My dad is an actor.  Actually, that’s an overstatement—an exaggeration.  He’s really just a waiter, a very old one.  He’s in his 70’s now.  Sure, he still acts every now and then, but like I said, he’s mostly a waiter.  Also, he’s totally full of crap.  I’m not sure he’s ever told the truth in his life.  To be an improvement over my dad, all you have to do is be sincere.  Granted, this is hard sometimes.
         I’ll see one of my friends and they’ll say, “Your dad waited on me.”
        And I’ll respond, “Really?  Where was he?”
    
You know, I’d like to be able to say, “That can’t be him.  He gave it up,” but I can’t.  If I did, I’d be just as full of baloney as Dad.
        When I think about my dad, I remember my mother.  She died many years ago.  The old man’s claim to fame is that he was always nice to her.
       
Bobby Sturret, an acquaintance, came by my apartment, last Thursday, I think.  Said he was a ghostwriter now.  He is really full of it, almost at the falsehood level of Dad, that’s how bad he is.
        Of course, what does he say to me but, “I saw your dad.  He waited on me.”
        As usual, I said, “Yeah, okay.  Where was he?”
        Bobby said, “He was at Taco Billy’s.  He didn’t look good.”
        Now seeing as how Bobby is so into deception, I wasn’t sure what angle he had on this.  “What do you mean?” I asked.
        “He looked like hell.  Very skinny.  His teeth…his teeth were messed up.”
        Oh no.  Is there something wrong with the old man?
    
So yesterday I went to Taco Billy’s, on 14th Street, in the Hoolibasse section of Los Angeles, near the Santa Monica Freeway.  Inside there was a girl standing next to the sign that said, “Please Wait to be Seated.”
        “Is Franz Hottentot here?” I asked.
        “Franz?” she said.  “Nobody here named Franz.”
        Over her shoulder, I saw the old man coming out the kitchen with a tray of nachos.  Or maybe they were tacos.  Whatever.
        “Never mind,” I said.  “I just need a table.”
    
She gave me a nice table near the window.  I got a good view of the parked cars and the truck traffic there.
        In a few minutes he came over.  It was always a little awkward, since I’d messed up once or twice in the past and let on that I knew him.  That was a mistake; I was told never to let on that I knew him.
        “Would you care for a drink while you look at the menu?” he asked, handing one to me.
        “Dad,” I said in a low voice.  “Are you okay?  You look kind of thin.”         “I’ll be back in a moment to take your order,” he said.  He grinned a bit.  A few of his teeth were missing.
        When he came back, he said, “Can I take your order?”  He was keeping an eye on the hostess.
        Someone came in and she took them to a table on the other side of the room.
        “Dad,” I said.  “Your teeth don’t look so good.”
        “Forget about my teeth.  What the hell do you want?”
        “I don’t know…three tacos and a diet cola.”
        “Would Malarky’s be acceptable, son?”
        I always hated it when he called me son.
        “Sure, whatever,” I said.  “Where are you living?  I can’t get hold of you.”
        “I’ll be right back with your soda,” he said, and put a small piece of paper on the table.  I took a look at it.  He’d ripped off a slice of the check and had written a phone number on it.
        He’d done this before.  It was about as reliable as some lottery number a psychic might give you.
        As usual, we didn’t say much.  He never asked how I was doing, just, “Are you going to church?  Is Estelle okay?”  And, “Say hello to Jessica for me.”
    

Estelle is my wife and Jessica, my daughter.  No, he never bothered to ask how I was, just whether or not I was going to church.  It was infuriating.
        Sometimes he’d take my money.  Usually he wouldn’t.  When we were young, my sister Lucy and I would show up where he was working and he’d always give us free sodas.  The transaction was arcane and mysterious, but we knew we had to be serious about going along with it, so he wouldn’t “get caught.”
        Even though he was a brutal liar, he always paid for the sodas.  He was generous to a fault.  He’d make a big deal out of pulling bills from a wad of ones in his pocket and putting them over the check, in surreptitious fashion.  Then he’d take it up to the cashier.  He knew we’d watch him carefully.  He’d wink at us when he got us our “change.”  Then, of course, he’d give us the money.
        But now, I wanted to return the favor.  I whipped out a bunch of twenties.  “Here,” I said.  “Take this.”
        “Like hell,” he said.  Sometimes he’d get so pissed off, he’d get fired, so I knew I’d have to keep him calmed down.
        “No,” I said quietly.  “I’m paying for it, okay?”
        “No, goddamn it,” he said.  He grabbed the check, palming a few fives and some ones in his hand.
        “Okay,” I said.  “But call me back this time, okay?”
        It was so hard to communicate with him.  He had already walked away.
     
Last night, I left a few phone messages for him.  This morning, I called again and he picked up the phone.
        “Hello,” he said.
        “Dad, it’s me.  How are you?”
        “Let me give you some advice,” he said.  “Don’t get old.”
        “I know.  Have you been doing any acting?”
        “Yeah, I was in ‘Titanic.’  You know how it ends, right?”
        “Yeah, the boat sinks.”
        “Right,” he said.  He loved this joke about the predictability of the film’s plot line.
        “So where are you living?”
        “I’m over here on the Warner Brothers’ lot,” he said.  “Stop over anytime.” He is so loaded with balderdash you could wade through it all day and still not get a straight answer.
       
Maybe I’m stressing the truth factor with Dad too much.  He really only lied when he didn’t want you to know something.
        “No, really, where are you living?”
        “Don’t worry about where I’m living.  Just go to church!”
        Then he slammed down the phone.
        I stood there and stared at my phone for a moment before putting it down.  I did feel better.  At least now I have his number.
    
I’ll have to call Lucy.  I’ve got a feeling Taco Billy’s is going to get two more regular customers —if we can only get Dad to stop paying.    
 
 
                         About The Author
  
        Long-time SIG member, Jim Brearton, says this about “The Actor”:  “My father died two years ago. The story is entirely fictional, yet I hope a beloved, delightfully erasable, generous person up there won’t be throwing thunderbolts at me.”                 In addition to his many contributions to Calliope over the years, Jim Brearton’s collected poems will soon be published by Synergebooks, in an edition entitled, “New and Easy Poems to Promote Your Health and Safety.”  
      
    
    
                                        Copyright © Jim Brearton