by Lorenzo Canseco
I walked into the bar and was greeted with a new scent, something I hadn’t smelled in the eight years I’d been alive. Cigarette smoke drifted through the air, moved along by drunken laughs and vulgarities from the kitchen. Texas A&M memorabilia clung to every surface like it was a part of the foundation, while nearly every television played a sports game of one kind or another. I clung tightly to my dad’s hand and looked up at him. He didn’t seem to be bothered, so I decided that I wasn’t either. As we had lunch, the edges of his mouth would occasionally curl up, holding a small but contagious smile, as he told me stories from his days as a student, 30 years before.
I remember being curious as to why he seemed so excited to be there. At 8 years old, I hadn’t lived long enough to understand the concept of nostalgia, or even that my father had an entire life before I entered the world. He had always been compassionate and caring, but at that age, I saw him as a giant, a symbol of authority and stability, someone who I never saw relax or kick back. I was shocked when I found out that he had dated girls besides my mom before, and even more shocked that at one point, he had been a firefighter in the small town! By the end of the conversation, his larger-than-life stature shrunk, and I felt a friendly connection with the man who had simply been my father the hour before.
Looking back, I can see that this experience fit the day perfectly. Earlier that morning, I had been sitting on the couch, watching cartoons with my dad. A simple question about his college ring led us out the front door to his truck, where we braved the hot, southern air to introduce a little spontaneity to the day. We had spent two hours driving to his alma mater, then another two hours in the town itself. By the time we left the bar, it was already two o’clock.
We were on the highway, heading back home to Houston, when I saw an old, tattered billboard that said “World War II Reenactment Today!” Before my dad could read the sign, I was already pleading with him to stop. A mischievous look crept across his face, then he made a U-turn in the middle of the road, tearing into the parking lot just in time to see the beginning of the show.
We found a spot up front, right where we could hear every crack of the guns and thumps of artillery. The thick, savory scent of gunpowder permeated the field where the battle was occurring, and I imagined myself out there, fighting for my country in some glorious, unrealistic manner. It had been less than a year since 9/11, and I was deep into an obsession with the military, often playing soldiers with friends.
“This is beyond cool,” I said, as I broke my attention for a moment and stole a glance up at my dad. His smile was bigger than mine. I think that, perhaps, at that moment, he too was feeling a sense of childlike patriotism.
My dad said it was a special day, so I was allowed to sit upfront in the truck. Riding next to him afforded me brand new views of the world I had only ever witnessed from the back of a vehicle. I was intently focused on the car in front of us when I noticed it began gently moving across the lane, left, then right, then left again. As quickly as it began swerving, it disappeared out of my vision, over the edge of a bridge, and down to whatever was below. The breath rushed out of me. Though I was young, I was just old enough to have seen that kind of thing in movies, so I knew that whatever had happened to the driver couldn’t have been good.
My dad pulled over immediately, stopping our truck on the side of the road.
“Stay here, mi hijito, and do not get out of the truck.”
His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed him; even he was disturbed by what had just happened. He jogged over to the edge of the bridge and peered down, then ran back to the bed of the truck. In the mirror, I could see him look through the toolbox for anything useful, eventually settling on a tow strap. He began running to the bridge but stopped at my window.
“Lorenzo, there’s a man down there and he’s hurt really bad. I have to go and help him, but I need you to promise me you’ll stay here and not get out for any reason, okay?”
I nodded in agreement but didn’t hear a word he had said. My world began to blur as I watched him run to the edge of the bridge and tie off the tow strap. He stepped over the railing, leaned back, and disappeared over it.
It became eerily quiet. The hazards were ticking away, each noise deepening the pit in my stomach, accelerating my heart to match its pace. A light breeze fell through the cracked window and, with it, a small bit of relief from the stifling Texas heat. Or perhaps it was my own heat. My own fear, building inside me, burning me up like the man might have been in that car. I shook the thoughts out of my head and focused on a car that stopped beside me. They were on the phone. I hoped they were calling 911.
Finally, the faint sound of sirens began to move through the trees, bringing with them a sense of security. I felt the urge to open the door, to run to the bridge and look over it and see what was happening. Whether it was morbid curiosity or the need to ensure my dad’s safety, I don’t quite know, but the urgency he’d had in his voice told me it was one time when I absolutely had to listen. More people showed up with every minute that passed: other drivers, paramedics, firefighters, police, and even a helicopter. But not him. Not my dad. He had yet to return.
It was nearly an hour before I saw his face emerge over the edge of the embankment by the bridge. He was covered in sweat and blood, and his right arm trailed behind him, grasped onto the rung of a basket that held what could only have been the driver of the car. A sheet partially covered the man, exposing what was left of his upper body and face. Blood had soaked through and was dripping across the pavement as they moved him to the helicopter. As they passed by the truck, I stole a glance out the window. Crimson guts peered at me from a gaping wound across his belly, and a massive gash ran across his face, from the forehead to the chin. I began to think that I was looking at a dead man, but then he drew a shallow, ragged breath. He was alive.
They wasted no time getting the man into the helicopter, and as it began to take off, a vortex of roaring dust consumed the scene. I couldn’t hear the door open behind me, but I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, one that could only have been my dad’s. Warm tears dripped onto his back as I clung onto him. My tension and fear were immediately relieved by his presence; however, I felt that there was something different about him. I let him go and he knelt down in front of me where I could get a good look at him. Rusty blood was dried in splatters across his neck, and his wrinkles looked deeper and more unforgiving than ever before. The smiles from earlier had left, and a long stare hung from him instead. His eyes remained familiar, though, and I could see glimmers of the hero I had been with throughout the day.
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Originally born in Houston, Lorenzo had his most formative years growing up in Colorado. After attending college there, he returned to Texas to live in Austin. Since then, Lorenzo has pursued various endeavors, including a career as a Firefighter and EMT, studies in biochemistry, and nearly five years of sobriety.