My dad could call up charm on demand.  Whenever he wanted or needed to, he could find a willing audience who would pay attention to him and laugh and throw barbs his way and watch him deflect each barb with quips and laughter and self-deprecating comebacks.  Watching that man work a crowd was like watching Rembrandt paint or Beethoven compose or Jackie Gleason on stage.  When he was around others, things just always clicked for that man – whenever he wanted things to click.

Friday night, things were clicking for me.  I was at The City Tap, a small and quaint and friendly bar in downtown Pittsboro, North Carolina.  Things click like that for me maybe 30-percent of the time.  I’m a good 70 percentage points away from my dad’s average.

There was one time in Atlanta.  I was with my dad, my brother, and my cousin at Houston’s Steak House in Mid-Town, eating dinner after a North Carolina-Georgia Tech football game.  My dad was a bit subdued that night.  That’s because my brother, cousin and I were performing – and clicking.  But it was so unlike my dad to just kick back and observe.  We were cutting up with the wait staff and other customers.  We were laughing and getting laughs just like I had always observed my dad doing all those many years.  But that night, my dad just watched.

At some point during the meal, my dad reared back in his chair, smiled and looked at each of his two sons and said with such pride, “Well, it looks like you boys got my sense of humor after all.”  Wow.  Rembrandt just called me a great painter.  Beethoven just called me a great composer.  And Jackie Gleason welcomed me onto his television stage.  I know my dad was proud of my brother and me – and my sister – in almost all that we did.  But to hear and see and feel the pride that night in that way meant the world to me.  Especially since 70% of the time, I am mostly awkward and pretty much of a non-clicker.

But after The City Tap last Friday, and after being in my 30% click zone, I went home and fell into a deep, mostly alcohol-induce sleep.  And I remember the overnight dreams.  I was on a street somewhere.  On a sidewalk.  I was clicking still.  I was making my mama and others laugh and smile.  I looked out toward the street.  And there he was.  With silver hair and dark sunglasses, my dad, nicely dressed and walking past us all, keeping step to the infamous Joe Moon swagger.  He didn’t stop and join in.  He didn’t acknowledged anyone else there.  He looked at me.  He smiled.  He lowered his shades just enough to give me a wink.  And he waved.  And he swaggered away.

The man approved.  And just like the time in Atlanta, the man was proud of his boy.

I can never be charming on demand like that man.  But I would give all that I have to have that dream on demand.  Again and again.

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