The Provider

My dad is hard of hearing—to say it politely. To be more direct, my dad has acute selective-hearing. More annoyingly, when I am able to cajole his attention away from The Big Game or his business papers, he sticks to his own unavoidable agenda of conversation topics: sports and my personal fitness.

Unlike his communication profile, his business-slash-social life is less predictable. He could still be home at one o’clock on a Thursday instead of at the office; he might be at a fundraiser instead of his usual lounge chair in front of the television on Saturday; he may very likely be at a banquet across town at nine at night on Monday instead of having dinner with his family. The best way to know if my dad is home is to see if his wallet is in its usual resting spot. If his wallet is relaxing innocently on the corner of the bar in the kitchen, he’s home.

Just like every other proper child in well-to-do suburbia, whatever conversation I may initiate with my dad, it always ends with an inquiry for a few extra spending dollars. And just like every other father in well-to-do suburbia, I know he’s good for it. But once I am able to establish my dad’s presence at home by the company of his wallet, it’s fastest to circumvent the inevitable fifteen minute, or more, interrogation about my latest workout and instead head straight for his leather bound cache. Cut out the middle man. If you want something, go after it with everything you’ve got. Every good parent’s generic life lessons become clear in situations like these.

My dad and I don’t use the same word for this folded piece of cow hide. He calls it his billfold, while the other three members of the family, all female, call it his wallet—the same way he asks if we all have our swim trunks instead of swim suits when we pack for vacation. To save face for both of us—me not training long or hard enough, my dad unable to come up with anything else to talk about with his daughter—I simply navigate my way to the kitchen to locate his wallet. I separate the black Italian leather at its most vulnerable seam. Beyond the mountain ranges of gold and platinum cards that cascade up the undersized filing system, and between the rivers of stashed receipts that are coiled and entwined with each other, frothing white as they stick out of the closed wallet, lies the prize. And in the well traveled kitchen, there’s no question about my whereabouts, like there might be if his wallet was in my parent’s bedroom or in his office. It’s so easy, it looks like it might be a trap—but it’s not. So, unnoticed I pluck one or two twenties from the well stocked leather pocket and am on my way.

The word ‘wallet’ or ‘billfold’ has been used since the first century A.D. Wallet initially meant a larger sack used to hold necessities—like a survival pack (Wikipedia.com). Therefore, it’s logical that the goods kept inside wallets have been coveted, and on many occasions stolen, for some time now in order for the thief to get by. Why stop the trend? I’m not trying to rewrite history. In fact sponging bills from his unprotected pouch has come to be a kind of tradition in the family, pasted down from mother to daughters, just as it’s been passed down through the generations worldwide.

After awhile of this embezzling routine, I’ve started to picture my dad and his wallet as two sides of the same coin. The black exterior emulates my dad’s black hair. The hand woven stitches parade around the edges of his wallet and his dress shirts. Both he and his wallet have the musty smell of his old office building. My dad protects his wealth and business practices like the folds and pockets protect his flashy plastic cards and evidence of business transactions. The precious cash is like his completion: fair from being locked away in the dark, away from sunlight, and craggy from years of dealing in business. I’ve started to think of his wallet as being the family provider—perhaps in more ways than one. Spending those intense few moments with his wallet is like spending time with a silent version of my dad that listens instead of waits for a response.

He doesn’t seem to mind that his wallet is lighter every time he picks it up from the kitchen bar to stuff in the back of his pants. Either he appreciates not being disturbed by the request of a sure thing, or he doesn’t notice that any of his money has mysteriously evaporated. But judging from the circumstance, I think this is one themed discussion tacitly understood as gratitude.