The Yellow Rat Bastard

When my parents first divorced, my father moved to a little studio apartment in Queens, New York. My sister and I would visit him every other weekend for a couple of years. We, for the most part, had great times. I mean it’s much easier to have fun during finite spans of time when there are little to no pressures or responsibilities, especially when you are with someone so funny. I mean, truly, the man was a fucking riot. We watched “The Iron Chef”, but the Chinese edition. The one with subtitles and voiceovers that was filmed in other asian countries. My father would do accents and impressions. Feel free to be as offended as you’d like, but that shit was funny as hell. My sister, the ice queen, even got in on it. 

I remember one of the best days I’ve ever had with my father. We went into the city, just the two of us. I’m not sure if this is where I want this story to go in the book or if i want to fit it in at all but I am going to type it out for the purposes of posterity. 

Yeah, it was just us which typically wasn’t the case. I had to have been no older than 13. He picked me up on a friday afternoon after school and we took the two hour drive from NJ to his place. Most of you probably don’t remember this, but way back in the days, when CD’s existed, there were these subscription services where you would choose like 20 CD’s and they’d send them to you at crazy cheep rates. My father had me pick a few out a couple weeks prior. “Desert Rose” by Sting was charting and so on a whim I chose a Sting album. Well, that particular weekend, we had that CD on repeat from the moment he picked me up until Sunday afternoon when he dropped me back off in NJ. We woke up on that Saturday and drove into the city (Manhattan, for those of you that aren’t from up north). I remember we did all the things. We started the day with bagels stuffed with cream cheese… all over our fucking hands and faces, while freezing our asses off, waiting in line for tickets to a Broadway show. Back then, you would just wait in this random ass line for tickets that other people gave up or seats that couldn’t get filled for a show that was happening that day. I think it was called “last call” We ended up getting tickets to a show called “Bring in the Noise Bring in the Funk” We took the day walking around the city. We went to China Town and I had Dim Sum for the first time. It was so fucking cool. He was so excited to bring me there. It was this big red room with vaulted ceilings and several large round tables seating 10-15 people each. My father and I sat next to one another as he would flag down server after server, each of them carrying their own little silver trays. My father would flag one over and the server would lift the lid, steam covering his face as these little dumplings appeared in perfect circles. My father would nod (like he had any idea what each of them was) and the server would place two on each of our plates. I just remember the vastness of the restaurant and being so impressed and excited by the whole thing. The amount of dumplings that we ate was almost comical. Just so cute, each of them. Filled with what? I don’t know, but boy did we have Sum Dim that day! 

After that, we walked up Canal street. Back then, it was lined with tables. Tables that were covered in counterfeit purses, sunglasses, hats, dvds, you name it. My father taught me how to haggle. “Ok Rock, look for one thing you want. Pick a number in your head and no matter what, do not spend a penny over that number, got it?” “Yes, Dad” 

Then it began. 

I pointed and asked “How much for this?” I was coached to ask as if I didn’t care.. Almost like I barely looked at the item at all. 

“$35”

“I can do $15” I scoffed remembering my dad’s lesson (“Rock, you gotta go really low at first”)

The person behind the table acted as if they were wildly offended. I was prepared though. I was coached. My father told me to walk away. And so I did. 

“FINE $32!”

I wouldn’t move. I would not double back, I would simply turn on my heels to face the person and provide another offer. “$18”

“No No” 

The play continued. I would turn and take another few steps as they screamed one last time “$27!” 

“$25 is my final offer” 

“Ok ok” 

Smirking and so goddamn proud inside, I almost skipped back to the table to claim my prize. Years later, I am a master haggler and I have my father to thank for that. 

We continue to walk around the city, smoke spewing up the sidewalk from the underground subway system. Cabs banging into one another as they screamed at pedestrians who gave no fucks. There were crazies, pretzels, protesters, and a chill in the air; and if you stood still and looked up just for a moment, the tops of the skyscrapers looked like they were moving with the clouds. 

I remember a lot from that day. 

I remember walking around and passing a store called “The Yellow Rat Bastard”... I giggled and pointed to it because, ‘bastard!” that’s a bad word and it was wild that it was on a storefront. My father took me inside and bought me a pair of sneakers. I wore those until they fell apart. Bastard shoes. Lol. just so fucking cool. 

Then we made our way back to the car, engine on, sting on… it was the soundtrack to the day. We made our way to the other side of town where the show was going to be. We valeted. My father was a smooth mover. I always thought so (as did the many girlfriends he had over the years) He was just always so slick. Knew what to do and when to do it. Cool guy, but very much ‘a man’. He had nothing to prove and it showed and truthfully, I think that is what gave him that ‘it’ factor that has been erased from our generation. We made our way into the theatre. It was my first broadway show and I was just so tickled. I don’t remember a whole lot about the show specifically, but i do remember there were garbage cans. People banged on them. It was this larger than life experience with energy that filled the space of the room and every single person that sat within it. It was almost a bonding experience among strangers. If you have ever been to a broadway show, then you get it. They’re profound. I just remember being so impressed. I remember seeing my father staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was happy. He was really happy. He had the opportunity to show me so many things. Bring me so many experiences, opportunities. I appreciated it then, but now I understand just how deep that ran for him. It ran just as deep for him then as it does for me today. 

The show ended and we walked around a bit more as dusk settled. We went to dinner at a lovely restaurant. It was this little italian spot that we happened upon. We sat up against the cold storefront window and people watched. I had pasta filled with cheese and pears. Yes, pears! It’s a thing. I have had it since, but I remember it was absolutely delicious.

The whole day had a hum of protection. It was this bubble that I was in with him. Just following his lead as he carted me around the busiest and most chaotic of places with such ease and certainty. New York was my father’s hometown, after all. The environment was nothing new to him. Still, though. I was so impressed with all of it. I was in awe and excited. Back then, of course the thrill came from a place of wonderment. All that surrounded me, all that i was seeing, tasting, smelling, etc. was new and fantastic. Now, sitting in my living room in silence, i am still in awe, but now, more so of just how easy it all was for him. Of all of the effort he went through to curate the perfect day for me. For us.

After dinner, we got back in the car, Sting picking up right where he left off as we drove out of the city. Lights fading behind us as we headed back to Queens to the nearest movie theatre. He got us tickets for the first Harry Potter movie. I sat next to him, exhausted and buzzed as the most magical story of our generation played on a massive screen in front of us. Me sitting there in my bastard sneakers, tummy filled with dumplings and pears… All of my stuff neatly tucked away in my knockoff purse. It was the best fucking day of my life. To this day, I am a die-hard Sting fan.