As the day begins, I wake to the smell of exhaust and alcohol. Another night of searching, another woman, another wasted day. I think to myself 'What am I doing here? Who am I? Why am I here? And why the hell can't I find an answer?' My life is an endless string of dead ends and hopeless searches. Yet I continue to fight on and I continue to look for what is not there. Sadly, I always manage to become 'distracted'�. 'One day, I will find the answer.' I assure myself. 'One day, I'll find a way to escape this endless spiral which I have myself created.' Today, I figured, was a new day. I didn't know how right I was.
Like most days, this one began with a stiff drink and a chaser of Tylenol. I am not quite sure when I obtained this odd habit of early morning drinking, but I assume it began when I began confusing the hangovers with migraines. I've had a lot of migraines. After my ritual drink, it was time for me to get in the shower and wash away the sins of the previous night. When I entered the bathroom, however, things didn't seem quite right. For some reason, it just seemed a little'�off. I searched for the object of intrusion, and I found it in the bathtub. As I pulled back the screen, I found myself staring down at an odd little creature. Due to my state of disorientation, I could not place the figure at first. When my focus sharpened, though, I found the being which I was staring at to be a small child, probably about three to four years old. I could not tell you why he was there or how he got there. All I knew was that he was there, and that fact made things a lot more complicated. What was I to do? Call the police? Get the landlady? Send him out into the streets? He seemed to guess what I was thinking, and answered this question very handily for such a young child.
'My name's Peter. My mommy told me I was gonna come live here with you. She said you were my daddy.'�
I didn't know what to say. The only obvious option was the one which came out of my mouth.
'Uh'�hi, Peter. My name's Joe Harrison. Would you like something to eat?'�
'Oh, yes, Mr. Harrison! By the way, could I call you daddy?'�
'Wh-what?!'�
'Could I call you daddy, Mr. Harrison?'�
'Um, why don't you call me Joe for now, Peter? I'll go get you some breakfast.'�
I couldn't possibly find the words for how I felt at the time. Actually, I could, but there are far too many words which described my feelings. It would be a waste of time for me to give you all of them, so try to put yourself in my position. I'm sure you'll find an adequate number of choice emotions which are now flowing through the entirety of my being. Most of all, I was scared. I hated kids. Having a kid was something I didn't plan on till I was about forty. Now, I felt that my life was over. I would never be able to fulfill my dreams, achieve my goals, and find the answer to my question.
I went into the kitchen and weaved my way through a minefield of liquor bottles and empty cups towards the sink. I washed out one of the cups thoroughly to prevent any risk of contamination and poured some orange juice into it, then made my way to the refrigerator and opened it up. The milk inside was three month's stale, so I dumped it and began my search anew. I headed towards the pantry, a section of the house which had remained untouched for almost the entire duration of my owning it, and began to search for some cereal. The only type of cereal I had was some generic crap that was a couple of weeks old. The kid would have to deal with it. I had nothing else. I decided to add some coffee to the cereal so he would at least have something to soften the cereal up. I poured the cold coffee from the other day over the cereal, praying it was decaf yet subconsciously not really giving a fuck. He wasn't my kid, anyway. At least not in my eyes.
Peter ate with a hunger comparable to the feverish gnawing of a rabid squirrel. When he finished, he sat complacently on the side of the bathtub.
'I like you, Joe.'�
'Uh, thanks, kid.'�
'Can I call you daddy?'�
'No.'�
'Aw, please?'�
'No.'�
'But, you are my daddy, right?'�
'No, I'm not your daddy. Your mom is a liar.'�
'But daddy-'
'DON'T CALL ME DADDY!'�
My yelling sent him into an endless outpour of tears. His eyes were like fountains, never ceasing as he sat and tore deep cuts into my soul. Despite what I had said earlier, I found myself feeling sorry for him. He was alone in the world, with no one to love him and no one to love in return. In a lot of ways, he was exactly like me.
'Shh. Easy now, Pete. It's going to be okay. I didn't mean it. You can call me daddy if you want to.'�
'Leave me alone!'�
My words were not enough. His squall of tears continued on. Like the winds of a mighty storm, they moved me in a way I did not wish to go. I found myself kneeling down next to him and placing my arms around him. As he gasped for breath, I rubbed his back as my mother had done for me and tried my best to console him.
'It's okay,'� I said reassuringly, 'it's okay.'�
His sobs dissolved to cries, which then tailed off into whimpers. As he calmed down, I began to calm down, as well. I knew this role was one which I had to accept, willingly or not. He was now my son, and I was his father. I was his mentor, his teacher, his support in times of need. I was his rock, his friend, his consolation in times of sorrow. I was his daddy.

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