on as Duncan’s car pulled out from his spot. Led Zeppelin greeted me and I turned up the volume to accept their invitation to rock. Despite the excruciating volume level, I can still hear Stephan’s echoing cries from a few seconds ago, reverberating in my heart. She was right, damnit. The entire situation was my careless fault. If I was paying attention to the person that meant the most to me, instead of the asshole who meant the least, I would’ve seen Stephan’s every move, every smile, every laugh, every precious moment he gives me. I wouldn’t have crushed his innocent little fingers in my car door. I would’ve shouldered the disappointment in his eyes as he left my comfort and care. I would’ve looked at him with a smile and confidence, reassuring him that I’m the best dad in the world, and he’s my number one guy. They say you can see your life flash before your eyes the second before you die. The last ten seconds killed me like ten miserable lives of regret and pain. So much anguish in such little time. I turned the car off, extinguishing the music as quickly as I started it, irritated by all the noise, and the misplaced anger. The parking lot is occupied by one car. One driver, no passenger.