Annika hasn’t been too happy with how I’ve been dressing lately. She thinks maybe my dad’s disappearance has messed with my sense of style. So early this morning, she went out, bought me brand-new clothes, along with a pair of shoes, and left everything neatly piled on the toilet seat. Clearly, she expects me to put everything on the second I get out of the shower.
For two weeks, I’ve been dressing in a retro style. I’ve nailed the eighties wrestler-on-vacation-in-Tampa look: acid-wash jeans, flannel shirts that are always tucked in, and pants held up by an embossed brown belt. An oversized gold-tone belt buckle displays a scorpion encased in amber.
Now crumpled on the floor are the jeans Annika hates so much, plus my red flannel and belt, all of which I tossed next to the tub before getting into the shower. Those are the very things I’ll be wearing when we leave to go to her friend’s graduation party. To hell with the new clothes.
The soothingly scalding water reddens my skin. I get myself Zestfully clean, then step out without drying myself.
The orange light on my beard trimmer turns green. It’s finally fully charged. I’ve been wanting to shave my beard for a while, leaving only a bushy mustache behind, just like the ones my uncles and dad sported back when they were my age, but I told myself I wouldn’t do it, not until I put on a bit more muscle. A thin guy with a mustache looks like a pervert, whereas a burly guy with a mustache looks like he could be an outdoorsman or a biker.
Right after I’m done shaving, I splash English Leather aftershave on my cheeks and spray Jovan Musk cologne on my neck.
The doorknob rattles. “Wait a second,” I tell Annika.
“Bobby, let me in. I’ve gotta use the bathroom. I’ve gotta pee,” she says.
The doorknob keeps rattling. “Hold on. I’m almost done,” I reply, reaching for the lock.
The door swings open, and Annika stares at my mustache for half a second before laughing. “Oh honey… no… Are you for real? Did your upper lip lose a bet?”
“Wait, what? No, of course not.” I say. “I was going for a Tom Selleck, Burt Reynolds, Sam Elliott kind of vibe. Maybe even Rick Rude if you squint really hard.”
“I don’t know any of those people.” She rushes past me, unbuckling her pants.
I try to sneak out. But as soon as Annika’s feet touch the wet floor, she shoves her hand up against my chest. “Bobby, how many times do I have to tell you not to get the floor wet?”
Because it’s never my intention to antagonize her, I frown to show her how remorseful I’m feeling. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “It’s just that I read somewhere that air drying is good for your skin.”
“That can’t be true,” she says, shaking her head. Then she grabs the clothes and shoes she’d left for me on top of the toilet. “Here. Don’t forget these.” Annika hands me the khaki joggers, royal blue button-down, and the white slip-on shoes, the ones she explicitly told me to wear with no socks. “You were supposed to put these on. That’s why I bought them. That’s why I left them here. The clothes you’re wearing, they don’t even fit you right. They’re too big, too baggy. Sweetie, please go and change.”
I stand there, grin like an idiot, and say, “Uh huh.”
Annika waves me off. “Scoot, scoot,” she tells me. “I really have to pee. But once you’ve changed, come right back and shave that funny-looking caterpillar off your face.”
Not only do I want Annika to love me for who I am, but I also want her to love the man I want to be. And who’s that? Well, as a kid, my dad would sit me on his lap, kiss my forehead, and together we’d watch Charles Bronson or Clint Eastwood movies. Sometimes, Warren Oates. Other times, it was Lee Marvin. Man, was that guy tough. Back then, all of those men on the television were tough. They stood tall, worked hard, hardly spoke, and dressed simply. They took no guff, never listened to no one, and always got the prettiest girl in the end.
From the bathroom, Annika continues talking, “Why do you spray such stinky stuff? You smell like my grandpa.”
I disagree. “Your grandpa? You mean old people? ‘Cause if that’s what you mean, you’re wrong. Old people smell like Bengay cream and Gold Bond foot powder,” I tell her.
Annika sure has a flair for the dramatic. I can hear her gagging in the bathroom. “Ugh, I swear that stuff’s been making me queasy all week.”
I tell her, “Honey, English Leather has the timeless aroma of freshly cut cedar and lavender dipped in lemon juice and bourbon. It’s not just a smell, it’s a presence.” Saying all of this makes me feel a little silly, so I stop talking.
“Isn’t Burt Reynolds the guy from Friends? The old man Monica dated for a while?” Annika asks as she makes her way into our room.
“No, that’s Tom Selleck you’re thinking of,” I say.
“Well then, I can’t believe that in a few more months I’m gonna be married to a man who looks like he belongs in a Tom Selleck movie…” She stops at the doorframe when she sees I haven’t changed. She balls up her fists, jabs them into her hips, and cocks her head. Annika looks a lot like Olive Oyl, whenever Olive Oyl gets annoyed at Popeye. “Bobby, please put on the clothes I bought you. I spent a lot on these… Honey, I just want you to look nice.”
I decide to try another approach. “Baby, you’re so pretty… Yes, you are… And you truly do know how to style yourself. You look great. You definitely have very good taste in fashion.”
“Oh, I know I have good taste,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me. But since you agree, why don’t you just wear the shirt and pants I bought you?” She shifts her weight to one hip, expecting either an explanation or an apology.
“Honey… sweetie… baby girl,” I begin to say, “the clothes… the shoes… they’re just not me. I like the way I look right now. And I feel good.”
Her eyes go wide. “You look like a dad,” she tells me. The words tumble out of her mouth as if by accident, and she freezes.
My head snaps back.
Is Annika telling me that I look like my own father? My father who has Alzheimer’s. My father who slipped past my mother’s careful watch and took off in her SUV, which was later found abandoned, a hundred and thirty miles south from here.
We called hospitals. The police issued a Silver Alert.
But hey, there’s no need for me to fret. The old man’s like Bronson in Mr. Majestyk, or like Stallone in First Blood. He’s a survivor. It’s only a matter of time before he comes back.
Facing downward, I take a hard swallow to clear my throat.
Annika realizes she’s struck a nerve when I refuse to look at her. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“And what’s wrong with looking like a dad, anyway? Dads are great, aren’t they?”
“Bobby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said, really… I’m just so tired of arguing.” Annika’s standing so upright she looks like she’s about to be driven into the ground like a stake. She no longer resembles the cute cartoon character she had mere moments ago. Her playful pout has turned into an ugly grimace. “Bobby,” she begins, “we’re going to my friend’s graduation party. All my friends are going to be there, and they’re much younger than… ” She trails off.
My face feels warmer than usual, and I stroke my mustache and ask, “Younger than what? Are you embarrassed to be with someone who’s older?”
“No, no. It’s not that,” Annika says. “Thirty-five’s not even that old, and that’s the problem. You’re still young, but all of a sudden, you’ve started dressing like an old man. Honey, it’s not flattering.”
It bothers me how she stands there, stiff as a statue, distant and cold. “What do you mean by not that old?” I ask, my voice sounding sharper than I intended. “What if I’m finally starting to dress my age?”
“No… no, honey… you’re still young. But with the rusty car and all, and with the way you’re dressing . . . it’s like you’re going through a midlife crisis, but in reverse. Instead of trying to look younger, you’re trying to look older, on purpose.” She starts rubbing my arm. “Honey,” she begins gently, “I know you’re dealing with a lot, but whenever I try to get you to open up and talk about it, you shut down and push me away.”
I take a step back. “What? Push you away? I proposed, didn’t I? That’s not pushing you away. That’s bringing you in.”
Annika’s mouth opens partway. She sticks out her jaw and snaps her tongue. “Yup. You’re right,” she says. “You’re so right. You proposed, and I agreed.” She sighs. “And everything’s absolutely perfect now. So come on. We’re already late. Let’s just go.”
It’s only then, when she says everything’s fine with a deadpan face and monotone voice, that I run my fingers through my hair to give it a tousled, more youthful look. “Tell you what. I’ll untuck part of my shirt, roll up my sleeves, and put on the shoes you got me,” I say all of this with a smile. But Annika keeps moving toward the door. Quickly, I untuck the left side of my flannel, leaving only the right side tucked in, and then I sit myself on the edge of the bed to slip on the white canvas shoes, the ones she had wanted me to wear in the first place.
It’s been more than a week since I traded my Ford Focus for a nineteen-seventy-three Chevy Monte Carlo. And Annika won’t let me forget how dumb that was. The car guzzles gas, starts when it feels like it, the AC doesn’t work, and the stereo has no Bluetooth, much to Annika’s irritation and my quiet relief.
I open the passenger door for Annika, and she gives me a sidelong glare before taking her seat. Trying to be nicer, I lean forward and surprise her by fastening her seatbelt.
“Thank you,” she says, before adding, “But I’m still mad at you.”
When we arrive at the party, bundles of roofing shingles clutter the driveway, and a metal ladder leans against the garage wall.
I knock on the front door and ask Annika, “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Yep, this is it. This is Jessica’s parents’ house. She still lives with them.”
While we’re waiting, Annika tells me to be on my best behavior, make an effort to talk to her friends, and be thoughtful and considerate.
“Yeah, of course,” I tell her.
Annika’s hands dart toward my waist and tug at my shirt. She’s trying to untuck the right side. But I dodge her hands, and we laugh like children.
As I’m squirming away from her, Jessica’s dad opens the door. He’s holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, and the head of a hammer sticks out from his waistband. Jessica’s dad is only a few hairs above five feet. Other than his belly jutting out like it does with most men his age, he’s compact and sturdy-looking.
“Hi, Mr. Shen! It’s Annika, Jess’s friend. And this is my partner, Bobby.”
“Hello, sir,” I say.
“Thank for coming,” he says in a thick accent, then gestures toward the fence next to the garage. “Jessica over there, in backyard. You go through gate. I show you.” Mr. Shen walks us over, crossing the front yard. As he stops by the ladder and starts climbing, he points to the wooden gate wedged between the garage wall and fence. “You enter there,” he says.
Without thinking, I hold the ladder as he climbs up, just like I would’ve done for my dad. Once he reaches the top, I let go and rest my hand on the small of Annika’s back. Together, we make our way to the party.
Jessica’s still wearing her cap and gown. Sounding annoyed, she says, “Ugh, my dad’s working on the roof.” She then sips a White Claw and tells us to please go and make ourselves comfortable. So Annika and I head toward the plastic-covered tables, where pizza boxes are scattered.
We search for a place to sit, but every chair is taken.
Off in a quiet corner, a milk crate sits with a water hose inside, and being the gentleman that I am, I stride over, cool and steady, and toss the hose on the grass. Then, I flip the empty container over and offer it to Annika as a seat.
She eyes it before shaking her head. “Nooo, thank you,” she tells me.
“Okay, then I’ll use it myself,” I say to her.
At another table, Annika spots her best friend, Eva. They wave, and Eva tells her boyfriend, Bernard, to give up his seat for Annika.
Annika joins them while I go back to the quiet corner. I’m very comfortable far from everyone, but Annika shoots me a squinty look and motions for me to come closer. I shake my head, signaling that I’m fine where I’m at, but she continues to wave me over with sharp, impatient flicks of her wrist, so I have no choice but to bring the milk crate and plant myself right beside her.
She whispers into my ear, “Find me something to eat.”
I look around. There’s nothing in the pizza boxes except grease stains and leftover crusts.
Annika’s not too happy when I tell her there isn’t anything left. I figure now is a good time for me to slip off, but as soon as I start to slink away, Annika calls my name.
“Bobby,” she says, “stay next to me.” She grabs my hand and holds it tight.
“It’s too bad there’s no more food,” Eva says.
Annika raises an eyebrow. “We would’ve been here earlier, but Bobby couldn’t decide what to wear.”
My voice rises. “That’s not true,” I tell everyone seated at the table, and Annika lets go of my hand. “This is what I wanted to wear from the start.” I stand up, open my arms, stick out my chest, and twist my hips. “Annika didn’t like what I had on, and it turned into a whole thing.”
Bernard looks confused. “What’s wrong with what he’s wearing?”
Before Annika can answer, I blurt out louder than I intend, “She said I look like a dad.”
“No, Annika, you didn’t say that!” Eva chimes in. “He looks nothing like a dad. He looks good.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Well, maybe I do look like a dad . . . just a little,” I begin to tell them. “After all, this shirt, this belt buckle, this watch, and the gold chain, all of it belongs to my old man. Most of it, I dug out of his closet. It’s what he used to wear back in the early nineties.”
Annika blinks once, then twice. “Really? Why didn’t you mention that earlier?” She rests her chin on my shoulder. “Had I known, I wouldn’t have given you such a hard time,” she says in a lower voice, gently caressing my back.
“Yeah, I thought I did,” I mutter, waving my hand dismissively, like it’s no big deal. “It’s just that . . . I’ve gotten tired of dressing like I’m in high school, or in a frat. You know what I mean.” I shrug and glance around.
Annika laughs. “This coming from the guy who owns Wolverine claws and what I can only describe as a Ghostbusters backpack.”
I correct her, “It’s not a backpack. It’s a proton pack.” She’s staring right at me, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say, and a flicker of surprise crosses her face. I wiggle myself into a straighter posture, then go on to tell Annika and anyone else who might be listening, “But hey, I did compromise, didn’t I? I untucked the left side of my shirt.” To better show Annika’s friends, I spring to my feet.
Eva chuckles. “The way you’re wearing your flannel, that’s called a French tuck.”
“Damn it. And here I thought I invented a brand-new fashion trend.” I sit back down on the milk crate and ask the group, one by one, “Do you think there’s anything wrong with how I’m dressed? No, right?”
Annika sighs and picks up her phone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It could be Mom with an update about Dad, but no, it’s only a text from Annika. Her message reads, “Tone it down. You’re being too intense.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Tap, Tap, Tap. On top of the garage, Jessica’s dad hammers shingles into the roof. My attention drifts to the work he’s doing. Tap, Tap, Tap. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with a red bandana. Watching him reminds me of my father, and all the men who approach physical labor like it’s both a duty and an art. Mr. Shen drives in another nail into a shingle and leans back to admire his handiwork.
The rigid plastic of the milk crate is making my ass sore, so I squirm toward the edge and brush my knuckles over my flannel. After a minute, I give up trying to get more comfortable and excuse myself to take a leak.
In front of the bathroom mirror, I wet down the mustache hairs that stick up and out to the sides. Then I fully tuck my shirt in. Taking one more glimpse, I’ve gotta say I’m quite pleased with how I’m looking, like someone I can almost believe in.
Now that I’m back at the party, Annika glances at my neatly tucked in shirt, and I say, “You know the face you’re making right now? That’s the exact face my mom used to give my dad. I’m pretty sure that’s what made him want to forget, and what drove him away.” I give her a wink and a chuckle, but Annika jumps to her feet and says we forgot Jess’s gift in the car.
“Can you come with me?” she asks.
“Gift? What gift?” I ask her.
Annika takes my hand. “Just come with me,” she says.
When we get near the Monte Carlo, she tells me to get in and close the door. As soon as I do, she snaps, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
We’re three houses away from Jessica’s parents’ home. The only other person in sight is Jess’s dad, working on the roof. I turn to face her, and I’m troubled. Annika isn’t making any of her usual gestures, the ones that remind me of cherished cartoon characters from my childhood. Instead, she looks like an actual person, sad, angry, and tired.
“Bobby, ever since we got here, you’ve been an annoying prick,” she tells me.
“You’re wrong.”
“You know what? You’re right. I am wrong. You being a prick didn’t start when we got here. It started waaay before we got here.” Without a sound, tears slide down her cheeks. They gather beneath her chin before falling. “I can’t do this anymore,” she says.
My jaw drops, shifting downward with a soft click that only I can hear. “Is it because of what I’m wearing? Because if it is, all of your friends thought I looked good.”
“Really, Bobby? Is that all you have to say right now? Is that your only takeaway from today? From this conversation? That my friends thought you looked good?” Annika looks up at the car’s ceiling. “Un-freaking-believable.”
I grip the edge of my seat to keep my leg from shaking. After a brief, tense pause, I ask, “Why did you even say yes when I proposed?”
“Honestly,” Annika responds, looking down at her lap, “I thought your proposal finally meant you figured your shit out, that you’d changed. That your father’s absence had made you reflect, and that you realized how much I really mean to you. But Bobby, I was wrong.” Her hair slips free from behind her ear and falls across her face.
“But honey… sweetie… I have changed,” I say, moving closer, desperate to touch her, but she leans away.
“Don’t… Please…” She stares right at me. “Honey, I love you. I really do. I love how you laugh like a little kid when you’re genuinely happy, like when you found that dumb Ghostbusters backpack at the thrift store. I love that you remember every lyric to songs no one’s heard in decades. I even love…”
I simply can’t help myself and utter, “Who the hell doesn’t know the words to ‘Day Tripper’?”
Annika stops. She rubs her neck, wipes her cheeks, and gets out of the car. She’s already halfway up the driveway when I mouth, “Please, Annika, don’t go.” My eyes follow her every step, but not once does she look back.
I stay in the car for what feels like an hour, though it’s only ten minutes.
Out of the glove compartment, I grab one of my dad’s favorite cassettes and push it into the stereo. Mexican country music from the seventies can be gut-wrenching.
With Mr. Shen still hammering on the garage roof, I start to think of my dad and how handy he was. Then I suddenly remember asking, “Hey Dad, how is it that you know how to install kitchen cabinets, or fix a leaky faucet, or put in an electrical outlet?”
“Son,” he’d told me, “Bob Vila.” He said it as if that explained everything.
I look at the empty passenger seat. Then I look back at Mr. Shen. And I think to myself, How the fuck am I gonna fix this?
Three songs later, I wake up from a mixture of memories and daydreams. My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten all day. And I still need to figure out a way to get back into Annika’s good graces. But I know I’ll definitely be able to think better after I’ve eaten, so I try turning on the car but it won’t start. I’m there, turning the key, begging the engine to please, please ignite. Finally, it does, and I drive away.
As I approach the apartment, I take one last bite out of a greasy double-patty cheeseburger. A white package sits on my doorstep. I bring it inside and open the box. It’s the vintage bottle of Hai Karate aftershave that I’d ordered, the go-to scent for brash young men back when manliness could still be found in a glass bottle. Sadly, they don’t make it anymore.
I’m in the kitchen, examining the aftershave. It has a nineteen 1966 to 1968 copyright. All of a sudden, a reflection outside the window tugs at my attention.
Jesus Christ. It’s my father, standing outside. He’s staring right at me, confused, with bits of cheddar cheese clinging to his mustache.
I reach for the doorknob but stop when I realize it’s only my stupid reflection. And I stare at myself until my eyes begin to blur, until the face looking back could indeed be my father’s.
I call Mom, and she finally answers on the fifth ring.
Even though his presence weighs heavily on both our minds, we avoid mentioning Dad right away. Instead, my mom asks about Annika, and I tell her we just had a fight.
“Qué pasó?” my mom asks, and I explain how Annika wanted me to change out of my dad’s clothes and put on all these fancy things she’d bought for me.
My mother begins to laugh. “Oh, mijo. Why didn’t you simply listen to her and put on whatever she wanted you to put on?” My mom says before adding, “do you really think your father picked out any of those flannel shirts he wore? Claro que no. That man would’ve worn a burlap sack if I didn’t dress him. . . oh Dios, you should’ve seen him when we first started dating.” I can hear the TV in the background. The sound of the laugh track to some dumb sitcom makes me upset. It’s as if my mother’s there, with my father standing somewhere behind her, and both of them are laughing at me. My mom then tells me, “Son, if I had asked your father to put on a different shirt, he would’ve done it.”
And she’s right. My father would’ve done anything to please her.
As a kid, I never understood that. I never understood why Dad tried so hard to meet my mom’s expectations. He paid the rent, fixed whatever broke, bought groceries, drove us to school, and took us to the doctor when we were sick. On top of that, he worked eight- to twelve-hour days and paid for her trips back to Mexico to visit her mother whenever she wanted to go.
My macho uncles used to make fun of my father. They called him “un mandilón,” a henpecked husband, the guy who wears the apron, does all the chores. But my father would just smile and tell them they could learn a lot from the Americans. “Esposa feliz, vida feliz,” he’d say.
“Yeah, tienes razón,” I tell my mom.
The bathroom floor is a bit grimy. A few long hairs seem almost woven into the tiles, and I wipe them away and sweep the floor. For the first time, I begin to wonder if mandilón isn’t just another word for love.
I’m scrubbing when my phone buzzes, and I quickly pull it out, thinking it may be Annika. But it’s not. It’s only a Silver Alert, another missing old man.
Still cleaning the bathroom, I take off my red and black flannel shirt and fold it five times until it forms a perfect square. It takes three folds for my Wranglers to make a square of similar size. I place the shirt and the pants on the edge of the bathtub. The belt with the scorpion buckle goes on top.
I start trying on the clothes Annika bought me. I ask Google to play something from Annika’s playlists. What comes up is a mix of Olivia Rodrigo, Billie Eilish, and Sabrina Carpenter. Billie isn’t half bad, and I end up listening to her entire When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? Album.
Shit. I’ve gotta admit, the royal-blue short-sleeve shirt complements my skin and dark hair very nicely. And the khaki joggers are surprisingly comfortable.
I go and grab the decades-old bottle of Hai Karate. Inside the original packaging is a joke set of instructions in faux Japanese-style letters on how to defend yourself from very beautiful women if you ever happen to wear too much. I crumple the paper, toss it into the trash, and massage shaving cream onto my upper lip, cheeks, and chin. The razor rasps against my skin, and my mustache falls into the sink.
Even with the few nicks and cuts running along my cheeks, my face feels smooth. But damn me if I don’t look good. And I’ve gotta hand it to Annika. I sure do look younger, but also with a kind of quiet authority that I just didn’t expect.
At the bottom of the Hai Karate bottle, a cloud of dark green silt has settled, but the rest of the aftershave is yellow.
Shaking the bottle dissolves most of the silt, and the liquid turns a neon green.
Hai Karate’s sweet and bitter odor makes me sneeze. It smells like white vinegar and almonds dusted with baby powder. As soon as I splash it on, my skin starts to itch and burn.
My face feels like it’s on fire, so I reach for something to wipe off the aftershave, and I end up grabbing my dad’s flannel, knocking the belt buckle onto the floor. The belt clatters on the tile. When I press the shirt to my face and breathe in, it no longer smells like Dad. It smells like sweat. It smells rank, sour, and musky. Like an expired aftershave left out in the sun.