I do not fear following in my father’s footsteps. He is an honest man. I fear being cast in the same light as him by my mother, my dearest small, curled, mountain-haired mother. For years he has been accused of putting wires in the walls (which he did, for his own conscience rather than her well being), for years he has been typing as loud as he could to drown out the sounds of her wailing over the monitors, her crying for me and her curses against his intentions. I do not, however, fear following in my father’s footsteps; I fear being cast in the same light as him by my mother. For a night–and perhaps many more– I relished in all the glory that is Lucien Carr. I left my mother, and after “where were you” I managed to squeeze out of my mouth, off my tongue, through my teeth, under my breath, that “I was out with a friend, ma”. She threw the half-guilt I offered with one hand right back at me, looking at me as she would my father: as a conspirator with plans for her demise rolled in my briefcase and up my shirtsleeves. She spat what I knew: “This is your fault.”