Poor Dad

Even though it’s summer vacation, I don’t mind going to work with my dad. He’s an artist who draws storyboards for films, and today he’s working with a director shooting a horror movie. It’s great to spend the day on a movie set scattered with fake body parts and chainsaws. While my father meets with the director about how he wants the storyboard to look, I bug the prop man to give me his recipe for fake blood. The guy laughs but won’t let me in on his secret.

When Dad and I eat lunch in the studio cafeteria, I check out his sketches. They’re the kind of basic drawings I make for my vocabulary words but with better backgrounds and from different angles.

I laugh when I see an actress with pretend blood on her arms, eating a salad at the next table. But Dad doesn’t pay attention to her; he’s looking at the man she’s with, a young guy with cool glasses and a goatee. Dad looks down at his drawings and suddenly seems sad. I ask him what’s the matter.

“They get younger and younger all the time,” he says.

“The actors?”

He shakes his head. “The artists. They come out of school now with all this animation experience. It’s tough to compete.” He tucks his sketches under his jacket on the chair beside him.

I know the conversation is going to come back around to me. When you’re an only child, it always does.

“That’s why it’s important for you to keep up with your schoolwork. It’s a tough job market out there.”

I want to remind him that I’m only twelve, but he seems depressed, so I don’t bother. When we head back home, I don’t ask him to stop at the comic book store in case that will make him feel even worse.

Later, when Dad falls asleep on the couch watching the news, I get an idea. I take one of the markers from his worktable and start to make him a little younger looking. My father sleeps as heavily as a giant woolly mammoth and doesn’t wake up until my mother walks into the room and screams.

“Derek! What are you doing?”

“Just practicing my artistic skills.”

She starts to laugh when she sees my father’s face, but then her eyes widen. I follow her gaze to my hand and realize I am holding a permanent marker. My father rises and catches his reflection in the living room mirror.

“Derek Martin Jeremy Fallon, you have gone too far!” Mom says.

“I thought I’d help Dad keep up with the young guys, that’s all.”

My father looks at the long, wide sideburns and half a mustache. “It’s actually not that bad.”

“Jeremy!” my mother yells. “Don’t encourage him!” She runs into the kitchen and comes back with a dish towel, but my father’s new facial hair isn’t going anywhere soon.

She rubs his mouth with so much force, I wonder if he’s going to need dentures when she’s through with him. As I march up to my room, I make a mental list of all the cool stuff I could do with a set of fake teeth.

The next morning when my father comes downstairs, I try to hide my laughter. He’s still got some of the sideburns I drew on him and he’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s too small. He combed his hair with my mother’s gel, so it’s sticking up in a million directions. As funny as my dad looks, his attempt at being cool makes me sad. Now it’s my turn to give advice.

“You shouldn’t worry about all those young guys getting all the jobs,” I say. “You’re a good illustrator. You just have to do what you told me—keep at it.”

He looks at me like I’m actually saying something that makes sense instead of just regurgitating the same old stuff he always tells me. “You’re exactly right. We’ll both dedicate ourselves to our studies this summer.”

And just like that, I realize that by trying to help my dad I’ve committed myself to even more work. You know that saying, “Nice guys finish last”? It’s 100 percent true.