In a rare instance of earliness, Father’s Day fell on a particularly pointed date that year. June 14th. The same day as a certain dictatorial president’s eightieth birthday. A president who happened to be, arguably, one of the worst fathers to ever exist. Nonetheless, he kept spreading his seed through three different wives, culminating in a total of five children, the first bearing the same name as him. It was hard to decide, sometimes, if “Junior” was the dullest (mentally speaking) of the brood, or if it was one of the other two sons. As for the two daughters, this particular “father” (a big word for a man who was so absentee and lacking in warmth) was grossly and overtly attracted to both of them—though the older one more than the younger one. Both daughters were blonde, possessing just the sort of Aryan attributes that “The President” liked. This despite refusing to allow his own skin to remain the fundamentally lily tone that it was. Instead, he preferred to “paint it” regularly with bronzer. Only the result wasn’t bronze, but orange. Cheeto orange, if you will.

That was the color “The President” was synonymous with. Apart from red. Associated not only with his party lines, but the bloodshed that had spilled as a result of his careless, insensitive actions. Often so arbitrary and unhinged, that many questioned his cognitive ability. After all, this Father’s Day was to be, as mentioned, “The President’s” eightieth birthday. Something that many people were quite happy/hopeful about in the sense that they all presumed this meant “The President’s” foot was one step closer into the grave.

Rhett might have gladly shared in the collective sentiment this Father’s Day were it not for the fact that his own father was about to turn eighty. So he found it to be both contradictory and “bad juju” to want to wish “The President” dead. To add to the daily prayers and wishes that it might be so, sooner rather than later, because of “The President’s” advanced age. But was his age really that advanced when taking into account the many medical marvels that rich men like “The President” had access to and could afford to implement regularly? After all, was there not a reason that the dictators of Russia and China were only just recently caught on a hot mic discussing the benefits of organ transplants as a means to prolong one’s life? Hell, the Russian dictator even mentioned that “eternal life” could be a possibility with the right biotechnology.

These were the types of things that concerned such men: themselves. Their own life and its vampire-like longevity. But Rhett’s father, Oscar, was not the type of man who could ever dream of affording such things. Of somehow implementing their benefits into his life. Oscar was instead the type of man who was shocked to have made it this far in life without somehow dying. Not just because he didn’t consider himself to be an especially healthy man, but because he had spent the majority of his working years as a roofer. As such, he had taken his fair share of “nasty spills.” Sometimes merely tripping and falling on the roof and, others, actually falling off of it full-stop. So yes, Rhett was aware that Oscar had received his fair share of knocks in life (both literal and metaphorical). And that it was a blessing his father was still alive as his own eightieth year descended upon him, with Oscar’s birthday arriving in July (yes, he was a Cancer through and through). Just a little over a month after “The President’s.”

This was but a small part of why Rhett was feeling conflicted about Father’s Day this year. On the one hand, he wanted to join in the anti-birthday protests that were slated to take place. Done in opposition to “The President” planning a profligate, “Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette-level” fête. On the other, he wanted to be there for his father. To show his love and respect for him on the designated “holiday” for doing so. A “holiday,” mind you, that never gave anyone a workday off and also one that was invented at a time when patriarchy was at an unchecked height. Not that it wasn’t in the present as well. Worse still (or was it better, in a way?), no one even bothered trying to mask that patriarchy was just as alive and well as ever now.

Not that anyone was trying to mask it in 1910, when Father’s Day was “created” by Sonora Smart Dodd (a real Daddy’s girl, needless to say). But the difference was, obviously, that things were supposed to be better now. Yet they had somehow gotten worse. In no small part thanks to “The President.” The more Rhett thought about it, the more it made his blood boil. Not to the extent that he would try to plot an assassination with other men online (as had recently been the case when the mother of one such man narc’d on him to the FBI). However, maybe it was to the extent that he would choose to opt out of Father’s Day “at home” in favor of Father’s Day “as a collective.” Out on the streets, protesting with the other outraged citizens of the country. Though, as far as Rhett could tell, there weren’t nearly enough. In fact, complacency abounded in a way perhaps not seen since the decade leading up to World War II.

Though, if Rhett tried to speak on this with Oscar, who had always adhered to his conservative party lines no matter who the candidate was, his father would either stare at him like he was speaking a foreign language or just outright change the topic of conversation. There was no “talking about it”—or anything of substance, for that matter—with his father. As far as Oscar was concerned, you just put your head down and tried to get through this life no matter what was happening. Well, Rhett couldn’t live like that. Even in spite of how hard Oscar tried to condition him to emulate this behavior. So he decided that he no longer would. Starting with skipping out on the Father’s Day festivities that were always held at this aunt’s house every year and instead choosing to join in with the brave, indefatigable souls who chose to spend their Father’s Day engaging in anti-birthday, therefore anti-“The President” protests. They would all be damned if they went down without a fight.

Rhett felt the same. Which was good, since he ended up getting arrested over it. And when Oscar was the one to bail him out of jail that very same night, he looked at him not with disapproval, but, for the first time Rhett could remember, actual pride. That was the memory Rhett held on to the following week (and all the weeks thereafter), when his mother called to tell him that Oscar had died of a heart attack. Out of the blue. Just like that. Was it, in some small way, Rhett’s fault? Had the pride he thought he saw in his father’s eyes actually been horror or disgust? He would never know for certain, but he wanted to believe that the two of them, even if only for that brief instant after he was bailed out, shared a kind of understanding. An “I see you” moment.

While Oscar didn’t get to make it to his eightieth birthday, “The President” continued on. And on and on. Perhaps secretly tapping into some of that “right biotechnology” the Russian dictator had been talking about. Or maybe even being “swapped out” with a different model or impersonator. Nothing was out of the question. Well, except the fact that only the good ones seem to die.