I assume I would be informed if my father was discovered to be no longer alive. I haven't heard from him, or heard any word about him, in something like ten years. My most recent intelligence had him living in Spain.

I don't hold any grudges against my dad. I only really knew him for eight years after all. He was in many important respects a lousy father, but that's not his fault, although it probably shouldn't have taken five kids for him to finally realize that. His spectacular character flaws never stopped him from having a really good time and doing just about exactly what he wanted to do. Good for him I say, although I sure wish he hadn't blown off all those child support payments. Once when I was little he bought an enormous pool table, a massive oak model, and replaced our dining room table with it. When we ate dinner I sat by the rear corner pocket. People think I make this shit up. When he had us kids for a week on our summer vacation we spent a fair amount of time in a booth of the bar he co-owned.

I am supposed to harbor all kinds of twisted resentment toward him for all his shortcomings and failures, but I really can't be bothered. He's just a guy who didn't know what he was doing, a charming and affable fool whose amiable nature often masked his near-pathological narcissism and self-absorption. I guess I can relate to it too strongly to get very worked up about it.

Now his older brother, whom my mother later married, that's a different story.