Wesley.

I got a voice-mail yesterday that my dad died. His girlfriend found his body upon returning from a weekend away; the county coroner said he died of a massive heart attack. His drinking and sedentary lifestyle rendered him bloated and unable to move about or get outdoors. He had, as at other times in his life, ballooned out to nearly 350 pounds, though his frame was slight.

Wes wasn't my real dad, though he was my real father. His life was a page from Kerouac, a track from a mid-career Tom Waits record, and some things a lot less romantic all rolled up. Like Barfly meets Glengarry Glen Ross meets Cannery Row.

From what I understand, Wes was many things, if not a dad. He was a salesman, a laborer, a drunk, a rambler, a lover of nature and animals a sharp-dresser and a fast-motorcycle-rider. And he was a dad probably a bit, just not to me. His girlfriend had several kids to whom he probably gave at least some parenting, though they, like me, had real dads.

My mother met Wes shortly after he returned from Vietnam after receiving a dishonorable discharge for disobeying orders in a combat zone. He refused to go on a suicide mission that ended up wiping out his platoon. He was sent home, but not before significant exposure to Agent Orange, the effects of which plagued him to his death. He was charismatic and warm despite his time in Vietnam and despite being brought up by a psychotic and violent alcoholic father. He and my mother were married and I was born in 1974. Liquor and pot were his first love however, and by 1976 he had moved on.

Twenty years later, I looked Wes up on my own. We had never met or even corresponded. Nor had our families kept in touch. In fact, his last image of me was probably of a sleeping one-year-old. He was thrilled to hear from me and traveled down from Grand Forks, North Dakota to visit me in St. Paul, Minnesota. He brought me a motorcycle as a gift: 1971 Yamaha 650 that he had restored during a recent period of sobriety. He was a smoker and had installed a cigarette lighter near the bike's ignition, the kind you see in a car where it pops up when it's hot.

A few months later, he visited again and took me to one of the Indian casinos in the area and gave me a hundred dollars to gamble with. I actually came out ahead.

Wes moved to Tennessee a few years later and I visited him in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains where he'd straighten the curves with his crotch-rocket motorcycle. That was the first time saw real hillbillies. They sat on their front porches in rocking chairs, crooked stovepipes jutting from the cobbled shacks, just like in the cartoons.

Several years later just before Christmas, when I was living in Seattle, UPS delivered a smoked salmon to the door. That was Wes. I don't think we'd talked for nearly a year and suddenly this salmon shows up in the mail for Christmas. in 2003 I got married and though he was invited, he did not attend. As it turned out, Wes was drinking again and in bad shape. We didn't speak after that until a couple of weeks ago.

I was walking through the mall on a coffee break and suddenly felt like I should call him. Since we spoke last, I'd been divorced, left New York, moved in with my girlfriend in Maine and had a baby. I didn't know if he was still at the same phone number or even if he was still alive. He was both and answered right away in his deep voice and hybrid accent which straddled the Mason-Dixon line.

He was very happy to hear from me and to learn that he was a grandfather. He told me about his new golden retriever named Ben who was kicked out of guide dog school for being a rebel and I could hear the pride in his voice. I told him about my chihuahua and cats and he was very interested, commenting in ernest about the intelligence of chihuahuas.

He also said he was happy that I had a good job in this economy and remembered back to the recession in the mid seventies when I was born and he was unemployed. He'd take his pickup truck into the Minnesota woods during my first winter and chop down trees which he would in turn break into firewood and sell to neighbors from our back yard in south Minneapolis.

We didn't talk long, but it was enough so that when I got that voice-mail last night I wasn't filled with regret, only a dull shock that Wes is dead. He requested there be no memorial service and so I suppose this may be his only Eulogy. I can't say it's particularly flattering or well-written, but Wes was a straight-shooter and for that I admire him and for that I'll remember him.

Two Dads and a Motherboard.

I have an odd job, I really do. I work part time for a national tech-support dispatch service and jobs get routed to the pool of nearby technicians via email and text messages. When the text or email shows up on my phone, I scramble to get to a computer and log into my account and accept the job before anyone else does. Sometimes I get it, sometimes I don't.

The job can be either commercial or residential. If it's residential, I usually go to someone's weird house in god-knows-what suburb. In any case, I am required to represent whatever company is sourcing me that day (e.g. CompUSA, Acer, Dell). It's hard to remember who I'm representing on any given visit, so it becomes "Hello, my name is Nick and I'm with (slowly scan work order in hand) "International Laser." Smile.

Today I drove to Lebanon, Maine, near the New Hampshire border. Maine has all kinds of cities named after foreign places. A quick look at the map reveals names like: China, Lebanon, Vienna, Lisbon, Peru, Wales, Mexico, Sidney, Palermo, Paris, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Naples, Madrid, Belfast, etc.

Anyway, today I drove to Lebanon and met with an old queen named Ron who had a dead computer which he professed to having bought at "Walmart's." Ron had the patina of a serious lifetime smoker. He had 'smoker's hair', 'smoker's face', and a shredded voice. He wore black jeans, a tucked-in mock-turtleneck and a studded black belt. Ron lived with his partner Steven (another tense, white-bread Mainer) and an adopted Pakistani teenager, a boy named Rahesh.

Rahesh had only a Maine accent and was called on to figure out the basement lighting. That's where the computer was. His two dads snapped at one another upstairs while I got to work dismantling the PC. "I said 'can you pour me a soda?'!"

"You just had a soda!"

They were preparing something in the kitchen for their Christmas dinner and the entire house including the basement smelled like bagel dogs. My job was to replace Ron's motherboard, which I did, and as I waited for the computer to start back up, I looked around and really drank in the scene for the first time. Shelves and shelves of antique bibles, several dozen VHS tapes including a 2-tape set of My Fair Lady, several books on sexuality and a few really old sets of philosophy books, spanning dozens of volumes, on unfinished plywood shelves.

The basement was done up in wainscoting and brown shag, severely torn in places. Several dusty museum-ready stereo components were lined up on a low, lacquered entertainment center: an audio cassette deck, an early CD player, a turntable, a receiver. I began the final steps of reassembling the PC so I could get out of there.

Then the dads started in again: "Did you turn my oven down!?"

"Yes! Do you want the outside to burn before the inside's even cooked?"

I felt sorry for Rahesh, then felt guilty for feeling sorry for him. He's just a teenager with parents like anyone else. As long as the three of them love each other, it doesn't matter how weird Ron's skin is or if they are having burned or raw bagel dogs for Christmas. Then I felt a little bit happy for them.

I got Ron's elaborate signature on a few forms and wished them all a happy holiday. As I left the house, they were all filing down to the basement, as a family, to check out the fixed computer. I wondered what they'd do, gathered around the computer. I imagined them browsing to a sports website or maybe the dads would check a joint email account. I have to admit, I felt useful. Which is rare.