Good Boy
My father’s house was a mess. The countertops were covered in books and littered with dusty Post-it notes. The washing machine rattled the whole house when it ran and if you turned on the kitchen sink while it was running, a pool of water would form at the base. And the winters had not been kind to the front patio deck, where the wanting wood was a hazard even on the driest of days.
The house had been in a state of disrepair for years now and despite my and my sibling's protestations and frequent offerings to pay for the fixes and upkeep, nothing had been done. It wasn’t that my father was too proud or arrogant, it was that the suggestion bored him. He’d say “Oh yeah, that patio is a real pain in the ass, I’ll get to it eventually.” Only, he never did. Why? Because a picture needed hanging, a puzzle needed solving, a book needed reading, a show needed watching, and a dish needed cooking. It wasn’t that my father didn’t want to fix the patio, it was that to do so required more focus than he was physically or mentally able to give.
By the time he reached 78, I knew it was only a matter of time before I got the call – and sure enough, after the first snow of the season, my father slipped on the wooden patio, breaking the fall with what he would describe as his “bony, non-existent ass”. The doctor seemed amused by his wit and candor despite the circumstances. It seems he had narrowly dodged a shattered hip, but he’d bruised it pretty bad.
Before we left, the doctor pulled me aside in a manner that I had been fearing my entire life. The kind of “hang back for a second” that only comes before someone tells you that your world is slowly about to change. Nothing he said was wrong, it just wasn’t anything that I hadn’t heard or brought up before –– it’s a lot of house for a man his age, he’s not getting any younger, his mind isn’t what it used to be, etc. I had pleaded with my father to let my wife sell the house several years ago and he told me it was out of the question. He said he’d rather “burn it to the ground while sleeping inside it.” Then he went on a 20-minute rant about the ancient Mesopotamians and how they worshipped fire because of its cleansing powers. Dad always said that he loved history. But what he really loved were the stories. The heroes, the villains, the good guys, the bad guys, the long lost lovers, the best friends –– he understood the characters of history and life in the same manner. It was truly unbelievable how quickly he could read another person. He saw their archetype often before they even did and wasn’t always the most popular person as a result.
Throughout my childhood he bounced between various jobs, some more fulfilling than others, always exciting at first then misery-inducing From advertising and media to technology and sales, they always paid just enough to make a living, but not enough to live. It haunted him. Even as children, we could see the toll that unfulfilling work could take. He was volatile. He could go through spells of irritability or frustration before perking back up and making a fart joke. That’s just who he was. And yet, he was always there. Even on his worst days. I remember one day in high school, he showed up to my varsity basketball game an hour away on the same day he was let go from a big tech company that he worked at for a few years. I remember asking him after the game if he was upset and he said “yes” before laughing hysterically.
“Sorry,” he said. “There’s just something funny about being upset at losing a job you don’t love, at a company you don’t agree with, doing work you couldn’t care less about.”
But even in the jobs he hated the most, he did care. That’s what I could never understand, he’d speak disparagingly about these companies, his bosses, their strategies, etc. and it didn’t matter if they were selling used office supplies, my Dad wanted to win. Because winning meant performing and performing meant opportunities to be stubborn and funny and stubborn.
By the time we left the hospital, my father was already asking why his “ass hurt”.
“Dad, you don’t remember? We just left the hospital.”
“Of course, I remember! But why does my ass hurt? Did they give me that VD shot in the glute like they used to? Don’t forget, nothing stops the clap like a shot in the ass!” Somewhere beneath the crude jokes was the truth–– he didn’t remember, he just didn’t want to admit it yet. Not to me and not to himself.
He didn’t shut up the entire car ride. He talked about how in WW2, the U.S. would pay for prostitutes to satisfy their officers to keep morale high, but that meant a spike in venereal diseases. So when the soldier would go get their shot of penicillin, they’d get it in the buttocks because it allowed them to still hold a gun and wouldn’t impair their aim. I just nodded and said, “Sure,” and “Wow,”.
When we pulled into the driveway, I turned off the ignition but felt my father’s hand on my wrist before I reached for the door.
“Wait,” he said, blinking through tears. “I know I’m not– we should talk about it.”
“It’s ok,” I assured him. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. I watched my mother do this with her mother, and I did it for her. It’s slow at first but then– it’s not great. Your grandfather used to always say ‘Life is short, drink the good stuff. If I’m ever like that, just get the good stuff out of the garage, crush up some fun pills, fill up a glass, and leave me to it.’ Do you get what I’m saying?”
I sighed.
“I’m not putting you down Dad, at least not yet.”
He chuckled through the tears.
“Good boy.”
I looked up at the dilapidated house.
“You can’t go back,” I said.
He looked at the house and shook his head.
“I know”.
“You’ll come stay with me and Emily and the kids, just until we figure things out.”
“Absolutely not. I love your wife and those kids. I couldn’t do that to them. The last thing they need to see is their bruised, cranky, grandfather shitting himself.”
“Goddammit, Dad! Can you please just—?” I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, determined not to cry.
“Look, I promised Mom that I’d take care of you and that’s what I intend to do.”
Dad smiled.
“Your mother has been a pain in my ass for 40 years.” The smile faded as he looked around the empty car. “Where is your mother? Did she run to the store?”
Exhausted, I took a deep breath and explained.
“Mom’s been gone for about 5 years now Dad.” He nodded slowly.
“Lauren, yes. I know. I just miss her is all.”
“Me too.”
I turned the car back on and cranked the heat.
“I’ll run in and pack a few things for you, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“You don’t want me to come with you?”
“No offense, but getting that bony ass off yours in and out and up those patio steps again is a bit of a production.”
He laughed and patted the top of my hand with his.
“You’re a good boy.”