It's not easy being a nepo baby. Growing up in the shadow of a celebrity dad means that his fame always came first. Whenever he left on trips for work, people would ask me where he was this time: Rome? Cairo? The Wild West? But I didn't know, either. I was looking for him like everyone else.
The one place I found him with any regularity was the mirror. We were nearly identical; our resemblance almost cartoonish. The same lanky frame, the same swoop of wavy brown hair. Worst of all, I had his eyes — those black, beady eyes that seemed to scream "Find me!" even when I was trying to hide. I tried swapping out my chunky black frames for a pair of gold, wire-rim glasses, but my father's eyes still stared back at me. Turns out you can't escape genetics just by slapping on a pair of Warby Parkers.
People on the street would confirm the resemblance. "Oh my God, you're his spitting image!" they'd gush. I'd brace myself for what I knew was coming. "I have to say, I've always wanted to find Waldo." I'd nod politely, thinking, "You and me both, buddy."
If only they knew that finding him was the easy part. Keeping him around was the real challenge.
When he was away, my father sent postcards, each one a lesson in absurd scenarios and the geography of impossible landscapes. One week he'd be navigating through a sea of pirates and sea monsters, his striped shirt barely visible among the tentacles and eye patches. The next, he'd be dodging mammoths in a prehistoric tableau, leaving footprints in the snow alongside dinosaur tracks. And then, without warning, he'd be back, armed with knickknacks from whatever far-flung location he had just visited. Our house was filled with souvenirs from Dad's travels. The coat rack was a repurposed ship mast. Our coffee table was an ancient Aztec sacrificial altar. Mom converted a knight's helmet into a flower vase.
His returns were always unexpected. One moment, I'd be staring at the front door and then he'd materialize, as though he'd been there the whole time, holding his red and white striped duffel, a weary smile on his face. My mother would rush to him, her palpable relief mixed with simmering anger. "Welcome home," she'd say, her voice shaky. He'd hug her, and for a moment everything would seem normal.
To his credit, he did try to "play" with me, but the games weren't exactly fun. I wouldn't recommend trying to win a staring contest against my dad. The one game he refused to play was Hide and Seek. "Son," he'd say, "don't ask me to bring my work home with me."
At home, his closet was full of iterations of the same outfit he wore "on set" — red and white striped sweaters, blue jeans, and that iconic bobble hat. I once asked why he never varied his wardrobe. He just chuckled and said: "I don't wear the stripes. They wear me."
The paparazzi loved trying to find him on his off days; they were always after candid shots where Waldo looked like he'd let himself go a little bit. One paper devoted a weekly column to it: Here's Waldo. Here's Waldo at the pay-by-the-ounce frozen yogurt place. Here's Waldo with his arms full of Dunkin' Donuts, cigarette dangling from his lips.
We had a dog named Woof, a gift from Dad when he'd missed my birthday … again. Woof was loyal, always waiting by the door for Dad to return, tail wagging with endless optimism. For a while, Woof was just like us, but then Dad started bringing Woof along on his trips, leaving me more alone than ever.
Mom and Dad fought endlessly about his absences. "You think I want to travel so much? You think it's glamorous standing next to a circus tent all day?" he'd retort, exasperated. Mom had married a global celebrity and gotten the luxurious lifestyle she'd always wanted, but at what cost? A missing husband, an absent father, and a drinking problem exacerbated by the incessant rumors about Dad's secret life.
The years passed and the pattern remained. With each trip, the space between us grew wider, the time away longer. Soon, his returns brought less relief than dread about his next departure. My mother grew paranoid and jealous, consumed by the thought that he was consorting with more worldly women.
"What happens at the Mighty Fruit Fight stays at the Mighty Fruit Fight," he whispered to me once with a wink. I was 10.
One night, my mother couldn't take it anymore. She flung a tabloid at him, screaming, "Where's Waldo's wedding ring?!" again and again. He left that night and didn't come back.
For years after he left, I scoured the pages like everyone else. Often, I thought I'd found my father, only to realize I was looking at a barber's pole.
Most people don't know the story behind his death. He had a heart attack at Coachella. It would have been easy enough to treat, but the paramedics couldn't locate him in time. I'll never understand why he decided to stand next to that red and white striped beach umbrella.
These days, my mother leaves candy canes on his headstone in the local cemetery. It's a quiet place. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the tumult of his professional life. Sometimes on the street, I see a striped shirt and I can't help but wonder if his death was a trick — one last attempt to hide from the world.
The strange thing is, I've caught myself adopting his habits more and more. I'm the one people can't seem to find in a crowded room, despite my best efforts. Last week, my friend asked me why I'd missed his wedding, even though I was sitting in the front row.
The world feels both clearer and emptier without my father in it. I've even taken to wearing his clothes. It feels strangely right, like it's meant to be. I've never felt more lost.