I am Doing Nothing Wrong
"This is not New York," Dale tells me in his van. On its side is a sign that reads, "Daddy鈥檚 Little Girl Flooring." It鈥檚 alarming how many calls he gets out of this. He used to work with another guy, Greg, in Manhattan, but he died so I came to work with him. Now, if we鈥檙e refinishing, there鈥檚 usually a woman at the door who will say by way of greeting, "You must be Daddy鈥檚 Little Girl." I imagine people wondered who the little girl was when it was just my father and Greg.
"I know this isn鈥檛 New York," I say. "It鈥檚 been ages." I am fond of outdated expressions that make me feel madcap and carefree. He doesn鈥檛 mean we left New York a half-hour ago, and are well into the heart of New Jersey or Connecticut. He means, we left New York for good. We did, four years ago. After a year of doing floors together in New York, we moved the business to Fort Collins, Colorado. What Dale refers to is the traffic outside Denver, where we're headed. We鈥檙e idling on I-25. Unlike some people who would鈥檝e said, "What鈥檚 the holdup, this isn鈥檛 New York," or if they鈥檙e really pissed, "What the hell, this isn鈥檛 fucking New York," my father states the obvious as if he鈥檚 unsure of it鈥檚 veracity.
My dad lo