Some people might think my reaction to my father leaving me The Lot was overblown, that I should be thankful for the potential the land has given me.

But those people are wrong. This wasn’t a gesture of kindness from my father, it was his last screw-you. The thing that has always bothered me the most about my father was how well he knew me, even at such a young age. He knew that one day I’d be unable to resist the desire to escape, just like him. And so he dangled this lot in front of me knowing I couldn’t refuse and that I’d drop everything for the opportunity. Maybe I’m the one to blame for believing there was goodwill still in him.

I explored the lot for hours, assessing the land and trying to find if my father had ever done anything with it, besides trick me. There wasn’t a lean-to or even a cave full of rapid wolves that I would be able to take shelter in. I was essentially homeless. Homeless at my new home.

If I couldn’t find what I was looking for, whatever that really was, at The Lot I thought maybe the town would hold the answers I needed. I remembered seeing this little eclectic coffee shop on my way into town and knew that would be my first stop. Not because it would have the answers, but because it would have coffee.

I’ve measured my life in coffee cups and it seemed the best way to christen Windenburg. Coffee shops offer the best opportunity to observe and sip in the culture of a town.

Soon the coffee woke the questions I had about the town, The Lot, and, of course, my father. I approached a man who had been at the coffee shop for hours, Gunter Munch. He knew nothing of The Lot or my father, but had a lot to say about the town. Having lived here his whole life (with no apparent signs of leaving his mother’s house) he seemed like the perfect ally to have on my side through whatever lay ahead.

Gunther’s lesson on the history of Windenburg made me realize what should be my next stop: the library. If there was anywhere that would have records of how the lot happened to fall into my hands, it would be those dusty reels of microfilm.

I struck up a conversation with the woman who I assumed was the librarian (well at least she had that sexy librarian look), only to learn that the library no longer kept collections of land deeds or town papers. Strike 2.

If I measured my life in coffee cups, my father measured his in bottles of scotch. If anyone had known my father in Windenburg it would be the overworked bartenders or my father’s fellow patrons.

The Lot conveniently is only a block or two away from a bar, so I decided to hit it up before heading back home (if that’s really what The Lot is now for me).

The bar was packed when I arrived. It was, as Gunther explained, Guy’s Night. The face of my last date with Agnes Seabottom flooded behind my eyes and I was thankful that I would be spared any interactions with the opposite sex tonight.

My father was as much of a mystery behind the bar as he was among the baristas. Fortunately I found that alcohol and good company made me no longer thirsty for answers. Maybe the answers can’t be found or maybe they shouldn’t be found. All I learned was that I am a foosball champion.

As I staggered out of the bar up to The Lot I realized the wasted opportunities I had suffered through that day. I had good coffee, interesting interactions, some eye candy, and an unbroken foosball record. But I was focused on my father, letting him still dictate the terms of my life through this “gift.” As I stumbled those last few steps I decided that I would no longer live by his terms.

I was going to make this my Legacy.

No matter what.