Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Dad

Growing up in our household was like a roller coaster ride, what with slow suspenseful climbs, ups & downs, twists & turns, and brain-rattling rails and wooden supports of questionable construction. I can recall twice being so scared I thought I would die from nervousness if not at my father's hands. We always played outside, most often with the doors locked and orders not to try to come in until called in. One afternoon I thought it would be cool to set our garden hose to the ground and, while running full blast see how far into the ground it would go. I guess I let my little water drilling exercise go on a little longer than I should've and the hose ended up getting stuck, though I cannot recall how far down it'd gone. I felt like vomiting for what seemed at the time like hours until I finally somehow managed to pull that hose out. Yeah, something so stupid would've gotten me the beating of a lifetime. The other moment, which I believe went on for several days, was when I was forced to answer a phone call while my father stood feet away, always reluctant to answer calls himself due to who the fuck knows what. I wasn't even 12 at the time, and I tried my best to remember what the caller said (it was obviously someone who was owed money or something), and when I was unable to relay the message to my father who was now towering over me, he threatened me with my life if the guy didn't call back. 

What's that? My hour's up already? Okay, see you next week Doc.

Ashes Ashes final

 I got sick of her bitching about everything, and she got sick of me just lying around, pissing and moaning.  After a while I stopped going to physical therapy and lied about it.  I knew she'd eventually find out, but I was caring less and less.  I spent more time at Casper's, the shit hole dive bar at the end of our street, just so I didn't have to go home.  I know, I know, home is where the heart is, and all that.  I just couldn't do it.  When I was home, we were at each other's throats almost constantly.  Something had to change, especially with the baby coming.  I just didn't know what.  All I wanted to do was tie one on and forget about everything.

Fat chance.  After she realized I'd drained what savings we had left she blew her top.  She told me I'd either have to get back to work or go live somewhere else.  She told me she couldn't take it any more.  Said she didn't need no slacker hanging around making things more miserable than they already were.  That was the final straw.  

  I'd needed to find a way to get rid of her but didn't honestly want to bury her out where critters would almost certainly dig her up and carry her parts off where someone might find them.  One of the things that struck our fancy most when we bought this house was the fireplace in the middle of the living room.  At the time I hadn't given it any thought, but realized after researching some things that there was no clean-out in the basement for the ash pit.  There was a trap door beneath the grate up in the fireplace, but no way to clean out the ash that got dumped down it.  "Well," I thought to myself, "no time like the present."  

After I'd cleaned up all the mess from her and sealed the chimney down in the basement I headed down to Casper's to think things over.  Any regrets?  Should've used more lime, maybe? I suppose I might be just a little sad, and mostly for the baby.  Will I miss her?  Hard to say.  Let's just allow some time for things to sink in. 

Ashes Ashes part I

Moving to the secluded area out by the lake four states away from both our fucked up families was the best thing we could've done for ourselves.  The toxicity had gotten overwhelming, the family drama nauseating.  We knew no one would ever visit, and that's how we liked it.  We were happy in our own little world out here.  Nothing lasts forever, though.  Sure, we'd joked about it aplenty.  "You know, I could chop you up and bury you out here and no one would ever find you," I'd jokingly said more than once.  She'd just laugh and agree, and everything would be okay.  I picked up work pretty easily when we relocated, and we decided she'd stay home and take care of pretty much everything.  First, she tried to respond with, "well I could do the same to you."  Then, "I guess your boss would wonder where you were, though."  Now, I know for most people, "jokes" like this would make one question the relationship, but we were, well, a little different.  You know, saw things with a twist.  One of the things we noticed when we first met was our shared off-kilter sense of humor.  

We kept to ourselves, didn't care to meet any neighbors or make friends, and life went on.  At first everything was good, we managed to put a bit in savings, and we'd settled into a nice quiet existence.  Then I got careless while moving some equipment, you know, trying to be all macho in front of the younger co-workers and all.  Then the baby came along.  Ordinarily that'd be fine, but with the mounting out-of-pocket shit, my physical therapy and whatnot, and being out of work for so many weeks well, things just kind of piled up.  

Mmm, Poppycock

 I suppose the worst part was his screams.  God, he was so fucking annoying, like a little kid who skinned his knee on the playground.  Big brother thought he could force me to scratch his back the way dad made us do his, but I wasn't having it.

I was trying to enjoy munching on the container of Poppycock that was typically reserved for the best-behaved of us, but since my brother and I were the only ones home and our father was out on one of his benders and likely wouldn't be back for another day or so, I decided to grab it from where it was hidden behind the flour and sugar up in the cupboard and claim it for my own.  The screaming had subsided for a bit, but I guess he thought dad might be home, so he started up again.  His fingernails lay in a grisly pile on the bathroom floor where I left them.  Why should I have to clean up his mess?  I'm the one who did all the work, what with having to find a decent pair of pliers, tie him down and all.  He even gave me a few bruises in the process.  It wasn't as bad as when I cut his dick off.  Oh, he'd made fun of me one too many times.  Told all his asshole friends my uncut little cock looked like a baby elephant trunk.  

You know, Poppycock sure blows Crunch 'n Munch and Cracker Jack out of the water, what with the thick caramel coating, the pecans and all.  This shit's delicious. Anyway, back to his dick.  So enough is enough, I thought, and when he was asleep I rolled over, sat on his chest so he couldn't move, and used mom's pinking shears to cut it off.  They sure were pink after that, let me tell you.  I'd be willing to bet he'd never make fun of my pecker ever again.  The screams came again, and he was really getting on my nerves.  It was almost as godawful as when I started slicing across his fucking forehead.  All I wanted was his scalp.  I had no intention of taking off his whole head or anything.  "What do you thing I am, some kind of animal?" I said as he groggily opened his eyes and realized what I was doing.  I'd put some of dad's pills in a spoon, crushed them up and put them in his Kool-Aid at snack time, so he was out like a light.  For a while, anyway.  Up til then I'd only imagined what it would sound like, so when I started pulling the hair and skin back over his noggin' the tearing sound almost made me gag.  It kind of came off in pieces, and I got bored and ended up leaving jagged parts attached by these weird little strings of meat and blood and stuff.  It was kind of gross, if you ask me. The whole point was to embarrass him like he did me when dad cut my hair funny 'cause he was drunk.  I had to go to school like that, and boy was I fuming.  "Not gonna make fun of me again, are 'ya?"  I said.  I got no response because I think he passed back out or something.  

Anyway, as I sat back and gave brief consideration to cleaning up the smears, splats and drips all over the place by now, I polished off the whole can of Poppycock.  I know, I know, you're thinking, "Boy, this guy's got no self control.  You'd think he'd save some for later."  I guess this is why mom used to say we couldn't keep stuff like this in the house.

Moving Day

When I was in grade school my father told us we were going to be moving to a new town.  He said we were buying an ice cream shop with a house attached in the hills of Berkshire County in Massachusetts.  After I made this announcement at school, Randy, one of my closest friends, made me a wooden sign and said all I'd have to do is paint our house number on it once I knew the address.  The sign was simply a stake painted gold with a dark purple arrow-shaped piece of pine nailed to the tip. 

This move never happened, and I'm sure this was one of many schemes my father dreamed up over the years in his maggot-infested mind.  

One day I did something bad.  I had a Suzy Homemaker oven on top of a low dresser in the bedroom I shared with two brothers.  Why it was in our room and not our sister's room across the hall, I don't know, and why it was atop a dresser I'll never know.  I know these things didn't really get hot enough to "bake" anything in, but I ended up melting something plastic inside the oven and filling our soiled laundry- toy- and cat shit-strewn bedroom with acrid smoke, which drew the ire of my father.  He charged up the stairs and, seeing the sign my friend made, grabbed it and started whacking me with it, the blows landing wherever he could reach as I cowered in the corner.

Long story short, he broke the sign on me, so it was just as well that we never actually moved.

But, His Hands

 The hands were what got me worked up the most.  I know they've got to work with what they're given, but surely the embalming process pretty much does all the work.  Am I wrong?  Extreme decomposition can be challenging, I'm sure, but I didn't think this was the case.  When I met two of my siblings and my brother's best friend in the funeral home's parking lot I'd asked for a few minutes on my own before they entered, a request they granted me.  Nervously, I approached the casket, the tip of my youngest brother's nose now coming into view.  As the remainder of his face met my stare I think I let out a breathe I wasn't aware I'd been holding.  They did a great job with his face and hair, and his suit was meticulous.  His hands, though, looked bloated, sausage-like.  "Comfortably Numb" came to mind, that line in the first chorus, specifically.  A sister, breaking our agreement, walked up behind me silently.  "He looks good", she whispered.  I'd cried a little, swiped at my eyes, said, "But, his hands-".

Flashback a few days.  Another brother, oldest of what started out as eight of us, douche of douches, impatient, holier-than-thou, self-important, spouted, "Why should the fact that my brother took his own life inconvenience my employer?".*  Getting back to work was furthest from my mind, but I guess others had different priorities.  We were sitting in a large circle, the funeral director and our mother at the head.  I wondered what mom felt when she heard her eldest spawn blurt such shit, cringed at what the director thought.

Flash forward a week or more- I don't remember.  It's now been about 14 years if I'm not mistaken- the above mentioned sister and I were the only ones who, for closure or whatever the fuck reason, requested to see the photos the police took when they found my brother's body.  It took some nerve but I sat at that desk for what seemed an eternity, staring at the image of him lying on his side, his hands under his cheek, eyes closed, like he'd just fallen asleep.  Which, I suppose, was the case, only he'd had help.

- An excerpt from a memoir that'll likely never be written because I'm a lazy procrastinating fuck.

*Verbatim, I swear, in case this ever ends up in court.  

Marvelous Memories of Youth

When I was a teen in the 70s two uncles- one a pedophile drug addict and the other somewhat normal- ran a night club in a refurbished barn in a tiny town you probably never heard of.  I washed bar glassware, swept up closing time debris and mopped up beer, puke, jiz- whatever all that shit was that gave the concrete floor its texture.  I restocked the beer coolers, helped in the kitchen and even ran the lights once or twice for bands no one ever heard of or ever will.   I guess child labor laws weren't a big deal at the time, and I often stayed until the last patron stumbled out. The Marvelettes- or at least that era's line-up, played one night.  To a typical horndog teen these three beautiful ebony women were untouchable goddesses, and I'll always remember sitting at the bar (yes, at about 15 years old) at the end of the night, mingling with the ladies and their manager and pretending to be an adult.  Suddenly, one of the gorgeous ladies sidled up next to me and asked if I wanted a beer, and signaled the bartender- my uncle- for a bottle of Heineken.  After popping the cap and setting the bottle down on the bar he turned away, and ********** slid the bottle toward the edge of the bar, held it low in front of me and pulled my t-shirt out.  She teasingly slid the beer up my chest under my shirt, poking it out through the neck of my shirt, and had me sip it that way.  Not exactly discreet, I know, and I'm not 100% sure my uncle didn't see what was going on, though he never acted on it.  After another round my uncle made it clear I needed to head home, so I said my goodnights, dug my bike out of the bushes by the dumpster and pedaled the five or so miles home, weaving back and forth over the white line along the edge of the road.  After undressing and climbing into bed I thought back through that night's events and those three beautiful women, which lead to multiple rounds of vigorous masturbation.  

Counterpoint III (finis)

Damn fool couldn't even tell me where he put the mail.  For years now, we've set the mail just inside the front door on the side table.  Same.  Damn.  Place.  For.  Years.  I'm not perfect.  I have my own ailments and shit to deal with, but come on.  How much is a woman supposed to tolerate?  What am I supposed to do, pay someone to sit here with him and watch his ass all day? Hire a babysitter?  I mean, it's like living with a child again, and I already aced that exam years ago.   What's next, diaper rash, ointments and thumb-sucking?  I mean, come on.  Been there, done that.  I'm maxed out.  I've exhausted my patience.  I know it's wrong but don't care.  Dan next door's been a godsend. He and I have struck up a relationship and it feels good to get some of those feelings back if you know what I'm saying. If it wasn't for Dan I'd surely lose my shit.  Mama needs a stuffin', and the fuckwit doesn't even have a clue what's going on.  Doesn't know enough to question my "night out with the girls" schtick.  In some ways I guess I should be grateful he's such a feeble-minded idiot.

I can do this.  Make it look natural.  It'll look like apnea or something, or he just simply stopped breathing during the night.  It happens.  I am so done.  I'll wait until he's asleep.

I'll tell you this- it most certainly is not the way it's portrayed in the movies and on television.  He struggled, boy did he struggle.  And it was anything but quick.  It was all I could do to hold the pillow still, and at one point I thought for sure he'd actually overpower me.  It took him, like, five minutes, it seemed.  After he stilled I maintained pressure just to be sure.

I'll let him be until morning.  Say he must've passed in his sleep.  I'll be able to put on a more convincing show after a decent night's sleep.  

Paranoia III

Now I'm really getting fed up.  Even the slightest little slip gets an eyeroll, a groan of disgust , dirty looks.  A day doesn't go by when I apparently say something that doesn't make sense.  What do you want, I get confused easily.  I think she's at her wits end with me forgetting things, almost constantly having to remind me she'd already told me something I don't remember her saying.  So I forgot to make the oil change appointment.  Is it the end of the world that I threw away the invoice for the new furnace we supposedly had installed?  Are library fines really all that dire?  The lamest conversation draws ire and huffs of disgust or something.  I can't always remember her name.  So sue me.  Tonight we had an argument over whether or not we'd already watched a particular episode of some stupid fucking program we were watching.  I got mad and said I was going to bed.  I feel like a child, and want to be alone.  I climb into my bed in my room down the hall from hers.  Yeah, we've been sleeping separately for some time now.  "You move around too much," she squawked.  "And you hog my side".  I swear, she complains more now than she ever has.

I may have dozed for a while, but my door just creaked open and I see her silhouette tip-toeing into my room.  She's holding a pillow close to her chest, and it reminds me of an earlier, more enjoyable time in our marriage when we'd strip each other naked and get all silly and have pillow fights.  Of course, I think it often lead to some good sex, at least for me, and the feather mess wasn't too bad to clean up the next morning.  Maybe there's hope yet.  Maybe she's remembering how much fun we had at one time and wants, really wants to get some of that back.  I'm gonna stay still and quiet and make her think I'm asleep.

On Proudly Displaying One's Handiwork

The orderly, if that's even a real word, came in this morning and gave me a shot of something.  He said I'd been out of line.  I only had a dream.  It made me cry, but I'm okay now.  My memory is this:  Daddy got mad at something I did and needed to punish me for it.  I don't remember what I did, but I sure do remember the punishment.  It's probably the seed that sprouted into what I am today.  I did a bad thing, and daddy made me go upstairs and take all my clothes off.  He said I better hurry up.  He came up and beat me with something hard.  My ass cheeks were glowing and hot to touch, and he went back downstairs to finish his coffee with mommy.  He called me downstairs and said not to get dressed, so I headed down slowly one step at a time because my behind was sore.  He called me into the kitchen so he could proudly display to mommy his handiwork.  I didn't cry.  I promise.  I didn't know how to be embarrassed of my nakedness in mommy's presence.  I spun around at daddy's direction.  Mommy just sat there, crying and helpless as usual.

The orderly had to remind me that I was here because my daddy wasn't any more.  He said I did another bad thing and mommy was alone now.

I think I'm ready to be good now.  Is it lunch time?  I'm hungry.

(the orderly shit's made up, though the memory is real.  The storyteller's not in a facility or anything.  Don't want anyone taking things too seriously.)

Counterpoint (Paranoia II cont.)

 As if I didn't have enough to deal with, this moron groped our daughter-in-law at the dinner table.  Like I don't have my hands full already.  I swear, I'm going to have him put away somewhere if this shit keeps up.  He tried to say he was mistaken, that he thought I was next to him.  Why the hell would he even try to feel me up at this point, never mind at the fucking dinner table?  It'd only lead to disappointment as usual, if you know what I mean.  I'm getting tired of making excuses for him.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, in sickness and health and all that shit.  Whatever. 

Paranoia II (sorry folks, you'll have to hit "Older Posts" if you need a refresher)

 The kids were over for dinner a day ago, a week ago- who knows.  My son's wife sat next to me and I mistook her for my own wife and touched her breast during dessert.  I didn't think anyone noticed and I forgot we were at the dinner table. Talk about a firestorm.  My wife called me a fucking freak, smacked me in the side of my head and sent me to my room.  I couldn't say goodnight to the kids.  Now my son isn't talking to me.  His wife is furious and says I'm a pervert.  My wife hates me and I think she's plotting ways to get out of our marriage.  I don't remember where my son and his wife live so I can't even write to him to apologize, and I surely can't ask my wife.  Sometimes I'm just confused.  Is that a crime?

Eggshells

 Sorry, I took a break for a while.  Anyway, I'm frightened by the sight of blood.  Some people grow out of it, some don't.  I even tried being an EMT many years ago, hoping it'd help me get over it.  Throughout my formative years mother, God rest her soul, would leave  sanitary napkins- sometimes folded, sometimes not- on the edge of the bath tub during the night.  I'd come downstairs either first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night to pee and would find what I thought at the time were bandages, thinking that someone had gotten injured while I was asleep.  As with everything else growing up I never discussed this, never asked about it.  Father was a psycho, mother was meek and frightened and my siblings and I never talked much about anything.  Everything was a secret, everything was taboo, no one dared talk about anything or ask questions.  Father, when he was around, exploded at the slightest provocation and was always over eager to find the nearest prop to beat us with. Mother even got in on the beating game, but felt guilty afterwards.  One night when I was probably about 8 or so we'd heard mother and father yelling and banging things around, and when I crept downstairs under the guise of having to use the bathroom I saw broken glass on the kitchen floor, mother staring into the bathroom mirror holding a bloody towel around one of her hands, crying and father sitting at the kitchen table with a cold, vacant sneer on his face. As with every other similar incident I didn't dare question anything.  I simply slunk out of the kitchen and went back upstairs.  I hadn't had to pee, but I think I remember waking up in soaked sheets that next morning.  

Childhood Chores

 The beauty mark stood out from dad’s pale, pulpy skin.  It marked the doughy, nearly-hairless flesh just below his left ass cheek, and looked like a coffee-colored continent. The fact that you couldn’t avoid looking at his balls made this particular chore all the more disgusting.  The backrub part was tolerable, my finger joints, elbows and shoulders aching beyond belief by the time he instructed me to stop, and I think my lower back problems these days can be attributed to the arching I was forced to do at that time because I was so small. 

As he turned over and detailed how he wanted his legs rubbed thigh-to-toes his penis flopped side to side, nesting against his thigh. 

We never really talked about it, but I’m sure my siblings felt the same way I did about having to “massage” him.  Either we were too embarrassed to share or we just didn’t feel the need.  Like so many other fucked up things it was just part of life. We took turns over the years, being summoned into the dark of their bedroom.  Mom was too scared to say it was wrong.  I know she had to endure much, much worse.  I know there are so many things we never even knew about. Sadly, we never will. 

Hindsight

 

I used to find it fucking funny to lock my siblings in the basement.  I had to babysit five younger brothers and sisters growing up.  "Preteen" and "Responsible" aren't two words you'd frequently find together. I probably should've still had a babysitter myself.  Mom naively thought I was mature and responsible at the time.  Our cellar was a hoarder's dream, smelled like cat shit, cat piss & dead cat, and had too many windows.  I hated going down there myself at night, especially with all those windows.  Gave me the creeps.  Between the windows and the shadows behind the old oil-fired, moving van-sized furnace it always felt like I was being watched. I think that's why I got such a thrill out of locking them down there.  Years later I often fantasized about luring my father down there (all it would've taken is a bottle of booze or my aunt), violating him till he bled out with a nail-studded baseball bat I made as a teen and burying him under all that shit.  Might've made up just a little for all the beatings and for his role in my mother's death (just my opinion).  Ah, hindsight...

Mom's Boyfriend

 I don't know why, but when I was younger it bothered me that my mother had a boyfriend and he'd come over late at night and they'd go into her bedroom and shut the door.  I was never sure what they were doing in there. I was pretty stunted regarding all things sexual.  Anyway, one day I stuffed fresh batteries in my portable Panasonic tape recorder and went outside.  I plugged in a  microphone and dangled it by my feet as I walked around in the dry leaves.  My bedroom was right over my mother's, and late one night, after my mother and her boyfriend went into her bedroom and closed the door, I opened my window and tore a hole in the screen.  I had this large metal loudspeaker wired up to the tape recorder, and dropped it through the screen on a length of wire.  I stopped right about where I thought her window was, then pressed play.  I don't know if they ever heard my footsteps.  She never said anything about it.  Not sure what I got out of it, either.

Grandpa Died and I Laughed

Story:  Things told to me that are one person's view and are likely slanted

Fact: Things I know from personal experience

 Like so many parts of my life that exist only in stories I learned one day recently that (Story) father had died in the care of a sibling who (Story) didn't love him; who (Story) was an addict; who (Fact) was angry and had this powerful need to prove something.  Father, absent even when present, was (Fact) a sickly, mean, alcoholic, abusive, depressed psychotic poor excuse of a man.  Nonexistent to me for decades now.  It was during a telephone conversation with my youngest son from prison (him, not me)- the first time we'd spoken since the last time he was on the high side of one of his meth slopes & valleys (several years ago now)- when I remembered and casually mentioned it.  "Oh, I forgot.  Your grandfather died."  I laughed.  "Oh, umm, okay," he said.  And then he laughed.  

Things I've learned over the years come only from siblings and assorted others, but I also learned late in life to take everything with a grain of salt.  My wife forced me to see things this way.  The drama, depression and addiction has steered my family for years, and until my wife's lesson I'd just taken everyone at their word.

The same, I suppose, goes for mother.  I'm told (Story) she died a few years ago.  At least two siblings (Story) saw her after she passed, but (Fact) I never got to. The funeral director was so ired by my obnoxioux family that (Fact) when I contacted him to request a visit to pay my last respects he (Fact) said he didn't want me there.

I've (Fact) never seen an obituary for either parent.  

Funny, I was told once by an old family friend that (Story) my uncle was actually my father.  But that's for another post.

Paranoia I

The notes are all over the place.  She leaves them for the stupidest little thing.  

"Tie your shoes"

"Don't forget the trash"

"Lunch is at 1:00"

"Scoop the litterbox"

I don't think there's anything she hasn't left a note about at this point.  I know I forget things.  Doesn't everybody?  I fight saying things like "I feel old", or "I really feel my age today".  

Sometimes I swear I did a particular task, only to have her fume and not talk, and when I finally get her to open up find out I didn't do it.  But I think I did.  This happens more and more. 

Sometimes I think she's trying to make me think I'm losing it.  I'm not sure yet how that would benefit her.  We count on my income so I need to keep working into beyond retirement. So that can't be it.

Now and then I'll come home early and she'll just look at me, like "oh, you're home."  Makes me wonder what she was in the middle of.  Is she planning something?  Is there something she doesn't want me to know about?