“It’s the difference between want and need,” said the purveyor at the booth selling old factory doors, railroad ties, and sections of picket fence. 

Sorry. I tend to do this. I start sharing dialogue halfway through an anecdote with no care that you don’t have a damn clue how you, me, we ended up there. In media res, or whatever I learned in Intro to Film class. It can be hip and effective, when used properly. That’s a big if.

To back up. I left Sunny’s, snarfed a plate of oysters at Wintzell’s, made a quick playlist from the cassette Ms. Vaughn had given me, hit US-45 N towards Memphis, and watched the sunset roll by while a Tom Waits cover of “Three Little Birds” played. 

The next stop on Dad’s mystery tour and Fender’s “Aren’t you glad you didn’t whack yourself yet?” tour was Mondo’s Market, a 142,000 square foot refurbished factory space. Over 100 vendors shilled their wares, from light bulb art to vintage furniture to old typewriters. It was open from ten to four on Sundays. Sardinian shopping at its finest, mixed with the smell of sawdust, sweat, and anticipation. 

The booth next to Dad’s destination sold wooden flat file cabinets extricated from the basement of Northwestern University’s Block Museum. The woman selling the cabinets looked and smelled like an old pipe. The purveyor selling factory doors, railroad ties, and sections of picket fence had a face as smooth as shrink wrap. He had to be the owner’s kid. Or grandkid, even. He looked like a scrawny wannabe Sylvester Stallone, ready to make his mark. 

“It’s the difference between want and need,” he repeated, and then, because I was confused by his lecturing tone, he said, “Do you need me to say it again?” 

“No,” I said, running my fingers on a railroad tie so old it felt fossilized. “No, thank you.”

He sized me up. My combed hair. My white short-sleeve button up with only the top button undone. The sleeves too long and swallowing my biceps like Tim Burton’s sandworm. I was the anti-Springsteen. An accountant by trade and lifestyle. The kid might’ve been a baby, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“My mom died last year,” he said, waving at the man running the Carrom board booth. He opened a metal box on a side table and rifled through papers. “She said someone looking”– he gave me another once over – “exactly like you might swing by someday or never. Plus she gave me this photo.” 

The Polaroid was me at six years old, wearing a Batman costume in the dressing room at one of Dad’s shows. Boston, maybe. Or Philly. He was still selling out big arenas then. And had the energy after the show to play with his kid who just wanted to wear a costume like his Dad did on stage. Halloween was a month past, and I’d begged him to let me wear Batman again. It was either argue with a kid and miss show time, or let the kid with the cowlick have his way. Again. 

Dad was an agreeable dude, despite how the press made him out to be. Conflicted, and eccentric, and yeah, he had a temper. Ask the storefront window at Barley’s Tavern in Bridgeport. And the guy he chucked through it. But Dad’s heart was in the right place. In the rare times he shared it. 

“Can I keep this?” I asked about the photo of young me. 

“Twenty bucks,” the kid said. 

“Twenty bucks?” I laughed.

He shrugged. “Everything has a price.” 

“Even memories.” I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and held it out to him. “Twenty bucks, and you tell me what your mom told you to tell me about my Dad.” 

He snatched the bill from me and added it to a stack in the metal box. He took a small black tape recorder and shut the box. “No need,” he said. He hit play on the recorder, spun the volume dial, and set it on the fossilized railroad tie. 

A voice came through the tiny speaker, gruff and grizzled and 100% Brett Carradine, my father. “Hey, Kid, got a lot to say and not much breath left to say it. Gonna let Meredith do the honors this round. She’s got a way with words the way I did with pelvic thrusting. Anyway. Keep on going. There’s no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, because it’s not a damn rainbow at all. It’s a roller coaster you’re going to want to get off. Don’t. Stick it out. I didn’t want to either, but I’m glad I did. You will be, too. Love you, Kid. Meredith. Take this damn thing from me. I need a smoke.” 

There was a ruffle and a clearer voice, higher, and brighter. “Hi, Fender. Your Dad, right? This story makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.”