Something told him that Patrick was not using the word “like” in the sense of “not quite almost”. That was not, however, his first reaction.

“My God! Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Like totally. Don’t I look OK?”

He was not sure his insurance would cover the accident. Patrick was just visiting, his first, and was not on the policy. Nor did he have much parental authority over the eighteen-year-old, and the fact that Patrick had sought him out and made the initial contact limited what little leverage he had even further. He silently cursed his ex-wife for not bringing the boy up totally tee-totaled.

“I really am sorry about the car.”

“All that matters is that you’re not hurt. How did it happen?”

Patrick launched into a (totally) long, self-excusing story that made it perfectly clear if you listened between the lines that he was entirely to blame. The insurance company would not be happy.

“... and the cop is like “Let’s see your proof of insurance” and I’m like “My Dad said it was like in the glove box...” (Had he heard him properly? Did the kid really say “said”?) “... and it was like we totally couldn’t open the glove box...”

Again he had the impression that his son didn’t mean that they had been partially successful in opening the glove box, if there was, in fact, anything left of the glove box in which he had kept the totality of his proof of insurance. But he’d heard enough of the story.

“And he gave you a ticket.”

“Yeah. Like totally.”

That, his father thought, is how most tickets are given. “Do you have insurance?” he asked.

“Totally. I’m on Mom’s”

In other words, partially. “Are you covered for other vehicles than hers?”

“Like I hope so.”

“Well, you’d better call her right now and ask, before I call my insurance.”

“Do I have to? I mean, like Mom is pretty pissed at me for being here.”

“Then call her and tell her you just totaled my car. It’ll make her day.”

Patrick had got in touch with him out of the blue. He’d almost broken down and wept when he told him who he was and that he wanted to meet. That he lived over a thousand miles away meant that he’d come for a week or so when school was out. He hadn’t seen the boy since he was four and a half, and no idea what his ex had told their only son about him. Did he know his father was gay? He decided against telling him anything until they met. The phone seemed too anonymous, too unreal a point of contact. But he asked Patrick to send him a photo, and he did. It rankled him to see that the kid looked just like his mother, except that now that she was in her forties her hair was probably a lot shorter.

Patrick thought it was “like totally cool” that his father was gay. “Totally” was more than he’d dared hope for; “cool” was comfort enough.

“I’ve done it with dudes too, but I think I like girls better. I mean like for sex. Otherwise they’re like... you know.”

He knew.

“And it’s like totally awesome your living in Chicago. Our dinky little town is like totally...”

His voice trailed off, his limited vocabulary exhausted. But he knew what the boy meant; he had lived there himself once, after all, and he agreed with him. It was. Totally.

His partner said Patrick was “a sweet kid”, but took him to task for not providing more discipline. But his parenting skills had stopped and atrophied at the age of four, and he had no clue on the right way of handling a teenager, least of all one who was now legally an adult with all the rights and privileges any citizen has (except drinking alcohol, for some unfathomable reason). Five hundred dollars a month in child support hardly gave him the right to tell him what to do and not to do, except as a guest in his home, and he wanted the boy to love him.

“You don’t have to buy the boy’s love with license,” his partner told him. “He’ll love you for yourself. You’re a lovable man.”

That was true enough. Even his wife had loved him once. His partner had urged him to talk to her about rules of behavior and setting limits for Patrick, but he doubted she’d want to admit he had any part in bringing their kid up or even hear his voice again. And putting his foot down was so unlike him. It seemed so totalitarian.

“It’s Mom,” Patrick said, handing him the phone. “She wants to say something to you.”

He could only imagine what.

It was weird hearing Mindy’s voice again after so many years. “You actually let him use your car? Well, it serves you right. I hope you kicked his ass.” At least her insurance would be picking it up, and she was hopping mad her rates would be going up again, but not at him. Not for that, at least.

“I guess Mom told you to kick my ass, huh?” Patrick said when he’d hung up. (Yes, she was like that... totally.) “Well go ahead and kick hard. I deserve it.”

A sweet kid, really.

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