Writing exercise #3

I don't remember the first time I saw my dad with a drink in his hand, or a cigarette. But I do remember thinking he was cool. I don't remember the bar, so I fill it in with different backgrounds when I tell the story. 

It was loud, smoky and I was a alien by at least a decade to this place. The smoke curled around the figures bar side and made them look once removed.

He was laughing through a story,  too loudly for the others around around. Yet his eyes were sharp enough to pierce the smoke.  I remember him seeing me through the haze, across decades, letting me know we lived in two different worlds.

His world, other than being my father, was a world were people were at his beck and call. They called him, "Hank," and were waiting for Hank to call the next shot; at pool, at the bar, and at the barbecue grill. They called him about creating opportunities for small African-American business. They called him, when I 
couldn't be bothered with his advice, guidance, parenting or whatever else he had to offer. 

In that moment across the bar, I saw him for the first time, and I begin to gather all my regret for not seeking his counsel and store in a ball just below my shoulder, where a masseuse could almost never get to it.

A blink later I remember him showing me how to dribble a basket ball and I remember thinking, I should always listen to my dad.

Getting warmed up by using http://www.amazon.com/Old-Friend-Far-Away-Practice/dp/1416535039
and some of Natalie Goldberg's writing prompts