Page 85 of King of the Crease

“Did you submit your applications yet?” I ask. The university application process in America strikes me as byzantine and expensive, like so much in this country.

“I have until the thirty-first. I’m still working on my application essay…” He shakes his head, as if he’s recounting a war memory.

“What does the application essay have to be about?” I ask. Hank throws an arm behind me, gently massaging my shoulder.

“It’s my personal statement. Who am I? What do I want to study? What do I want to do with my life? How am I passionate and unique enough to deserve a slot in your institution? All in 650 words.”

“No pressure,” Hank deadpans.

“I’ve thrown out the last three versions.” Brody lifts his shoulders and releases them in a hopeless exhale. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hank asks. “I don’t know much about college application essays, but pretend we’re made of rubber and bounce some ideas off us.”

Brody chews on his bottom lip. “That’s okay, Dad.”

“You sure? You should write about that microplastics thing you made for the science fair.”

“They’ve admitted kids who’ve done stuff like that when they were seven.”

“Those kids sound boring.”

“I guess.” Brody gets more downtrodden the more we talk about his essay. I regret bringing it up. I try to signal Hank to drop it.

“So there’s this song by P!nk,” Hank says, ignoring my hint. “‘U + Ur Hand.’ She sings ‘Keep your dreams. Just give me the money.’”

“Okay?” Brody arches an eyebrow at him and squirms in his seat.

“Maybe it’s time to move onto dessert,” I say. There were so many uncomfortable conversations I had to have with my father, times where he told what I was doing wrong and the right path. I can sympathize with Brody.

“Trust me. I’m going somewhere with this. I thought that was so profound. This song is about a woman who’s been beaten down by life, so all she has left to care about is money. She’s too jaded to dream. What does something cost? That’s the only thing that matters for her.”

“Her mindset is solely transactional.”

“I love when you use ten dollar words, Brodster.” Hank pats his knee. “The song really touched me. I listened to it when I was going through rough times with your mom. But a few years ago, I discovered that I was mishearing the song. The line is ‘Keep your drink. Just give me the money.’ The song isn’t about being beaten down by life. It’s about a woman telling a guy at a bar to leave her alone, and that he should just go home and masturbate because he ain’t gonna be getting any action from her.”

“The song is called ‘U + Ur Hand’…” Brody points out.

“Oh my god. Like jerking off. I just got that!” Hank lets out a big, barking laugh. “But my point is, millions of people listened to ‘U + Ur Hand,’ but I’m probably the only person on earth who heard that song and not only misheard the lyric, but found this whole new meaning from it. There’s a unique way that you see the world that nobody on this planet does, and that’s interesting. Write about that.”

I brace myself for a teenage eyeroll or for Brody to explode in teenage fashion, yet the wheels in his head seem to be turning.

“I think you gave me an idea, actually. I’m going to go upstairs and write.” Brody stands up and takes his plate. He turns before entering the kitchen to give Hank a hug. “Thanks, Dad. Love you.” Hank seems as startled by the display of affection as I am. “Good night, Nick.”

Later, Hank and I get into bed, an act that feels remarkably normal, as if we’d been doing this for the past decade. He turns to me under the covers, caresses my cheek with his rugged hand.

“Nick, you’re leaving in a week.”

“I know.” I won’t even get to see Brody’s play. It’s killing me.

“I need to tell you something.” He pulls me closer, his eyes wide with earnestness. It makes all of me tense up. “It’s only a four-and-a-half hour drive to Baltimore from here. Three-and-a-half if I take the toll road. And Nick.” He grabs my hand and squeezes with all the love in his heart. “I would take the toll road for you.”

It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me. He kisses my hand, then up to my lips.

“We can make this work,” he mumbles against my mouth. “We can do long distance. It’s not even real long distance. It’s medium distance.”

Dread seeps through my veins, becoming a lead weight in my stomach. Everything Hank is saying to me lifts my heart, but reality is here to smash it into pieces.

“We can see each other on weekends,” he continues. “On weeks when Cathy has Brody, I can even come down for longer.”