Dad
by Mike Walsh
Fear not baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting.
Gone to get a rabbit skin, To wrap the baby bunting in.
--Anonymous
The main thing about my Dad is that he is so—so—big. He really is, he’s so damn—big. You really can’t even talk about him without at least mentioning how big he is.
You should have seen him spit. He could spit farther than any man. He didn’t even try very hard. He’d just spit out the side of his mouth, casually, while he was in the middle of a conversation. I’d watch the spit fly up, up, up higher into the sky until I couldn’t even see it anymore.
And it wouldn’t come down. It would go up there in the clouds and turn into rain. Later, it would fall down on us, Dad’s spit on our hats.
And if you think the spitting was something, well the pissing was something else altogether. Why he could replenish a dried out creek bed. He could fill wells or reservoirs. He was nature’s helper when he wanted to be, and he couldn’t have done any of it, not any of it, if he wasn’t so darn, so gosh darn, so darn—big.
Tales of my Dad. Ah, yes, yes, yes. Tales of my dear, old, lovin’ Dad. Friend, it’s a long story, filled with tale after tale of betrayal, deception, and violence. So where does one begin?
First of all, the old man was a bastard, plain and simple. But then again, whose Daddy isn’t? This calls to mind a question of considerable interest to yours truly: are not all Dads quite a bit alike? Could we not each of us name certain thoughts, actions, and words that seem rather Dad–like? "Dad–isms," if you will. Retrospecting back to the beginning of mankind, hath not the same Daddy sired each and every one of us of the same spermatozoon? Have we not all the same Daddy?
I’m sure you’ve all noticed that Dad’s are very numerous. They’re everywhere. Billions of them are crawling every inch of the planet.
And all the Dad’s think it’s their job to watch their sons. No one told the Dad’s that they’re supposed to watch their sons. It’s not written down on a little card and passed, silently, from one Dad to the next. No, they do it because they think it is part of being a Dad. They can’t help themselves.
All Dads also have their own Dads watching them. So while every Dad is watching a son, the same Dad is being watched by his Dad, who is being watched by his Dad, and so on and so forth, from the beginning to the end—you get the idea.
This is a very costly program, and most Dad’s get very uptight from all this surveillance. But not my Dad. My Dad’s different. My Dad doesn’t give a shit.
"It’s all hype," says my Dad.
My Dad’s the boss. Got it? My Dad can make a computer do anything. My Dad can lift an early sixties, split–level house onto his shoulder and throw it for miles. My Dad’s got so much money, he could buy and sell all the other Dads put together.
My Dad gets chicks most guys dream about. Women moan and swear their love. But you know what? He doesn’t believe ‘em.
My Dad’s one wingding, bad ass, six shootin’, mean, tall, onery, low–down, lady killin’, beer swillin’, drug takin’, guitar strummin’, back seat fuckin’, coke snortin’, criminal chasin’, belly buckin’, dwarf throwin’, heart breakin’, mud wrestlin’, tit coppin’, ass bitin’, face suckin’ mofo, but don’t say anything like that to his face, cuz he likes nothing more than a little retribution, and he’ll kick your ass from here to west bumfuck just for a few laughs, and brothers and sisters, believe me—I speak from experience.
One thing you have to know about my Dad is that he would never admit, never in a million years, that he was at all responsible for my being delivered into this world.
So one day I up and said, "But you had so many women in your day at least one of them women must’ve given birth to a child, and that child could and probably is me, right here, you’re lookin’ at him, your kid, your boy, your ever lovin’ son."
"My sperm is not of this earth," he replied. "Get the picture? My sperm would not stoop to commingling with a human egg, such as would be necessary to produce a beast with your imperfections. My sperm," he said casting his eyes skywards, "is the sperm of the gods. I don’t even know how in the hell I got stuck with you, hanging around, following me all the time, ruining all my fun. And if you ever accuse me of that again, I’ll punt you into orbit and you’ll never touch down, so help me Lord Father Almighty."
Once you get to know Dad, you get used to that kind of talk.
For some reason, completely unbeknownst to me, Dad just loves slap fighting with me. I can’t even walk by him without him engaging me with a sudden slap or two. I don’t particularly like slap fighting with Dad because I hardly ever get in a good shot on the slippery bastard, and when I do he gets real mad and retaliates with reckless abandon.
So one day Dad and I were slapping each other around. I saw a wicked right coming my way and tried to duck, but he connected cleanly on my face. He laughed.
A moment later he pointed with his right and yelled, "Hey, what’s that over there?" I flinched, and he nailed me cleanly with the left.
He roared with laughter and stuck his chin out at me. "Go ahead, give me a good one, right here, right on the chin," he said. "I’m giving you a free shot."
I countered with a weak miss, and that made him laugh even more.
He put his hands behind him and danced around me. "Hell, I could beat you with both hands tied behind my back," he taunted. "I could beat you blindfolded. Go ahead," he jeered. "Take your best shot. I dare you, I double dare you, I triple dare you."
I swung and missed, and I swung and missed again, and I knew, instinctively, that with this crazy dance we were somehow conforming to the natural relation of things.
One day, when I was fed up with all the denials concerning his paternalistic relationship to me, I said, "You are so my Daddy. You always was and always will be."
"Prove it," he said and chuckled through whiskers and dirty teeth as he knocked back some cheap bourbon.
"I don’t have to prove it," I replied. "I was conceived of your doing within my mother’s virgin womb, and you know it as well as I do."
"Your mother wasn’t nothing more than a two bit whore. She only knew one thing, and she wasn’t much good at that either."
"Did you love her, Dad?" I asked.
"If you call a ten minute hump and a slap on the rear ‘love,’ then I suppose I did love the dirty bitch."
"That’s close enough for me," I said.
"Yeah, well," he said, "that’s as close as I get."
My Dad’s got girlfriends all over the world, and each and every one loves him absolutely and unconditionally. I have seen women have screaming fits, throw themselves at his feet, and faint just at the sight of him. I have seen women give up their families and friends just to be close to Dad.
"I have yet to meet the woman who can resist my charms," he brags.
So I said, "Dad, can I have one of them women?"
"No," he said and sneered in my direction.
"Look, Daddy, you’ve got so many, you won’t even miss one."
"No," he said, "and if you so much as look crooked at one of them dames"—and here his voice dropped off and the words came slower—"if you so much as think about rubbing that disgusting body of yours against one of them—" He stopped, took a deep breath, and snickered before going on. "Ah, hell, what am I gettin’ all riled up about? None of my women would stoop to messing with a weasel like yourself, anyhow."
Dad just loves to give people the business. That’s one thing he’s real good at. So one day when he was standing around with a few of his drinking buddies, he said, "Want to see something funny? Watch this."
"Hey, boy," he said. "C’mere. I want to talk to you, boy."
I ignored him. I went about my work knowing from the tone of his voice that a regrettable incident was about to transpire.
"Hey, boy, I’m talking to you. Get your ass over here, boy."
I walked over to him without looking up. He scruffed my hair, and I pushed his hand away.
"I was wondering how you like being called ‘boy,’ boy."
"I don’t care much for it," I said and took a quick swing for his chin, hoping to surprise him. As it turned out he wasn’t surprised. Still smiling, he ducked. I don’t remember much more after that, but I could hear his punches landing on me at regular intervals, sort of like windshield wipers. Dad laughed and said, "He swung first, isn’t that right, boys?"
Before I vacated the realm of the conscious and the vertical, I swore to return the favor. That’s what you call foreshadowing. Here’s some more: Before this story is over, I will be the cause of Dad’s undoing. Sons always are.
Maybe I’m giving you the wrong impression about Dad. He had a sensitive side too, just like everybody else. I know because once I witnessed Dad weeping. I’m not certain why he was weeping, but it may have had something to do with my showing up just as he was breaking camp early one morning about a day’s ride west of Abilene. After his little crisis was over he grabbed me by the shirt and pushed me up against a nearby rock facing.
"Don’t you breathe a word of this father/son bullshit to anybody, you got it, bud? Word of this gets out and I’m ruined."
You see, Dad’s problem in life is that he is better than everybody at everything. So, naturally, life has become very boring. He’s got all the girls he wants, his paintings go for thirty to forty thousand each, all of his novels wind up on the bestseller list, and he beat the hell out of a professional boxer at a bar last week.
There just aren’t many challenges left for a guy like Dad. Even the prairies are shrinking up.
"I wish I had some pills to make me stupid like you," he said. "Then I’d be able to find a few challenges, like sports, chess, grammar, anything. At least I’d have a goal in life."
"Well, there’s always Alaska," I said to Dad. "And ol’ Nell’s chompin’ at the bit." I could see him snicker.
"Alaska’s the only prairie left anymore," he’s said more than once before, and Nell—well, Nell’s his favorite mare.
"Dad," I said, "how do you become a Dad?"
"Becoming as Dad’s easy," he said. "It’s the being a Dad that’s the hard part, knucklehead."
"I want to be a Dad," I declared.
"You!" he shouted and laughed. "A Dad? Fathering’s not in your line, boy. You best just leave fathering to those of us that are built for that sort of work."
"What am I built for, Dad?"
"You’re built to work some frustrating, mindless job within a huge, insensitive bureaucracy where they make you wear a little red badge with a number on it. Face the facts, kid, that’s all you got in you."
"But what if I do become a Dad?"
"You got some chick on the side I don’t know about, boy?"
"No," I said.
"You messing with one of my women? Sneakin’ out to the hen coop at night?"
"No, no, I’m just saying, what if I do become a Dad? That’s all, what if?"
"A grandchild," he said to himself wistfully. "Hmmn. A grandchild, yes, to be the heir to my greatness. Well, that’s our last hope, isn’t it, especially seeing as how you turned out."
My Dad’s an artist. He builds huge sculptures of buffalo and Indians and covered wagons, and sometimes he renders majestic western scenery with oil on canvas.
I don’t like Dad’s art very much, but I don’t complain about it because it gives him something to do, and when he’s working on his art it’s less likely that he’s bothering anybody, like me.
Some people do like Dad’s art, like the people from a small town about a hundred miles north of here. Their Chamber of Commerce bought a statue from Dad of a cowboy on a rearing horse for lots of money and put it in the middle of an intersection with flowers all around the bottom of it.
Dad built an art studio in the top floor of the barn, one of them loft–type places. Lot’s of people drop by Dad’s studio, and sometimes he has overnight guests. Often I wake up late at night from all the laughing and the loud music coming from Dad’s studio. I look out my window and into his studio, and I see Dad chasing girls. That’s when I know Dad’s having fun. Dad believes in mixing pleasure with art.
Dad isn’t high and mighty about his art like some artists. Dad says, "This art shit’s easy. I don’t know how anybody could ever suffer while they was making it. Hell, you make a whole pile of money, everybody wants to be your friend, and skinny, naked models traipse around your studio all the time. Hell, that ain’t work. That ain’t suffering. I’ll tell you what that is. That’s easy street, fella, easy street."
What Dad really likes to do is inspect his ranch on horseback all dressed up in fancy cowboy clothes. Dad’s just nuts about western clothing. All the ranch hands think it’s real funny, and that’s one of the reasons I don’t like to go riding with Dad.
Dad makes us get dressed up in all that fancy western clothing once a year for the family picture. Usually it’s in front of a dumb mountain about twenty or thirty miles out in the middle of the ranch. He makes us ride cute little ponies all the way out there and all the way back, and our legs get really sore.
I wish Dad didn’t buy so much of that fancy western clothing, but he just can’t seem to help himself. Every time he goes on a trip you can bet that he’ll come back with a whole load of the stuff. But what can we say? That’s Dad for you. We go along with it just to make him happy.
One time I brought an artist friend of mine, Ramone, home to meet Dad. I figured that since they were both artists they might get along. This artist friend of mine also had a loft, but his art work didn’t look at all like Dad’s. Ramone’s work is perhaps best described as ‘free form.’
So when I brought Ramone home, I said, "Dad, Ramone. Ramone, Dad."
"Hi, Dad," said Ramone.
Dad stopped working on what was to become his most famous piece, a twenty foot, plaster of Paris rendering of a prairie cactus in bloom.
"Howdy, Ramone," said Dad. Ramone and Dad shook hands. "I’ve heard you’re pretty big in them modern art circles back east."
"To a certain extent, yes, I suppose that is true," said Ramone.
"Well, I won’t pretend to understand that stuff," said Dad, "and I can’t say that I like it neither. See, Ramone, I’m from the old school. I call ‘em like I see ‘em."
"That’s very noble of you, Dad," said Ramone.
Then the three of us just stood around looking at each other. I finally said, "Well, I suppose Ramone and I had better be going."
As we were leaving, Dad pulled me aside and whispered, "I wouldn’t bring any more faggots around here if you know what’s good for you.
Dad doesn’t like faggots. They give him the creeps.
Dad’s making a movie, and I’m in it. We’ve been working on the same scene for several days now. It is a very short scene, and I have a small part in it. I don’t have any lines, yet I can’t get it right. We’ve done at least seventy takes already. Dad is becoming a bit edgy. He is pacing back and forth. I’m getting worried.
Suddenly Dad says, as he has so many times already, "Look, kid, it’s as simple as this." Dad then performs my part, flawlessly. I am awestruck.
"Now you try it," says Dad.
I feel paralyzed, and I cannot move. I am afraid that Dad will yell at me, but he turns away, places his hands over his face, and rubs his hands through his hair.
"I’m sorry for screwing up your movie, Dad," I say.
Dad lies on the ground on his back. He places his forearm on his forehead and does not move. He is silent for a long time and looks like he may have fallen asleep.
I quietly say, "Dad, what do you want to do?" He does not answer. "Look, Dad, I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. I’ll get it right, eventually."
Dad opens his eyes. "What?" he asks.
"The scene. I’m ready to try it again."
"Oh, that. Nevermind about that," he says.
"Well, what should I do?"
"Do about what?" he asks.
"About the scene? About today? About the movie?"
"I don’t care," says Dad, as he again closes his eyes. "Do whatever you want."
Dad was laughing and cirling around me. Occasionally he slapped me in the face. I still couldn’t hit him. "You just don’t have it, do you, kid? You’re more like a daughter than a son, aren’t you? My lovely daughter, the boy. What will the neighbors say?"
I swung again, but he was behind me. He whacked me on the back of the head, and I fell to the floor.
He continued dancing around me. "What’s the matter?" He poked at my ribs with the tip of his boot. "A little scared of your Dad? I can understand that, especially seeing as how you’re more girl than boy, more daughter than son. But don’t worry, we’ll find a nice skirt for you."
I got up and lunged after him, but he tripped me.
"That’s the spirit," he yelled. "Keep gettin’ up, so’s I can knock you back down again."
My Dad is a twenty story building with the letters "D—A—D" glowing brightly on top. The letters can be seen from miles and miles around.
"It’s an invasion of my privacy," says Dad. "Everybody knows where I am all the time. I don’t like that. Sometimes I’d just love to sneak off all by myself or walk down the street without anyone knowing who I am."
So one night Dad up and moves. He becomes a trashed–out five story commercially zoned building with graffiti and rusty fire escapes. But I figure out where he is because those three shining letters up top are brighter than ever.
So Dad decides to move again. He moves uptown, to the west side, to a quiet side street in the eighties. Dad’s a brownstone, in the half–a–million dollar range, but I still find him right away. It’s inevitable. The letters announce to everyone exactly where Dad is.
"Why can’t you leave me alone?" asks Dad.
"Cuz you’re my Dad, Dad," I try to explain, but it’s an idea Dad will never comprehend. I’m not sure I understand it myself. It’s an attraction I’ve always had to Dad, an attraction I don’t bother trying to fight even though I can’t say I really like Dad all that much. He’s my Dad, and I blindly follow him everywhere.
"Dear God," Dad cries out, "deliver me from this persecution. Don’t let those evil letters shine from my mantle another day. Free me from the enslavement that binds me to this wretched child."
Dad was chasing me through the prairie one day with a belt. "You lousy, good–for–nothing," he yelled, "I’ll whip your ass."
I was a hundred yards or so in front of him, laughing at him over my shoulder when suddenly I got stuck in some quicksand. I kept trying to run, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was sinking. It was up to my knees in seconds.
I reached over to the edge and tried to grab a root or branch to pull myself out, but I couldn’t grab anything, only gravel and that fell through my hands as fast and as easily as I was sinking.
It was about up to my chest when I started screaming. "Dad! Help! Over here! Dad, I need your help. I’m not kiddin’ this time. Please, help!"
I heard his footsteps approaching. As he topped the ridge above the pit and saw the quicksand sucking its way up and around my body, he let out a monstrous laugh, and I knew instantly he wouldn’t let my discomfort get in the way of some good, clean fun.
He climbed down to the edge of the pit, leaned over, and said, "Having a bit of a problem, Sonny–boy?"
"Please, Dad, no jokes. Just pull me out of this shit."
"Oh, now things are a little different, Mr. Big Shot. Now maybe you don’t know so much. Now you need your old Dad to help you out of a jam. Who’s laughing now, tough guy?"
"Ah, Dad, I was only joking. You know that. C’mon, be a sport, give me a hand." The stuff was tickling my earlobes, and I kept reaching out hoping to grab the dirty old bastard by the cuff of the leg and pull him in too, but he carefully sidestepped my fingers.
"Give you a hand, you say? You said you want me to give you a hand?"
"Yes, for God’s sake, Dad, have some compassion."
"Sure, Sonny-boy, I’ll give you a hand," he said, at which time he used his boot heel to grind my fingers into the grit. "Maybe this will teach you to run away from your loving Daddy, Sonny–boy."
Then he grabbed the top of my head, pushed me down about two feet into the muck, and held me there. I couldn’t do anything but hope I would hurry up and suffocate.
I woke up about three hours later on dry land. Dad was nowhere in sight.
Daddy, I’m an evil child. I’ve found hate in my heart. I’ve taken more than I’ve ever given. I have taken your name in vain and, Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamned sorry.Daddy, I’m on my knees. I’m begging you, Daddy. What can I do to make you admit that you are my Daddy, to make you stop hating me, to make you proud of me? Tell me, Daddy, tell me.
Dad, I don’t need no TV. I don’t need no Italian sports car. I don’t want no hi-tech, coke sniffin’ girlfriend, a hundred thou a year, and a hi-rise, luxury suite in midtown. You wanted an executive with a well-stocked liquor cabinet, so you could drop by, do a few slugs of the expensive stuff, and hit up on the secretary with the big tits.
I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I’m too much like you. All I need is this old mare and a lonely prairie with a big sky, no barbed wire, the bright orange sun a–settin’, the old moon a–risin’, perhaps a scampering prairie dog, a couple of howlin’ coyotes, a nasty rattler, and a camp fire blazin’ under big boy helpings of beans and coffee. Then I’ll know my Daddy’s watchin’. Yeah, I’ll know my Daddy’s a carin’ daddy, watchin’ over me just like he’s supposed to.
Dad’s on the TV again giving a speech. He tells all of his children about life in the old days, before we went astray. He calls it the greatest single tragedy of our time. He recreates our early childhood years in an impassioned manner and tells us that we must listen to him, like we did when we were younger. He tells us how much better life will be.He tells us how we have betrayed him, and how much suffering we have brought to bear on his soul. He wails, "You did not listen, you did not trust, and you did not believe." That, according to Dad, is what hurts the most. We believe Dad when he says such things. We know he is right and that we are to blame. We believe him and we weep.
Dad can’t remember my name. "Uh, don’t tell me," he says. "Uh, Joe. Sammy. Uh, Anthony, no, no. Now don’t give me any hints. Uh, Bob, uh, Frank, Tom, Jim, Joe, no, I said Joe already. Uh, Julie, no, no, I’m thinking of a boy’s name. Do you believe this? Now don’t tell me, I know, I really do, it’s escaped me momentarily, a temporary mental lapse. Uh, Eddy, Jerry, I mean, uh, oh damn–it–all, don’t take this personal, it’s just one of those things. Please, forgive me, I know it, I really do, if I could only remember where I know you from...."
Dad! Dad! Dad!!! For God’s sakes, Dad, it’s me, your boy, your son. I need you, Dad. Where are you? I’m scared.Daddy, tell me what to do. Tell me how to live. How’s a boy supposed to make decisions? Like, well, like for instance, there’s this girl, and she’s pregnant, and her dad wants to talk to me. What the hell am I going to do?
Dad, I thought I heard a noise. I thought I heard someone outside creeping around. Don’t let ‘em get me, Dad. Don’t let ‘em.
Dad, I met a girl, and she took me to her house, and she told me she loved me, and she asked if I loved her too, and I said, but baby, we just met, and she said that doesn’t matter. So, I guess I’m in love. Dad, how many people is one person allowed to love at the same time?
Daddy, I’m a sick boy. My moods swing. I’m indecisive. I worry all the time. I can’t sleep. And, worst of all, Daddy, I’ve found myself lusting on a regular basis. I mean, all the time. What am I supposed to do? How did you get through life, Dad? Dad, I’m scared. Dad, how do you live?
Dad’s been living in my apartment for several months. He says he’ll be getting a job soon, but he hasn’t even had an interview yet. When I come home for lunch, he’s usually sitting at the kitchen table reading magazines in his robe and drinking coffee with shots of Amaretto."Any leads?" I ask.
"Ah, a couple here and there. Nothing of any relevance for a man of my professional status. Heat up the coffee for me, would you, son?"
"Perhaps you should look for an entry level position," I suggest, "and try to work your way up."
"Well, it wouldn’t look right for a person of my varied business acumen and lineage to accept a job beneath me," he yells. I hate it when he yells. "Have you forgotten that my ancestors were Princes and Lords? My grandfather fought and died for this country, so the least I deserve is a fair shot in the marketplace, especially since I am coming into my declining years. Is that too much to ask?"
"But, Dad," I explain, "you can’t live here forever."
He gazes around the apartment for a moment and says quietly, "Why not?"
Dad steals all my girlfriends. Like the other night. I bring a young lady home, turn on the stereo, go to get her a drink, and by the time I get back, Dad’s working his hand up her thigh and telling her dirty jokes. To top it off, she’s digging it.She rubs his bald head and says, "You didn’t tell me you had such a cute Daddy."
Dad takes the two drinks out of my hand, presents one to the girl, and toasts her beauty. He downs my drink in one gulp and, without ever taking his eyes off her bustline, orders me to get him another. But we’re all out because he drank everything earlier, so he sends me out for a twelve–pack and some wine coolers "for the little lady."
I tell him to go to hell and remind him that, after all, it is my apartment.
He gives me a hurt look, and she says to Dad, "You poor man. Does your nasty son always torment you?"
So I go out and I get the booze. When I come back, I find their clothing scattered all over my room, and they’re both under the sheets in my bed. Dad calmly smiles and says, "If you wouldn’t mind, Sonny-boy, this young lass and I would like a few moments of privacy. Be so kind as to leave the provisions and extinguish the light as you make your departure."
Then I hear him say, for her ears only, "And don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out."
I heard some noise in the middle of the night coming from the barn, so I put on my boots and coat, got my flashlight, and went on outside. Dad had kicked his way out of the barn and broken loose. He had even left a note swearing that he wouldn’t be taken alive. In a way I was kind of proud of him, showing a little spunk like that. He hadn’t kicked down a door in months.I immediately rustled up all the local boys and out we went, posse style, looking for Dad in our Jeep CJs. With our roof-mounted spotlights, we rolled through the southern pasture and found Dad roaming around the St. Charles butte. Dad always had a special, sentimental kind of feeling for the St. Charles butte. That’s where he met Mom. Mom passed away a few months ago, and Dad, who wouldn’t give her the time of day when she was around, can’t seem to accept it. So none of us mention dear ol’ Mom in his presence, but we do keep him under pretty close tabs in the barn.
It’s not that the barn is a bad place. It’s got all the modern conveniences—heat, air–conditioning, plumbing, you name it. We even bring him two- and three-year-old mares once in a while just to take his mind off Mom, but he won’t have anything to do with them, and that’s not like Dad. No, not at all. We couldn’t keep the old bugger away from the pretty mares when Mom was around, but that was a while back, when Dad still had some fire in his blood.
So we sat around and watched him stomp a few rocks, push a stump or two off the ridge, and kick the hell out of a few cacti. Eventually, the boys started getting restless, so when Dad looked like he was about to make a move for the next butte, we slowly circled him. Somebody managed to get a rope on him, and after about a half hour of pushing and kicking and nasty recriminations, we managed to squeeze him into the back of a trailer.
Well, he bucked and bronced for a good long while, but by the time we got back to the ranch, he had pretty much settled down. It’s sad. In his earlier years, we never would’ve gotten Dad into that trailer. Even if we had, he would’ve turned that trailer into shredded wheat, but Dad’s trailer destroying days are over I’m afraid.
You may wonder if Dad is worth all the trouble. You may wonder why I don’t just ship him off to the baseball glove factory and bank a few pesos in the process. But I suppose, like Dad, we’re all just a little too sentimental for our own good.
Dad was drunk and stumbling around the city park singing. "My Bonny lies over the ocean, my Bonny lies over sea—""Dad, c’mon, let’s get out of here," I said. "This is a dangerous area."
"La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Oh, bring back my Bonny to me."
"Dad," I said, "you’ve had enough fun for one night. Let’s go home now."
"The hills have eyes," he exclaimed.
"Dad, you’re not going to scare me off."
"Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I’m your son, remember?"
"You again? Begone, miserable, godforsaken rodent."
"Dad, I’m only trying to help."
"Caution prevents suffering," said Dad.
A policeman walked up behind Dad. "Having a little problem here, gentlemen?"
"Oh, so it’s a governmental official here to assist us, is it?" said Dad. "Officer, this vagrant is attempting to plunder me. I demand that you incarcerate him posthaste."
"We were just going home, officer," I said. "Don’t pay him any heed. He’s getting on in years, and his mind is going."
"Hey, copper," said Dad to the policeman, "let’s me and you rustle us up a couple of hot chicks. What do you say?"
"Can I see some identification, please," said the policeman.
"Only on one condition," said Dad. "I get the one with the big tits. Wooo-eee!"
Dad’s in a wheel chair, and now his wives don’t come around so often. In fact, I don’t think he has any wives left at all. He complains and moans and curses constantly. Everything, absolutely everything is wrong as far as he is concerned, and it’s all my fault. I let him get away with it because we both know he’s dying.One day he decided to go to Disneyworld. He made the flight reservations while I was at work. A final fling. I was enraged.
"How are you going to see Disneyworld in a wheelchair?" I asked.
"I’ll bring the help."
"The ‘help,’" I said. "What help?"
"You. Who else, you stupid son–of–a–bitch," he said.
"Me? I can’t go to Disneyworld," I moaned. "I’ve got a job. I have to make money to pay for all the magazine subscriptions you keep ordering."
"Subscribing to magazines is one of the few pleasures I derive from what life I have remaining, and you intend to deny me even that," bemoans Dad.
"Two hundred dollars worth of magazine subscriptions in one month?" I roar.
"I worked my way out of poverty for you, you ungrateful bastard, and now what do I get?" he asked sadly. "Resentment and mistreatment, that’s what."
"If I can’t afford the magazines, how can I afford Disneyworld?"
"So, in other words, you’ll let me go to goddamned Disneyworld in this condition all by myself. That’s the thanks I get."
I was amused, but Dad hated Disneyworld. He hated every minute.
Dad’s mind is not operating at full capacity. He doesn’t recognize me anymore. He’ll say hello if I say it first, but he says it with a suspicious, puzzled expression on his face. The only other thing he says is, "Get away, please. You’re too close. Get away."I’m not sure what is going on inside his brain. He’s like a zombie. Grandmother and I talk about him as if he isn’t in the room.
Dad’s supposed to stay at Grandmother’s, but sometimes he sneaks out, and takes little vacations, and I always have to go find him. It’s not hard to find Dad because he can’t really go very far. He usually wanders down to a dirty hotel in the harbor area. The hotel clerks know Dad and they know me too, so they always give him a room because they know I’m good for the bill.
Once I find him, I clean him up and take him back to Grandmother’s house. Dad usually weeps on the ride home. It’s difficult for me, and it’s difficult for Dad too. He was a proud man once.
Dad is still dancing around me, slapping and taunting me. "What’s the matter, boy, a little mixed–up about your so–called sexuality? Fantasize about little boys instead of women?"Just then Dad leaned back and swung at my head. I visualized that big, fleshy hand slamming into my ear, but I blocked it cleanly and grabbed his wrist firmly. In the same second, I cocked my right hand. His face was wide open, and I knew that if I hit him hard enough I could kill him. My arm twitched.
He immediately covered his face with his free arm and cried, "No, don’t hit your poor old Daddy."
I didn’t swing. He jerked his wrist free. "I was only letting you win," he said. "I had to or else you woulda quit."
With six-guns on our hips, Dad and I slowly approached each other along a dusty, small-town main street. The town residents scattered and watched from cracks in shuttered windows."Dad," I proclaimed, "a change has come. You ain’t gonna be the Dad anymore. I’m gonna be the Dad."
He looked shocked and sad all at once. "No, no," he muttered. "It can’t be happening. Not you of all people."
I stared at him until he looked away.
"Look, boy," he said, "you’re making a mistake. You’re getting into something that’s too big for you. Why don’t we just pretend this unfortunate incident never took place, and nobody will get hurt."
He must’ve known it was suicide, but just then he went for his gun. I pulled mine first. I didn’t have any choice. It was him or me, so I filled him full of lead.
"Dad," I said leaning over him. "A cowboy’s got to recognize the end of the trail."
"You’re right, boy. My ride at the top is over. Them doggies just git to were they’s broncing a little too hard."
"Why’d you do it, Dad?" I cried. "Why couldn’t you go peaceful-like?"
"I just couldn’t see living without being the Dad," said Dad. "Once you get a taste of being the Dad, nothing else will do."
"Dad, please," I begged. "Don’t take it personally. It’s just that it was my turn to be Dad."
"I know boy, I know. I was young once too, and I knew your day would come. That’s why I was a little rough on you all those times, to toughen you up, to prepare you for this day."
"Dad," I said, knowing full-well that I was saying the last words he would ever hear, "through it all, I never once wished for a different Dad."
"Thanks, kid," he muttered. "Maybe you wasn’t so bad, after all."
And with that he left this place we call life, to search for freer and bigger ranges in the beautiful prairie in the sky.
Now Dad flies through the sky with his arms out like a plane. He watches us, surveys the nation. He flies low over towns and cities to get a better view. Sometimes he drops little gifts to us from the sky.On the ground everyone becomes hysterical. A man yells, "Dad’s coming. His day is at hand. Get your lives in order."
Some people say that life will be wonderful when Dad arrives, but most of us know better, and we are scared shitless. When Dad gets here everything will be different. Everything will look the same, but everything will be different.
Glory be to the Daddy, and to the son, as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end…
Copyright © Mike Walsh