Quitting time

My son sees my car and starts walking toward me. I flash my headlights in the dark just to make sure he sees me. His head is down, and he looks tired. He’s been working a ton of hours this summer, saving up for his second year of college. 

He gets in the car and thanks me for picking him up. I feel a wave of déjà vu sweep over me. Instead of my son, I remember my mom and I picking up my dad when he worked as a steel worker. Oh, my dad’s job working at a steel mill and my son’s summer job, working retail in 2023, are as different as night and day. I wouldn’t dream of comparing the two jobs, but I still can’t help but think of them together.

When my dad worked a 3 to 11 p.m. shift and my parents had just one car, my mom would sometimes take me along with her on the short 30-minute drive up the valley, where we lived, to pick up my dad. I was very young. I would cuddle up in the back seat with a blanket and a book or even up on the shelf by the rear window, looking up at the black sky and counting the stars.

My memory is splotchy at best. We’re talking the early 70s, so I don’t remember a lot. I can’t even tell you if my older brothers went along on the rides. I do remember that while we waited, my mom and I would talk about this or that or just watch the men leaving for the night. We’d watch and look for my dad, we’d make it a game to see who found him first, but the men wore hard hats and it was hard to pick him out from the crowd. For a kid with little knowledge of the world, it was all so interesting.

My mom didn’t want me to get too excited since it was late and she was wanted me go back to sleep when we got home, but I remember feeling happy to see my dad. He would walk slowly across the open space in front of the factory to the car. He’d wear a pea green jacket that the company provided and dirty work pants. His face would be smudged with sweat and dirt.

He would open the car door and be happy to see us. He would tell me to wait to hug him until he had a chance to scrub himself clean. There would be no tension or arguing. I would learn years later that many of the other workers would make pit stops at the bar next door for the Steelworker Special, a shot of whiskey and a beer. My dad never went, at least as far as I knew, he skipped all that to come home.

My son’s walk and gate coming to the car looks very much like how I remember my dad’s tired, but determined walk. He’s choosing a different profession, he has a chance to get his degree, something my dad never had the chance or the means to do. As I start the engine and drive home, I wonder if my son has picked up my dad’s work ethic. I won’t know that for years, but it’s still kind of interesting for me to sneak a peak at my son in the dim light and see my dad sitting next to me.

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