Tuesday June 19, 2001

A few times this weekend I heard people mentioning that it was fathers day. I didn't have my fathers' day moment in until this morning. I guess it's a little late. Here's what happened:

I had gotten kind of cold last time I went swimming in the ocean so I decided to wear a sweatshirt this time. I stayed in the shallow part and played on the sandbars where the waves formed. I was sort of laying / floating in the water and thinking how warm I was and then it occurred to me that I shouldn't be so warm. I should be freezing but I was actually a little on the warm side. With my head just inches out of the water I looked down the waves and examined the shapes of the tubes. They were little waves and I decided to stand up. I was ankle deep in water 100 yards off shore. Sandbars.

I soon found out that I was so warm because I had slept in all my clothes. In fact, I was burning up and had to pee. I got up and took my pants off and walked over to the door. And right as I grabbed the handle I heard someone close the door of the bathroom and start to pee male-sounding pee. Grrr. What timing. I listened to dad for a while and it started to sound more like faucet than pee. I looked down and noticed I was wearing tighty-whities. I hadn't worn those in years.

I decided to try and find another sink in the house to go pee in. I had to go pretty bad but I couldn't remember if the toilet downstairs worked. I rarely did and I headed to the kitchen. On the counter behind the microwave a found a pair of glasses that had huge, thick glass and big black frames, like that old fashion designer woman who does adds for Old Navy and the Gap but bigger, like ski goggles. They were very cool and I decided right there that it should be my new look. So I put them on and suddenly the fuzzy shapes of my mother and my aunt Em walked in. I was kind of embarrassed about the underwear situation and headed back to my room still dying to pee.

My mother followed me of course and she was at the door before I reached the middle of my room. "We're going into town today to visit some people from Eastern Star." I didn't have my own plans but I wanted to, so I told her that I was going to go look for a museum or something as I rifled through the clothes in my closet. I was just visiting so I figured I should do some touristy stuff. My old clothes brought back a glow of nostalgia and then I was rewarded with a pang of disgust at a pair of pleated slacks I used to wear in high school.

"Well, how do I get a hold of you later then?"
"Just call my cell phone. I'm sure Sheila or Dani has the number."
She started back down the hallway but then, "Is it 386-2424?"
"No," disgustedly "I haven't had that number for years. And that's a house number before we even had cell phones. Jeez mom."
10 seconds later: "Well, what about 553-3093?"
I could see where this was going because we did it every time we talked. I'd given her my address -- the same one I've had for 8 years -- about 300 times.
"How do you have all those old phone numbers?"
She came back in the room. "Well, I don't know, you change them so often. Why do you always have to change your number?"
"Mother, I had to. I was moving. They make you get new numbers when you move. You know that. Anyways, I've had the same damn number for years."

I was starting to get pissed and she was starting to get more stupid. Suddenly I found myself explarguing to her that you can't keep your number when you move. "No, no, no, they don't let you!" She was no longer interested in my cell phone number. Too mad to pick out clothes I was now standing with my feet shoulder length apart, directing a healthy amount of rage at her.

Why so mad? I didn't think of that then.

My anger continued working it's magic on my other parent. Later that day she got a hold of me and I headed over to the church where my sister was going to get married. My dad showed up, which was a surprise and after it was over I walked out with him.

Walking through the parking lot I got incredibly mad at him. This guy seemed to save his magic for parking lots. I can't remember what he said. I really should remember but I can't remember what. (Seems like it should matter, given what happened. But then again, does it really matter? I mean, must we pick one thing? I mean, he's dead and all.)

We walked and yelled for about 10 seconds and then I warned him that I was getting really mad at him. I felt I should warn him because I was getting really mad. Kind of funny -- father's usually warn their kids - not the other way around. He kept on and my anger reached gargantuan proportions. It seemed to accelerate so quickly that I thought I should do something to let off some pressure, lest I murder him right here in the church parking lot. So I hauled-off and smacked him in the face. It was the strangest blow, kind of awkward in its un-manliness --and thus, even more humiliating I'm sure. He was to my right and I swung across my body with my left hand but I didn't want to punch him so I put my right hand on the back of his head, opened my palm and sorta slapped him on his big, fat alcoholic nose.

I think I succeeded in communicating my disgust with him because his head dropped forward a little bit and he looked like he couldn't think for about a second. Then it looked like he had a thought and then he started walking toward his car. He turned back and shook his finger at me and told me he was going to kill me. Un huh. He got in his car and the way he revved his engine got my attention. Wow, I didn't know he drove a muscle car. Looked like a Cougar. He used to be so practical. That's what I was thinking as the big silver grill came shooting at me. As the time to jump approached I was still admiring the chrome work. It turned out to be my last opportunity to do that because as I jumped over the hood of the car, he smashed into the parked car behind me.

I rolled across the parking lot and looked around for spectators. There were two people at the side door of a minivan. I didn't recognize them but they looked like Microsoft employees. One of them, a man, was standing in front of the other, a woman, with his arms spread across the doorway. A natural reaction I guess. The woman looked confused. The man was scared. My father slammed reverse and it was all screeching and copshows and well-tuned small-block engines and me playing matador.

He figured out that he couldn't hit me after he'd hit about 20 cars in the lot and after most of the owners of those cars had run out into the parking lot my dad decided to jam. My sister came running up to me and said, "What the fuck was that?" and I told her that I had hit him and then he tried to run me over. Then she wanted to know why I hit him, the poor, helpless old man.