A Day Late (Sue Me)

As one would ascertain from previous postings on this site, my father was a no-nonsense guy. From the old school of “children are meant to be seen working, not heard”, his favorite pastime was “let’s see if I can come up with something ridiculously menial for the boys to do in the baking heat for a few hours.” The only thing that would save you from being sent outside to work was if you were reading a book. If on one of his search and destroy missions looking for my brother and me you had your face deep in a book and looked like you were so engrossed in reading he could walk up and kick you in the nuts you wouldn’t notice, he’d leave you alone and you were safe for another day. (I’m particularly proud of my single masterstroke as a young buck: convincing my dad that somehow, defying the laws of science, I actually read BETTER if accompanied by a radio that was blaring, in his words, “jungle music.” I guess when you played the bugle in the Marines, everything that’s not Reville is “jungle music.” I still don’t know how I convinced him of this – “I don’t know Dad, somehow I just retain more if the radio’s on; weird, I know!”...meanwhile I’m on page 7 of ‘Then Again, Maybe I Won’t” for 6 weeks; don’t matter anyways cause I’m holding the thing upside down while rocking out to Extra 104.1 outta La Plata/Waldorf.) But if you were doing anything else, like watching tv, or writing the episode of The Brady Bunch where Mike finally snaps at Alice "well guess what, you're NOT a member of this family, so shut the fuck up and carry your fat ass outta my face, bitch!", you were sent outside to work. Now, the funny thing about whenever my dad would give us shit to do is that NO MATTER WHAT, you were gonna do the job twice. The first time he’d check our work, no good. Need to do it again. Then after he’d come out again, THEN the job is done. "Good job boys!" My brother and I painted the exterior of our house 3 times, and every room on the inside about 5 times when we were young. Every single time, my dad would give us a speech that you know, if we did an incredible job the first coat, it wouldn’t even need a second coat. After being duped by this several times, my brother and I learned that we could fly in the US Olympic Bedroom Painting Team and when the first inspection came, it would still fail. “Nope, sorry...gonna need another coat. Get to work.” And of course for the second coat we could spray paint “I Fuck Cats” all over the walls, and then he’d come in and say we were done, good job, see what you can accomplish when you work hard etc etc etc....

My favorite “keep the boys busy and out of learning about German shit-porn, even the really artistically done stuff” job was always shifting gravel in the driveway to “even it out.” This is a job I’ve since asked around about, and no one I know has ever heard of doing this. It usually went like this:

11:20am – my brother and I sent outside with 2 rakes, told to shift the gravel around, even out the driveway.
11:34am – we’re still standing in the driveway, wondering what the fuck he’s talking about. Flick some gravel around with our rakes, stand around.
11:35am - take the top off the well, see how deep down it is til there’s water by spitting into it and listening for spit to hit water.
11:41am – remember that’s where our drinking water comes from.
11:56am – finish spitting into well. "Sounds like 15 feet deep? Why is Neil Diamond here?"
12:01pm – toss around theory that our father controls the heat of the sun by sending us outside to work. Decide it’s unlikely, that if he had such power over the universe, we’d probably have a riding lawn mower. (Which, incidentally, my dad finally bought the day I left for college. Now that my 12-year career of cutting grass with a 200-lb push mower with square wheels was over, I can see him thinking "hey, this is a good time to get that riding mower Xmastime has been crying about since 1983." aaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!)
12:03pm - 90 second fight of the century: I turn blind with rage, my upper teeth dig into my bottom lip and I leap at my brother, promising death as my fists rain Hell down upon him like Satan’s dogs released from their pen of hell-fire. This time, I’m not letting up. No gov'na!!
12:04pm – my Fists from Hell didn’t get the memo re: “no letting up.”
12:05pm – the tide is turning. This might not end well for me.
Still 12:05pm – my shirt is in ribbons and hanging from a tree.
Still 12:05pm – I am covered in dirt with gravel sticking all over my body and can barely breathe or see through the wall of tears built of up in my eyes I’m desperately trying to hold back, little bird-chest heaving with crazed emotion. Toughskins bloodied all over. Then I see I scuffed my brother’s precious fucking Converse Weapons. Ha! Not a crushing defeat, but I’ll take it - a W is a W.
12:07pm – Flicking gravel around. Ask him what 5th grade is like. Lot tougher than 4th?
12:09pm – brother has realized I scuffed his shoes. Let’s skip ahead to “does not end well for Xmastime.”
12:20pm – Dad comes out for inspection. Ruefully shakes head. What do you know; no good, need to keep working. Hmm.

And on and on. The second hour outside would be mostly a combination of 1) my brother explaining to me what an idiot I am 2) my little sister stepping out for a minute to complain about how chilly it was inside with the a/c pumping and how it’s affected the keg of Rice Krispie Treats and 3) broad jump competition. Finally after an hour our dad would come out and give us his “see, if you work hard and do it the right way and come up with the definitive search engine for the internet, you will succeed” speech. Every time. Looking back of course it was all for our benefit; learning to work hard, getting fresh air/exercise et al. Or else he was running a Russian fuck-pig operation outta underground tunnels from inside the house; either way, I don't know. I'm not a doctor.

I know my father loved me, he raised me etc but he made it clear that he was the father, we were not “buddies.” His job was not to play grab-ass with us and buy us beer. But I see my friends with their pops now that we’re all adults and wonder what it’s like to have more than JUST that father/son dynamic and evolve over the years into more of a respect/friendship idea, that “I’m still your father but my job raising you is done” thing. Sit on the porch, have a beer and laugh about stupid shit I did, or women, whatever. He could talk about when he was my age, what he did, thought etc. Jealous is too strong a word, but I’m always aware of it when I see my friends hang out with their fathers at this stage of our lives, interacting as adults/friends. I wonder what it’s like, I wonder what my relationship with my dad right now would be. Wonder what it’d be like to see an older version of myself; to see in him where I was from and also what I was to become. Life can be hard when you can honestly say "well, I'll never know" and there's nothing you can do about it. But you move on, try to figure it out yourself. A piece of the puzzle that shows who you are may be gone, but you can always try to wonder I reckon. Wonder who he was, who you are, who you'll become. Wonder what you’d be like as a father.

Who am I kidding...my boys' gonna be outside every Saturday shifting gravel in the baking sun. Shit’s in my genes!! ;)

Happy Father’s Day.

PS - Someone wrote and asked if I could re-post the "first love/report card" post. Here it is; enjoy.