His Father's Son (standard:other, 2334 words) [3/4] show all parts
Author: Jim Spence	Added: Aug 16 2003	Views/Reads: 2655/1943	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Part 3 in the Herman series ...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

age, and Herman himself was now but a few years younger than his father 
was when he passed away.  That thought never escaped him as each 
birthday came and went. 

Herman knew that his father had had such high hopes for both of his
sons.  His father was a hard working man, who worked beside his own 
father when he was 15, in turn taking control of the family business, 
and expecting his sons to follow in his footsteps; only Herman didn't 
see it that way.  Herman wanted to take his own road ... and just look 
where that road had taken him. 

And so, 20 years later, Herman thought about his father, and what he had
become since his father had died.  Today was his birthday.  “Happy 
birthday, Dad” thought Herman as he walked past the rows of fish 
markets and jewelry stores. 

It was almost noon, so Herman thought he'd stop for a quick bite before
continuing his walk to the park and, ultimately, the book store.  He 
sat at an outside café; not a café really, just a simple eatery with 
two folding tables and a handful of chairs outside.  Herman ordered a 
salad ... he figured, why not?  I've lost a little weight; I might as 
well eat something light. 

As he sat in the noon day sun eating, Herman watched the children
playing in the street, dodging traffic and giggling to themselves.  
They'd just come from an ice cream stand and they were all carrying 
cones of various sizes.  Herman noticed one boy in particular; a tall, 
chubby boy of about six, much bigger than the others.  The others would 
run between cars, laughing and taunting the chubby boy, who would huff 
and puff, and try to keep up.  This chubby boy reminded Herman of 
someone he knew. 

The smaller boys ran across the street as the light changed.  The
slower, chubby boy was not to be denied.  Even though the light had 
changed, he tried his best to keep up with the others.  A car turned at 
the corner, and neither the driver nor the boy could see the other. 

But Herman could see both.  He ran screaming from his table, knocking
his salad over in the process, trying to warn the boy. 

Luckily, the driver saw the boy just in time and came to a halt ... but
not before startling the child and making him drop his ice cream cone 
into the street.  And there stood the group of smaller boys, laughing 
even harder now, pointing at the ice cream on the pavement, taunting 
the one who'd lost his treat in an attempt just to keep up. 

“Poor boy” thought Herman, as he sat back down and finished what was
left of his lunch.  “I've got half a mind to say something to them.” 

But he knew that he wouldn't.  The chubby boy would just have to learn
his lesson.  “We all do” thought Herman. 

Then a thought came over Herman.  He called the waiter over, and ordered
the biggest banana split that they had ... four scoops of ice cream, 
with five different toppings, and two whole bananas. 

As the waiter came over and placed the ice cream on Herman's table,
Herman paid him, stood up and called to the chubby boy. 

“Son” said Herman, “I'm afraid I've ordered a bit too much to eat today,
and I wonder if you wouldn't mind too terribly much finishing this ice 
cream for me.” 

Of course, the chubby boy's eyes opened wide in amazement as he said
“sure, mister!” and proceeded to eat the biggest pile of ice cream he'd 
ever seen. 

As Herman walked away, he glanced over his shoulder in time to see the
chubby boy sitting there, happily eating his ice cream, gleefully 
sharing it with none of his friends, as they stood by begging for “just 
one bite”. 

“He'll learn” thought Herman. 

Herman made it to the park a little after one.  He sat and watched all
of the people enjoying the day, couples walking, carriages going to and 
fro, families gathered in merriment.   He thought it was somehow odd 
that he'd forgotten his father's birthday, remembered it, and then 
forgotten about it again until just now. 

His father ... Herman thought how strange it was that he so closely
resembled his father, and yet his brother was the one that carried on 
their father's legacy.  He tried to remember the last time that his 
father had been proud of him, the last time his father had said “good 
job, Herman” ... but the thought never came to him. 

He could remember as a young man wanting his father's approval, but he
rarely got it.  Perhaps it was because Herman just didn't see things 
the way his father had.  Perhaps it was because his father grew up at 
15, and Herman didn't grow up until he was 35, long past when his 
father could have ever known.  Even now, Herman just knew that his 
father wouldn't approve of him, wouldn't say “good job, Herman” with an 
arm around the shoulder. 

Herman saw a man walking his two young sons, one holding his father's
hand, the other lagging behind, as his father would look over his 
shoulder and say “hurry up, William, or you'll make us all late”. 

“Ah, there we go” said Herman thoughtfully. 

At a quarter ‘til three, Herman stood and made his way to the book
store.  This was a special day for Herman, and he was anxious to get 
there. 

You see, all of Herman's childhood, one of his fondest memories was of
his father's love of science fiction.  Herman would sneak up above the 
garage where his father kept his books; a collection of rag tag 
paperbacks by Herbert and Heinlein, Asimov and Anthony, and a dozen 
other authors.  Herman would get lost in those books.  They had 
something in common, Herman and his father, and yet Herman hid it from 
him ... as if he was scared his father would find out that they did 
have something in common. 

Herman kept his father's love for reading to this very day.  In fact,
Herman had taken it one step further.  Herman had started writing.  
Nothing very special, because Herman was ordinary even in thought; just 
some ordinary ideas, with ordinary themes and ordinary characters.  He 
would take ten minutes at work when no one was watching and write down 
ideas.  As he took the bus to work each day, he would look at the 
people, and think of which of them would be a character in his story.  
He jotted down situations on napkins at the diner each evening.  All of 
this until he finally had a story.  Not a great story, mind you, but 
one that Herman was proud of. 

Then Herman drew up greater courage than he had ever known.  He
submitted his ordinary story to a science fiction magazine.  Not a well 
read one, mind you, because Herman had read those stories, and he knew 
that he wasn't capable of writing such verse.  No, Herman sent his 
story to a small in stature, small in circulation science fiction 
magazine.  And just two weeks before ... two weeks, one day, three 
hours, and an assortment of minutes, to be exact ... Herman had 
received the letter from that science fiction magazine, thanking him 
for his submission, and telling him that it would be printed in the 
edition that was being released at 3:00 pm, two Saturdays hence. 

It was being released today. 

As Herman approached the book store, he saw the delivery truck just
pulling away.  He knew his timing was perfect. 

Herman walked into the book store ... and became a child again. 
Surrounded by books of all sort, magazines and newspapers, journals and 
diaries, Herman lost his breath.  “Somewhere in here” thought Herman 
“is my story.” 

He looked in the science fiction section, behind every book and
magazine, and couldn't find the one he wanted.  His heart began to 
race.  He went to the magazine section.  “It has to be here” Herman 
thought to himself.  He moved every magazine, on every shelf, on both 
sides of the aisle, until ... 

Herman recognized the familiar blue and red of the magazine he had been
anxiously awaiting for two weeks, one day, three hours and a now even 
longer assortment of minutes.  In a neat little stack, almost to 
themselves, he found what he was looking for. 

His hands shook as he picked it up.  There, right there, on the front
cover, was a listing of contributors.  And there, right there, second 
from the bottom, was Herman's name. 

How odd that right now he would again think of his father, the father
that didn't know his son. 

He paid for the magazine, and started the walk to his third floor flat. 
He didn't even stop to read his story, he wanted so badly to get home 
to his ordinary surroundings, with his ordinary life, and read his very 
first published ordinary story. 

******************* 

The moon was high overhead and the sounds of the city at night wafted in
through Herman's bedroom window as he finished reading his story for 
what must have been the tenth time.  Just holding it there, looking at 
what he'd done, printed as it was, for all the world to see. 

Herman looked at his alarm clock.  It was still flashing; he hadn't set
it since the power went off the night before.  “Oh, the heck with it” 
thought Herman, “it's Saturday.” 

As Herman took off his reading glasses and put them in the drawer beside
the bed, he placed his magazine ... his magazine ... on the nightstand, 
and just before he turned out the light, he looked at his name on the 
cover one more time and said ... 

“Happy birthday, Dad ... I love you.” 


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