As I’d crossed the alley, two of my father’s mottos came roaring back to me: “You’re a Bandy. If you’re going to do something, remember, whatever it is, a Bandy gives it his best shot.” And what always seemed its complete opposite: “Don’t let the hotel steal your life.”
Dear old Dad, whose life reflected neither of those mottos. Even the first one was a lie. Although he’d chosen to adopt me, he’d been less than adept as a parent. He might have given his best shot at jabbering away with his friends and buying another round for the table at Stonewall Saloon, but his choice of son—me—had been left to fend for himself. Although Nathaniel Bandy had rescued me from a state facility and shared his legacy and birthright, he hadn’t given his best, or any, shot at active fatherhood.
And the hotel?
