Nervously, I softly knock on his bedroom door.
“Can I come in?” I ask. I don’t get an answer and I knock again.
“Come in,” he says. And I do. I find myself back in my childhood bedroom with the pea-green shag carpet and the bunk beds and the constant companion of the NES Advantage Nintendo controller. And I’m watching myself at 12 years old with a super intense look on my face and with the Nintendo controller in his lap. There’s also an open Nintendo Power strategy guide on the bed behind him.
“What’cha playing?”
“Super Mario 3,” he says while never looking up from the game.
“Boy, the feeling I had when I finally beat Bowser…” I say. He pauses the game. “You heard me. You actually beat this game. And this level, I’ve got a tip I wanna tell you…after I talk to you about something.”
“Am I in trouble?” He asks. I laugh gently.
“Not at all. But I do need to talk to you about something that’s bothering both of us.”
“How do you know it’s bothering me?”
“Kid, I’m you. Have you forgotten? I know you better than you know you. I’m noticing something that’s worrying me. Why have you been so scared lately?” I notice as I ask that my 12-year-old self can’t look at me in the eyes. “Look at me. What’s going on?”
“You won’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I’m scared nobody’s gonna like me. And everything I do will be wrong. So…I try to beat this game. And I see all this stuff you’re doing and…I’m just scared nobody’s gonna like me.”
I think long and hard about what to say. I really need this to land.
“Can I tell you a story? This is something that happened to me as a grown up and it’s bothered me for years. I remember that Dad had come over to my house one day and he noticed that I had mopped the floor, which I hated doing. I had laminate wood floors and it was a pain to get clean.”
“It looks really good, Ryan,” Dad said to me. “Looks like you missed a spot back there.”
“It took me a long time to get that kitchen mopped. And I know I kept stepping in the wet spots. It was hard, but I did it. And I was so mad at myself for what I thought was the mistake that I made. But all it was was Dad telling me something that was missing.”
“And you weren’t upset?” 12-year-old me asks.
“Did you hear a word I just said? It has been bothering me for years. I’m about to publish one of the most exciting book projects I’ve ever done, but I find that I’m focused on the things that are wrong in my life. And I’ve been hiding. I’ve been hiding from myself. I’ve been playing that stupid play money poker game on my phone constantly. You think nobody likes you. I think that nobody likes me. But we’ve both been lying to ourselves. We have no idea how loved and appreciated we are. Sometimes people will point out things that we didn’t do or we did wrong. And this isn’t because they think we’re stupid or lazy. I know you’ve been hiding from me. And honestly, I’ve been hiding from you too. And I’m sorry.”
“You mean they’re not mad at you?” He asks me with puppy dog eyes.
“So what if they are? It’s all gravy, kid. And I’m going to say something that I really need to hear right now. For both of us. For the kid you are, and for the man I am. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of myself for not giving up on finding a new job, even though you haven’t heard anything back from anyone in months. I’m proud of myself for this amazing new book that’s about to be released. I’m proud of myself for the new projects that I’ve got brewing. And kid I’m proud of you for being so dang smart. You’ve got such a big brain in that head of yours. You’ve got such a big heart. And you know what you’re doing, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
We both share a silence. The air conditioner intake is right across the hall from our bedroom and the heat softly kicks on, disturbing the silence.
“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks me.
“What’s that?”
“I’m proud of you too. You really wrote a book?”
“Books. Several. I’ve written four by myself, published three so far, and have one by several different writers coming out soon.”
“That’s so cool!”
“Yeah. And people hire me to help them see their own books become books.”
“How does that happen?” he asks.
“The technology isn’t there for you yet.” We both laugh.
“Now, let me show you that tip.” Instead of picking up the controller, 12-year-old me leaps up and pulls me into a big hug.
“I’m proud of you,” he says to me. “I love you.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
