Channelling My Inner Dad

I was walking on the sidewalk, where I belonged.  He was cycling on the sidewalk, just where he didn't belong.  There was here no excuse for his behaviour.  We were on Tenth Avenue, a designated bike route in my city with next to no car traffic.  I didn't even see him till he sped right past me from behind.  Had I made but one small step to the left we both would be airborne.  I shouted to him that his bike doesn't belong on the sidewalk but on the road.  He ignored me.  I said that next time he could at least warn me from behind.  Still no acknowledgement and still on the sidewalk.  Finally I bellowed "You are not deaf!) and suddenly his bike was on the road and he made a quick right hand turn as though to escape from this horrible old man once and for all.  I was channelling my Inner Dad.

It happened again this afternoon.  My client and I were enjoying a coffee together in a West Side café.  Two young women, perhaps high school seniors or first year university students were studying at the next table, their backpacks semi-sprawled on the floor as though it was a detail from their own bedrooms where anyone could easily trip on them.  I gently said to them, "Ladies, sorry to bug you but you might want to move your packs a bit so no one has to trip on them."  They were both so sweet and respectful, each with both middle fingers under complete control and they apologized as they moved their packs closer to themselves.  When I added, "Don't mind me, it's just my Inner Dad speaking" and they both laughed.

I am not going to go so far as to stereotype either party according to their gender, having also encountered while channelling my Inner Dad rude and churlish women and kind and gentle men.  It is usually certain sets of circumstances that summon him forth: off leash dogs, cyclists on sidewalks, anyone on a skateboard, smoking in inappropriate places.  It is my Inner Dad who wants to re-parent everybody's spoiled obnoxious children; it is my Inner Dad who cannot bear public incivility (which means that your feet belong not on the empty chair in the coffee shop nor on the empty bus seat but on the floor); it is my Inner Dad who craves justice and righteousness the way a junkie craves his smack; it is my Inner Dad who wants to grab by the scruff of the neck every useless, louche, self-destructive, selfish and socially inappropriate young man and kick his sorry ass into the army.  Oh, wait a minute!  My Inner Dad is also a pacifist.

I have been having to work hard at learning to control my Inner Dad.  He first began to emerge just after my fiftieth birthday.  I remember getting into a mild disagreement with a couple of young dumbasses where I reminded them that I was old enough to be their father.  Then were the three morons riding their bikes (or were they skateboarding?) not only on the sidewalk, but underneath a construction shelter making them all the more a nuisance.  One of the young gentlemen replied quite solemnly that he never really had a father.  His two friends said something rather similar.  It was one of the strangest and most awkward shared moments I have ever had with three perfect strangers.  Then I said to these three young men that my father was also for me an absent presence.  For a few brief seconds we were brothers.

I am hoping that I will sweeten with age and that now that I am just out of my fifties I will look with kinder eyes on all creatures, including the young and stupid.  I wait for the day, which could come somewhere in my lifetime when my Inner Dad starts to emerge for the last time only to be gently nudged aside by the business end of the cane of my smiling and laughing Inner Grandpa.  I await with hope and anticipation.