And Chris couldn't believe his eyes. There he was, in an autumn night that was a bit too warm for the season, standing sideways to the wind that stirred post-concert goers cigarette butts in the crusty dusty gutters, not bathed but maybe basted in a sticky sweat, regarding a note he had just found in his leather jacket,

"Son, I am disowning you."

It was in his father's handwriting, yes, and even seemed to speak with his father's smooth voice. Red pen, white paper, and only his gutless dad would have the -well what would one call it?- to leave such a message in his pocket, to be found idly. But then again, Chris' father hated the phone, hated the spoken word, hated most everything.

Including, apparently, Chris.

Chris sat heavily on a cement block which courted a tree, in front of the student union, a sitting which belied the season's true temperament by seeping night-wet coldness into his rear. His brow danced with indignation, anger, fear, confusion. he would have laughed, too, except he knew his father never joked. Never. His father, Chris believed, was afraid of humor.

Ever the debater, born to argue, to find the chinks in an opponents position, to exploit even the smallest weakness, Chris considered the tense of the note. I didn't say, "I have disowned you." Just "I am disowning you." Was this the old spineless man attempt at a threat? Could it be repenting was in order?

And for what? Being his own man? Being something his father never had been, and never could be? Repent for wanting to do something that was dictated by his own heart, and not the bloodless, lifeless husk of his progenitor? Repent, then, for existing?

It had been summer. It had been unseasonably cool. The stars had been nowhere- a sky gazer would have thought the heavens never knew such things as other worlds. Gazing at the fire, Chris dad sheepishly asked, "So, who's good in Lawrence?"

The question was political. Being without any backbone, the man gained self-assurance through others wielding power. The question meant, "What offices in Lawrence will be filled with competent republicans?"

At that moment, Chris was reminded of a sketch on Saturday Night Live. Thank god for reruns: television was a no-no under the roof of Chris father, and otherwise Chris would never have experienced the fodder on which his peers brains had fed. This particular episode was almost as old as Chris himself- Howard Hessman was the guest host, playing a father who was hearing his son confess to being heterosexual. It was an amusing twist on a topic that was only just then showing itself to the public eye. And there Chris sat, a guy who hated fires, and summer nights, and said with a shaky voice, "Dad, I'm a Libertarian."

It seemed such an absurd thing now, or at least he thought it seemed absurd in the ensuing weeks of silence from his father, skipping one, then two, and now nine weeks of weekly phone calls. Chris pursued his studies doggedly, like he pursued most things, and was only mildly concerned about not having spoke to his father until two days ago.

This time, the fire was a computer console, where his dad worked, and the sky was the stucco off-white of his father's study. "Son, I would like to speak with you for a moment." He'd said. Just like he'd said when Chris told him he wanted to enroll in the "anxiously liberal" KU, to quote his father again, and not George Washington, his father's alma mater, just like the time he told him he wanted to pursue a communications degree, and not business, like his father, just like every other god damned time he had decided to do something his father hadn't done.

"It's that girl, am I right?"

"That girl" was Tarama, a basket case, a pile off giggles and sobs, a curly headed, browned eyed, lover and of all things good and hater of all things bad, a student of social work and a victim of the same, an unstable girl that Chris loved so fiercely and so completely it made his head swim and his chest ache. A typo that never got corrected, her name was only the least odd thing about her- she had a personality for every nickname it produced. Chris had never know his mother- ran off or died after he was born, he didn't know, his father had never mentioned it, but on those days he was wont to think religiously Chris hoped and prayed his mother had been like "that girl," the complete antithesis of his father.

She'd opened his eyes, because closed eyes around Tarama were dangerous. She made him think about things he never would have thought about, thanks to his father's expert tutelage, made him question things he'd accepted. So yea, she'd set him up, rebirthed him so he could take on the world as a thinking human being and not a wassailing jelly fish- but she wasn't the reason he'd decide to become a libertarian. That was his own decision, a manifestation of his own personality, a piece of art that he and only he could sign his name to. And now it seemed, only his first name.

"No, it's not Tarama. Furthermore, I'm in love with 'that girl' so I would appreciate more respect on your part."

Maybe these words, certainly the harshest either had spoken to the other ever, had been what motivated his father to disown Chris. Or threaten to disown. Maybe this was the weak man's attempt at some sort of immature revenge.

Or maybe it was merely because this was the final straw with dear old dad. Maybe Chris's father had finally realized that Chris was not ever going to be like him. Maybe this was Chris's father's way of showing his acceptance of Chris as an individual. By cutting all the strings.

Funny, the irony of it. An irony the humorless father could never see. The newly all-powerful republicans, represented by one back-boneless businessman, and to whom would their power go? Well, not the Libertarian youth of today, it would seem.

The French had a phrase for it. Une libert‚ pauvre. What was he going to do now? This semester was payed for, thank goodness, and if he could get his father to actually, legally, disown him, his four hours a work per week at the concession stand would certainly not be enough to disqualify him for student aid.

But that was the debater thinking again, and not the son. the son who no longer existed, it seemed. Disowned. That means no help, thus no formal declaration, for that would help him, wouldn't it? Chris was really, finally on his own, with all the bad things it meant as well as the good.

A small piece of paper. Simple writing in red ink. This was his ticket to an empty, fatherless stage, with only a girl who refused to grip convention firmly to show him the floorboards.

Well, the night's work was done. He had a lukewarm shower and a confusing phone call waiting for him, and only a lonely walk through the now empty parking lots between this place and his dorm. Chris stood on legs tired from four hours of standing, and headed for home with a nameless heart.