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It’s me, Dad, who’s calling, honey.

You know only one thing about me: I identify as a guy, as evidenced by decades of Father’s Day gifts from you. You’ve given me eight ties, even though you’ve probably only seen me wear one during Poppy’s burial. I don’t recall what was stamped on the unique tie clip you got me one year, but I believe it was something along the lines of DAD (MALE PARENT).

A steakhouse gift certificate? Is that a box of cigars? What about a jerky gift basket? What’s the deal with the cheese-of-the-month club? You appear to be aware that I am a guy, yet you are unaware that heart disease is the leading cause of mortality among men of all ages.

And, no disrespect, but a number of your presents have just served to remind me of the labor I despise. You gave me a toolbox one year. Another year, a multitool, also known as a compact toolbox.

“Here, Dad, the toilet is running, so you might want to check if the chain is becoming caught under the flapper,” says one of the gifts. While you’re in there, replace the rusted drain stopper in the sink. Since it’s your special day, you can fix whatever you want!”

Polo shirts, bathrobes with camouflage prints, and grill accessory kits? You seem to have just googled “men stuff.”

However, these “guys adore beer”-themed gifts are preferable to the times you use Father’s Day to write about our tumultuous relationship. You value the sacrifices I’ve made and remember the good moments we’ve shared. You’ve accepted the lack of affection I’ve been able to show you due to our culture’s restricting conceptions of masculinity.

But there’s one thing I want you to remember this Father’s Day:

I couldn’t care less about any of it.

I’ve had enough of clues. I’m not going to tell you about a parking spot I discovered in the hopes that you’ll reciprocate. No more detailing Gary’s daughter’s fantastic parking place from last week, hoping that your envy will push you.

I’m begging you to offer me the single thing that makes me happy in this world: a story about how you found a fantastic parking spot.

As exposition, I recommend mentioning that you didn’t want to go into the city because you knew traffic and parking would be a nightmare and since the local news frequently exposes crimes perpetrated in the metropolis.

I’ve spent a lifetime attempting to implant in you a fear of the city, based on the notion that it is crowded and full of murderers.

You should create a sense of anticipation. Perhaps you were just about to give up and pay to park in a garage. Make a point of mentioning how expensive the city’s parking garages are, so I may presume you’re having financial difficulties and hand you a $20 on your way out.

Sweetie, we use narrative to make sense of our life, to provide shape to the entropy of human experience, and to elicit acknowledgment of our feelings in a distant and separate human subjectivity. I’m a middle-aged male with particular requirements.

I’m looking for stories of finding an excellent parking spot despite all odds. As in just in front of the structure.

Most essential, please, please include the phrase “what with the price of gas these days,” no matter when, when, or how frequently it appears in your tale.

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