Return From the Dark Side II by Just_Me

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I won’t go into the details of my grief. I’ll just say it seemed like all joy was sucked out of the universe, and that I was doomed to cry and be unhappy for the rest of my life. Darkness was all I felt.

Even in my grief, I could see the changes happening in Dad. I tried to excuse him, thinking, "Of course he’s changed. He and Mom were inseparable. You’ve got to give him time."

At first, it was little things. He no longer ruffled my hair or hugged me when he came home. "Wipe your feet before going in," "Time to go to bed" and "Is your homework done?" disappeared from our lives. We never got told to clean our room or make the bed.

Saturday came and went, and he didn’t go to the barbershop. The following Saturday none of us went.

Sometimes I’d try to catch him when he walked in the door, and attempt to get him to talk to me. He’d answer my questions with as few words as possible, and go straight to the den,

After one of our exchanges, I thought, "It’s like he sees through me. He doesn’t even know I’m here."

Not being able to turn to Dad just made the pain worse- -and the guilt. You see, I blamed myself for Mom’s death. Every night I cried myself to sleep thinking, "Paul, you hurt Mom’s feelings that night, and she was probably crying. If you hadn’t been so rude to her maybe she would’ve been paying more attention, and could’ve avoided that damned drunk."

Variations of that thought were always with me, and I had no one to talk to about it.

Dad didn’t completely neglect us. He made sure we had all the physical things we needed, but he wouldn’t talk to us. Mikey and I quickly learned that if we wanted something- -big or small, all we had to do was ask Dad. He’d throw large amounts of cash at us, and say, "I’m too busy to go shopping. See if Mrs. Shaw will take you." (He had hired Mrs. Shaw to be our housekeeper, and left everything up to her. It was her job to be sure the house was clean, laundry done and we had breakfast and dinner.)

After a few weeks of being ignored, I stopped trying to talk to him when he came home, and started watching him. He’d always go to the den, where he would turn on some classical music and pour himself a scotch. He’d guzzle that scotch, and pour another one. After the second scotch, he’d fill his pipe and go out on the patio with a third scotch.

He followed this pattern for several weeks, until one night he changed it. Instead of the soothing sounds of Brahms or Debussey, or the crashing chords of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff, I heard the high falsetto of the BeeGees fill the house. I thought, "Has hell frozen over? Is that disco music I hear?"

My memory scrounged up countless times I’d heard Dad say, "How do people listen to that crap? It should be against the law to even call disco music."

I never heard any more classical music from the den after that. It was always the beat of disco music, and it gradually got louder and louder.

Not long after I first heard disco in the house, Dad knocked on my bedroom door. When I opened it, he said, "You’re going to have to watch Mikey for a few hours. I’m going to go out with some friends from work. We’re going to grab something to eat and have a drink, but I won’t be too late."

"That’s cool. It’ll probably be good for you. Just don’t drink and drive. I don’t want to see Rev. Langham and another policeman at the door again."

He called a few hours later. "I’m going to be late getting home. Go to bed. The guys want to go to The Roses, and do a little dancing. I’m going to tag along."

"Sure, Dad. Go ahead, but try not to throw your back out. That’s a disco. Do you even know any disco steps?"

"Oh, I’m not a teenager. I’m not going to dance. I’ll just watch."

I was still downstairs when he finally stumbled in. It was 3:15 a.m- -and he wasn’t alone. He and his "guest" managed to make it up the stairs without breaking their necks, which surprised me. Neither one could walk without hanging onto the wall. I looked at her, and thought, "How in the hell is that bimbo walking in those heels when she’s that drunk?"

A few nights later, he went out with his "friends" again.

After the third time, I tried to talk to him about it. "Dad, I really need to know where I can reach. What if Mikey had an asthma attack, and I needed to get him to the hospital."

He was rude to me for the first time. He snarled, "I’m not a child who has to report to his parents. Call a damned ambulance if you need one." He stormed out of the room.

The changes in Dad’s appearance had started slowly, but they started speeding up- -and they kept coming. His thick, wiry hair stuck out all over his head. He looked disheveled all the time. Then he stopped shaving. If it hadn't been for the suit he wore to work, he would’ve looked like one of the bums who lived under a railroad trestle a few miles away.

I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but sometime during that time period I was sitting at the table when Dad walked in with a bunch of packages. "What’d ya get, Dad?"

He was abrupt when he said, "I bought myself some new clothes."

He walked by me, without another word, and went upstairs.

I saw some of what he bought the next morning, and I almost didn’t recognize him. His normal suit had been replaced by light green disco pants and a dark green silk shirt with a wild silver pattern and big flowy sleeves. His normal cowboy boots were missing. Platform shoes peeked out from under his bell bottoms.

I looked at him. "Um…Dad…I think you forgot a few buttons on your shirt."

He growled. "Don’t you know anything about fashion? I didn’t forget the buttons. It’s the style." He rubbed his chest. "If you’ve got it, flaunt it, and I’ve got more chest hair than most." He grinned. "Why not show it off?" He turned to the mirror. "What do you think? Do I need a big gold medallion to hang around my neck?"

I was horrified, and evidently it showed in my face. He scowled. "Why the hell am I asking you? You obviously don’t know anything about style."

That night he came home with several chains around his neck…and a gold medallion surrounded by diamonds. A diamond stud glittered in his ear. He had a big gold nugget ring on his pinky.

A few nights later, he started outside to smoke his pipe, and I heard him mutter, "Aw, to hell with it. Marilyn’s not here any more. I can smoke in the house if I want to!"

Soon he exchanged his pipes for cigarettes, and overflowing ashtrays filled the house. One night he called me into the den, and pointed at his pipe racks. "Paul, put all this mess in the trash. I don’t need my pipes any more."

I just couldn’t throw them away. I took them all up to my room. To me, the pipes were a part of Dad. I thought, "I not only lost Mom, but Dad’s gone too. I’ll keep these to remember him by." I put pipe stands on my dresser, desk and chest of drawers, and still couldn’t display them all.

A few nights later he threw all of his suits, ties and boots on the landing. He issued a terse order, "Paul, call Goodwill, and have them come get this mess. Someone may want them for costumes."

I couldn’t get rid of his suits either. I put what would fit in the guest bedroom closet, and took the rest and hung them in my closet. His boots lined the floor of both closets.

Dad came home with more packages that night.

About eight weeks after the funeral, I happened to look in the mirror. My hair was sticking out seven ways from Sunday, and starting to hang over my ears. "Damn, Paul. Your hair is not cool." I looked again. "In fact, it’s pathetic. You should at least get it trimmed up, even if you are going to let it grow out."

I answered myself. "To hell with getting it trimmed up. I’m getting another flattop to honor Mom." I debated a while, and then thought, "School’s out. Why not?" I looked in the mirror again. Seeing how bad I looked made the decision for me.

I walked into the den. Dad was obviously drunk (again), but I decided to talk to him anyway. "Dad, can we go to the barbershop tomorrow? I need to get my flattop tightened up?"

"You can do anything you damned well please, but I’m never going to a barbershop again. See if you can find someone to take you." He pulled out his wallet and threw $20 at me, and picked up the bottle of scotch and took a big swig (he no longer bothered with the formality of pouring it into a glass.)

"Why aren’t you going to the barber? That used to be our time together."

"I don’t feel like talking about it right now. Don’t you have some homework to do?"

I tried to answer him politely. "No, sir. School’s out."

He lit another cigarette and turned his back to me.

At first I was hurt. I needed him, and he was dismissing me. Then I got mad. I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me.

I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hi, Rev. Langham. It’s Paul Harris. I have a question for you."

"Go ahead and ask me, Paul."

"Do you still go see Mr. Williams on Saturdays?"

"Every Saturday that the good Lord blesses me with! Why?"

"Well, I really need a haircut, and was wondering if I could catch a ride with you?"

"I’d be happy to pick you up. See you in the morning at about 7:30."

"Thanks, Pastor. I really appreciate it. See you then."

That morning with Rev. Langham was cathartic. He listened while I poured out my grief. I talked to him about my guilt, and he tried to assure me Mom’s death wasn’t my fault (he failed).

I didn’t talk to him about how Dad was acting. Somehow, it seemed like a betrayal.

Mr. Williams hugged me when we got to the barbershop, and said, "It’s good to see you, Paul."

I murmured, "It’s good to see you too." Then I thought, "I’ll be damned. It is good to see him. He’s a good man."

I sat in the chair, and Mr. Williams caped me up. "What am I doing for you today? I’m a little lost without Donovan here to tell me what to do."

I smiled. "I actually get to say what I want today. Tighten me up."

"Another flattop?"

"Yes, sir!"

Getting another flattop made me feel closer to Mom, and I actually enjoyed getting a haircut. It was familiar and normal.

Every pass of the clippers felt good, and seeing myself go from shaggy to sharp-looking was entertaining. I thought, "It’s like watching a fuzzing picture come into focus."

I enjoyed seeing the hair pile up on the cape.

Maybe because my world was so torn up, the familiar sounds of clippers cutting and the razor shaving were comforting.

Mr. Williams turned me so I could see the final results in the mirror and that first look made me think, "Damn, I’m like Dad. I actually look good with a flattop."

An unfamiliar sense of being happy with myself flooded through me. I imagined how happy Mom would be, and I remembered the many times she’d run her hands over our fresh haircuts and said, "Ah, that’s what a man’s haircut is supposed to feel like!" The thought made me smile, even though tears filled my eyes.

On the way home Rev. Langham and I talked about how it felt to wear a flattop in a sea of men with long hair.

For the first time since her death I felt human. That is, I felt human, until Dad saw me…three days after I got my haircut.

Dad took one look at me and snapped, "My god, Paul. You look horrible. You should stay in your room until your hair grows out." He shook his head. "The last time I remember talking to you about your hair, it seems you were wanting to let it grow. Now that you can let it grow, you’re wanting to get it cut. Can’t you make up your mind?"

"Well, during that same conversation you said you weren’t keen on men with long hair, yet look at you. You need to make up your mind as well."

"Oh, I’ve made up my mind. My hair is going to grow. I’m tired of looking like a dinosaur. I want to be hip." As had become his routine, he turned his back to me, and lit a cigarette.

A few days later, Rev. Langham called to check on me. As he was getting off the phone, he said, "Barbershop Saturday morning?"

I grinned. "Yes, sir."

"How would you feel about spending the whole morning with me? I have to call on a few parishioners."

"I’d like that."

Our morning almost felt like the old times, except for the fact Rev. Langham was there instead of Dad. We had breakfast at the diner, and then went to the barbershop.

After our haircuts, Pastor said, "You look mighty sharp there."

"Thanks, sir. You don’t look so bad yourself either."

He grinned and rubbed his head. "I have to agree with you." He looked at me. "Ready to go make your first ministerial call with me?"

"Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do it."

He grinned. "I have to warn you. Our first visit will be to Mrs. Curry. I can almost guarantee you that her first words will be, ‘Oh, Rev. Langham, what a godsend you are. I have a few things I need you to help me with.’ She’ll probably work us to the bone, but it’s worth it. She always has something great to eat ready when I get the work done."

I laughed. "I can always eat!"

Sure enough, her first words were, "Pastor, I have a few things I need you to help me with."

Rev. Langham started taking his suit coat off. "Point me in the right direction, Mrs. Curry." After hearing what she wanted us to do, he took his shirt and tie off too, and worked in his t-shirt.

Long story short, she had us on the roof fixing a leak, moving some big rocks, and stocking her woodpile (even though it was summer, and no one in their right mind burns a fireplace during a Texas summer.)

Once all the chores were done, Pastor grabbed his shirt and jacket and knocked on the door. "Come on in, Rev. Langham. I just took some cinnamon rolls out of the oven. I also have chocolate cake. I’ll get you some of both."

He smiled. "I’m looking forward to that, but first we need to wash up."

She replied, "You know where the kitchen is. Go on in. I’ve left a few towels out for you to dry off on."

We washed up, and for the first time, I realized the benefits of having a short haircut. Even though Rev. Langham and I had sweated like a pig, all we had to do was wipe our heads off, and our flattops looked pristine. We were ready to go to the next house.

I got into the habit of going with Rev. Langham to the barbershop on Saturday morning, and on his visits. We always had fun…and he "helped" out with some chores at almost every house. Him "helping" normally involved us doing the work, while a parishioner supervised. One Saturday he had no calls to make, so we went fishing instead.

A few weeks later, the doorbell rang and I answered it. Rev. Langham was at the door. "Hi, Pastor. Come on in."

"Hey, Paul. It’s good to see you. I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d check on y’all. Is Donovan home?"

"Come on in." I walked him into the den where Dad was.

Dad looked up. "Reverend, no offense meant to you as a person, or your office as a minister, but I don’t want you here. Any divine intervention now is too little, too late. If God wanted to help me, He should’ve stepped in before that damned drunk driver hit Marilyn. I want nothing to do with a god who tries to help after the fact."

Dad stood up, and started walking toward the door. "I appreciate your kind intentions, but the boys and I will be a helluva lot better off without you or your god. Thanks for coming by."

Reverend Langham looked sad, as he walked to the door. "Donovan, I can understand where you’re coming from. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably be feeling the same way." He paused. "But know this, God and I are available any time of the day or night. You just have to let us know when you’re ready for our help."

Dad shook the reverend’s hand. "Thank you for coming by. You don’t have to worry about us." He cleared his throat. "You also don’t have to worry about coming back. We don’t need you, and I don’t want Paul going with you to the barbershop any more."

After he was out the door, Rev. Langham stopped. "You can stop me from coming by, but you can’t keep me from praying for you. I will continue to pray for peace and comfort for all of you, and ask God to give you wisdom to help you and the boys get through this."

Without another word, he walked away.

I cornered Dad. "Why can’t I go with Rev. Langham any more?"

"Because I said so, that’s why."

"Oh, come on, Dad. That’s the lamest answer any parent has ever given."

"Ok. I don’t want you around him. He’s a bad influence."

"That’s a totally uncool thing to say! How did you come to that mind-boggling decision?"

"He’s influencing you to keep your stupid-assed flattop."

"What’s wrong with my flattop, and why are you blaming Pastor? If I remember correctly, you set the example for fifteen years."

"I’m not going to argue with you." He pointed at my head. "No more haircuts like that." His voice was shaking, and I assumed it was because he was so angry.

He wasn’t the only one angry. All of my hurts turned into raging animosity and antagonism. I instantly knew what I was going to do. "Oh, you don’t want me looking like this?" I pointed to my head.

"Absolutely. I do not want you looking like that. You look like a goddamned freak."

"OK, Dad." I put some sarcasm in my voice. "I will not look like this again, until you ask me to." I threw Dad a hint. "I can almost guarantee you’ll be begging me to look like this soon."

"Hell will freeze over before I ever ask you to look like that." He kept talking, "Just to make sure you don’t, I’m calling Mr. Williams and telling him you’re forbidden to get another flattop."

"Don’t waste your time. I promise you I won’t go see Mr. Williams again until we go back and get matching haircuts." I stared him in the eyes. "You can carry that promise to the f-ing bank."

He went and picked up a bottle of Scotch. I was still staring at him when he turned back around. He glared at me. "Why the hell are you still standing there? Get your ass out of here. I can’t stand looking at you."

I went upstairs and called Mrs. Shaw. "I’m sorry to bug you, but is there any way you could come in at 7:00 in the morning? I need to be somewhere early in the morning, and I don’t want to leave Mike alone."

I’m sure she could hear the smile in my voice when I said, "Thanks a million! You can leave early if you want, or if you want the extra hours I’ll make sure you get paid for it."

I grinned all night, thinking how pissed off Dad was going to be tomorrow…or whenever he saw me again.

I hopped into the truck (I had started driving everywhere, even though I didn’t have my licenses), and left rubber when I left the next morning. The squealing tires made me smile. "Take that Dad. I hope it helps the hangover I’m sure you have this morning." For good measure, I honk the horn a few dozen times.

I drove straight to Morton’s Barbershop. He had the worst reputation in town, and was the barber everyone took their kids to for punishment haircuts. I figured he’d be perfect for my revenge.

I walked in as soon as he unlocked the door. He greeted me with, "I’ll be damned! There is a teenager left in the world who has a decent haircut."

I walked straight to the chair, and plopped down. I looked at him and grinned. "I want it to be more decent. You know how to do a ‘shoe?"

He threw the cape on while he was saying, "It’s not my favorite haircut, but of course I do. What kind of barber do you think I am?" He looked at me. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes, sir."

He grinned. "I normally don’t cut anyone’s hair until I’ve had coffee. I’m going to make an exception this morning." He didn’t say anything else. He just turned the clippers on, and started shaving the back of my head.

I got worried about the way he was cutting my hair. It wasn’t methodical like Mr Williams did. It felt like Mr. Morton was just randomly cutting. After a little clipper work, he spread shaving cream everywhere. I thought, "Whoa! That was fast."

He scraped the razor around the sides and back, and made just two passes over the top. My haircut was done in no time at all. All I could think was, "Mr. Williams takes longer than that just to cut the back, and he’s already done? What the hell have I got myself into?"

He turned the chair to the mirror, pulled the cape off and said, "Voila!"

I took one look at myself, and felt like I’d been kicked in the balls. My hair looked horrible. I thought, "I should’ve just had him shave it."

In a sudden change of emotions, I had to fight to keep from bursting out laughing at my next thought. "It’s perfect. Dad’s going to have a conniption fit!"

I grinned at my next thought. "Mr. Morton deserves his reputation as the worst barber in town. This is the worst goddamned haircut I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait for Dad to see it."

He had shaved the sides, back and most of the top- -which I had expected. I hadn’t expected the "horseshoe" to look like it did. It couldn’t have been an inch wide, and it in no ways resembled a flattop. It was lopsided, and looked like he had just buzzed the top to a #2, followed by shaving a hole on the top of my head. I looked at it a little more closely, and noticed that the extensions on the shoe weren’t the same length. The worst part was the way he hadn’t blended the shaved parts into the horseshoe. Hard razor lines separated the shaved part from the ‘shoe. My hair was so thick that it almost looked like he had colored the ‘shoe in with a magic marker.

I giggled when I thought, "I guess he couldn’t decide whether to do a recon or a horseshoe, and tried to combine them."

I looked in the mirror one last time before I walked out of the shop. "Hey, Mr. Morton, next time I come in, you can have your coffee first." I mentally finished that off with the thought, "I doubt it’ll help you any. You’re one sorry-assed barber."

I put my cap back on, and headed home. I was all smiles when I saw that Dad’s new Corvette was still in the garage. I gave a loud rebel yell, and said, "Let’s go have some fun, Paul."

I walked in, looking for a fight. Dad was in the kitchen, waiting on the coffee pot. I looked at him. "You look like hell. Rough night?"

He ignored my comment. "Why the hell didn’t you make coffee before you left? For that matter, why the hell didn’t Mrs. Shaw make coffee?"

"It ain’t my job to take care of you. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the kid, and you’re supposed to take care of me, not the other way around."

He snarled, "Shut the hell up."

Very conversationally, I said, "I have something to show you, Dad."

He didn’t even look at me. "Later. I’m not feeling so good this morning."

"What the hell did you expect? You finished off half a bottle of Scotch in one sitting last night." I sneered at him. "I have no sympathy for you. You always taught me my actions have consequences. Yours do too. I hope your drunk was worth feeling like this."

He grimaced. "If I wanted to hear a damned sermon, I’d go to church. Go away."

I grabbed his arm. "No, Dad. I need to show you this. Look at me."

He glanced my way, I think more from instinct than from wanting to see what I had to show him. I pulled my cap off, and I thought he was going to pass out.

"My god, you look disgusting! What the hell happened to your hair?"

"Since you seem to hate me for no reason, I thought I’d give you a reason to hate me. I figured if you hated a flattop, you’d hate a horseshoe even more."

He grabbed his stomach, and weird sounds started coming out of his mouth. "I’m going to be sick."

As he ran down the hall toward the bathroom, I yelled, "That’s real nice, Dad. You hate me so much that the sight of me makes me sick. That’s not cool!"

I got back in the truck and left.

The tension remained really high for several weeks, and I egged it on. I was rude to Dad every time he spoke to me. I refused to say, "Yes, sir." He was lucky if he got a "Yeah" out of me. More often than not, I’d just ignored him…and I went to see Mr. Morton every few days, and every haircut led to another fight.

After a particularly nasty fight, I thought, "Paul, you’re not accomplishing anything by antagonizing him. Let your hair grow. Maybe he’ll like you a little better then."

Things did calm down for a little while once I stopped going to see Mr. Morton. Dad just ignored me, and I returned the favor.

I watched in horror, and fascination, as Dad continued to change. His hair and beard kept growing. After a few months of letting it grow, he went to a salon and got it trimmed into a style. His hair actually looked good. It was long enough that he could comb it, and it would lay down. I had to admit his beard looked really good, even if it looked out of character for him.

His looks changed drastically when he showed up with a pointed goatee and sideburns down to his jaw. I started laughing. "You look like you want to be Anton LaVey. Why didn’t you shave your head?"

I literally dropped my jaw the next morning when Dad walked into the breakfast room.

What I saw made a small giggle burst out of me. Another giggle was in my stomach, fizzing like a soda. I thought, "This is the first time I’ve felt like laughing since Mom died, and it feels good." Suddenly, the laughter that had been bubbling around in my gut erupted out of me. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. My sides ached, but I kept laughing. I laughed so hard that I fell out of the chair.

I didn’t care if I hurt Dad’s feelings. He looked so bizarre that all I could do was laugh.

I finally stopped laughing enough to point at his head and say, "You missed a spot on the top of your head." I snorted with laughter. "And you missed your moustache and sideburns."

Most of his beautiful salt and pepper hair had been dyed a flat black that Mother Nature has never put on anyone’s head. He’d left a small square of grey in the front of his head. His goatee was dyed too, but his mustache and sideburns were still grey. It was the most bizarre dye job I’d ever seen.

I kept giggling. "You look like a skunk!"

He glared at me, and walked out of the room

Him ignoring me made all the hurt of the months of being ignored rise up in me. For the first time in my life I was deliberately rude to Dad. I yelled, "I’d run too if I looked like you do, Mister Skunkmeister. Why don’t you hide until that stupid-looking mess grows out, or better yet, shave it off?"

Despite how he looked, Dad still managed to bring home a different "lady" several nights a week. I often would think, "How the hell does he get them to come home with him? I would think a woman with any taste would run when they saw Mr. Skunkmeister."

The only answer I could come up with was that the women thought he had lots of money.

Dad and I finally reached a point where we only talked when it was absolutely necessary. I was tired of being hurt by his attitude, and he didn’t seem to want to have anything to do with me.

Depression overwhelmed me, and I didn’t want to live any more. Mikey was the only thing that kept me alive. I didn’t want to die, and leave him alone with Dad.

Even with things as bad as they were between Dad and me, I tried to keep things as normal as I could, so Mikey would have some kind of life. I kept him on a routine, and tried to think of fun things to do with him. I let his friends come over, until the night Mikey came up to me and said, "Paul, why does Dad have flour in his desk?"

Suspicion hit me. "Show me what you’re talking about."

Sure enough I was right. Dad had what looked like pot and cocaine stashed in his desk.

"What the hell do I do? What the hell do I say?" were all I could think.

I didn’t want to lie to Mikey, and was relieved when a thought popped in my head. "It does look like flour, doesn’t it? It could be sugar though. Dad likes sugar in his coffee. Maybe he just brought some in here."

He nodded.

"You’d better pretend you didn’t see it, though. Dad might not want us to know he’s using sugar in the office. You know how he is about us eating anywhere but the table."

I kept talking. "What were you doing in there? You know Dad doesn’t like us messing with his stuff."

"I wasn’t messing with his stuff. I just wanted to borrow a pencil."

"I have extras in my room. I’ll give you one. Come on."

On the way up the stairs, I said, "Mikey, I think both of us need to stay out of the office from now on. We don’t wanna make Dad mad, do we?"

His lip tremored. "He’s always mad…"

I nodded. "You’re right, so let’s not do anything that would make him madder."

I was relieved that Mikey seemed to believe me.

Later that night he came and crawled in bed with me. He was crying. "What’s up, baby bro?"

I felt like someone had poured icy water over me when he said, "Do you remember that show we watched the other night? The bad guys were putting white stuff up their nose, and the cops arrested them. Is that white stuff what Dad has in his desk?"

Despair welled up in me. I didn’t know what to do, but tell the truth. "I don’t know for sure, but I imagine it is."

Mikey sobbed. "I don’t want the cops putting Dad in jail."

I hugged him. "I don’t either. We’re just going to have to make sure no one finds out."

I thought for a second. "Mikey, I don’t know if it’s a good idea for your friends to come over any more. We can’t risk them finding the white stuff. If one of your friends told their parents, their parents would probably call the police. From now on, if you want to play with them, let me know, and I’ll take you to the park or something."

He kept crying, but nodded his head.

Seeing my rambunctious baby brother turned into this nervous wreck made me so mad.

Dad even missed my sixteenth birthday. For some reason, I had expected him to celebrate it with me, and even had hopes he’d be the one to take me to get my drivers license. He hadn’t come home the night before (big surprise…), and he never showed up that day, so Mrs. Shaw took me to take my driving test.

I decided not to confront him, thinking, "I really didn’t want him here anyway."

Somehow we managed to get through the first year without any more major incidents, until the night I walked in the den and said, "Tomorrow is the anniversary of Mom’s death. Would you go to the cemetery with me? I want to take her some flowers, but I don’t want to go alone."

"Why the hell would I want to go out there? I can’t do a damned thing for her."

I lost it. All the hurt, anger and bitterness in me rose up. I screamed, "Maybe you can’t do a damned thing for her, but you sure as hell could do something for me—like be there to support me, which you haven’t done in the last year, you selfish bastard!"

"Goddammit, you ungrateful little brat. How dare you speak like that to me? You will speak to me with respect."

"The hell I will! I’ll show you respect when you deserve it." I put every ounce of hatred I had in my next sentences. "You’re dumber than I thought if you think I even have an ounce of respect left for you. You don’t deserve any respect. All you deserve is my contempt—which you have in full measure. "

A few tears rolled down my face- -tears of anger, not sadness. "This time last year, there wasn’t a man on the planet that I had more respect for than you- -not one. Now, there’s not a man on the planet that I have less respect for. Not a murderer, swindler, cheat or child molestor—hell, there’s not even a lawyer or politician that I don’t rank higher than you. You’re at the very bottom of the list."

"Why? I’m a very respectable man in the community."

"That’s one reason I can’t respect you. I will not respect a man who breaks the law, but pretends to be respectable." I shook my head. "How long do you think the community would hold you in esteem if they knew about the whores and the dope? For that matter, how long would you have a job if the university knew about them? You’d be out on your ass in a heartbeat if I ever decide to tell them."

I thought about him demanding respect, and the venom poured out of me. "You really are a dumb bastard, aren’t you? Since you seem to miss even the most obvious clues, I’ll tell you why I have zero respect for you. You taught me to respect people for their actions, and their character. I cannot respect a drunken, dope-head who shirks all of his duties, and has no sense of right or wrong. I despise a man who uses women like they’re something to be thrown away. I refuse to respect a man who won’t take care of his family."

Dad bristled. "I’ve taken good care of you and Mikey."

I roared with laughter. "That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard."

I looked him in the eye. "Dad, taking care of your kids involves a lot more than throwing money at them. It’s caring for them. It’s listening to them. It’s supporting them."

The cautious side of me thought, "You’d better slow down, Paul. You don’t want to burn any bridges." However, the venom in me was too strong. I kept going.

"How exactly have you taken good care of us? Have you cried with us? Have you asked us how we’re doing? When have you held us, and tried to help us deal with the loss of both our mother and father?" I looked at him. "Not only are you failing to give up emotional support, but you haven’t been to the school to find out what’s going on with Mikey. I’ve gone to all of his parent/teacher conferences."

"It’s obvious you don’t want anything to do with us. That’s why I haven’t told you when any of my games are- -although even the dumbest asshole in the state of Texas knows that there’s a football game every Friday night in the fall. I just assumed you didn’t want to see me play since you never showed up at a single game: not football, basketball or baseball. I guess going to the disco, getting drunk and whoring mean more to you than I do."

I got mean. "I’m ashamed of you. I’m ashamed of the way you act. Hell, I’m even ashamed to be seen with you because of the way you look, and the way you act."

"Why?"

I had to catch my breath before talking any more. "Me being ashamed of you is why I don’t have friends over any more. I don’t want them to see an aging hippy staggering around drunk. To top it all off, my friends all call you the skunk."

"Why?"

I snarled. "What are you, a two-year-old that can only say, ‘Why?’ You have a damned doctorate. Surely you can think of something else to say."

I glared at him, and he glared back. I kept talking. "I guess you’re too damned ignorant to think of anything to say, so I’ll answer your question. First, they call you a skunk because you look like a skunk with that stupid dye job."

"I think my hair looks good. It’s natural looking."

I smirked. "That’s absurd, but I’ll ignore that comment. To answer your question, my friends call you a skunk because you smell like a damned skunk. The mixture of that hideous cologne you put on by the gallon mixed with cigarette smoke, scotch and the way you sweat off a drunk makes you smell worse than a skunk"

I shook my head. "Just so you know, that cologne does NOT hide the smell of smoke and scotch. It just makes it worse."

I took a deep breath. "I can’t wait until the day I turn eighteen, so I can move out. I hope I never have to see your sorry, drunk ass again!"

I looked at him. "In case you’re wondering, I’m taking Mikey with me when I leave."

He snarled, "Like hell you are. That’s my son."

I glared at him. "Like hell he is. You gave up the right to call him your son when you abandoned him. I’ve been his father for the last year. I’m the one who helps him with his homework, and talks to his teachers. I’m the one who makes sure he takes a bath and brushes his teeth. I’m also the one who makes sure he gets to the dentist and gets his asthma medicine. You didn’t even notice, but he wore the same clothes for two weeks- -two whole weeks- -without changing his clothes, taking a bath or brushing his teeth. Did you notice? NO! I started taking charge when one of his teachers called and I had to talk to her because you were too damned drunk to answer the phone. She told me she was going to report you to child protective services. Did you thank me? No. Of course not. You were too busy getting drunk and high."

My voice got quiet. "I’m a teenager. I should be worried about zits, dates and getting laid for the first time, not trying to parent a very lost little boy. I should be going to dances instead of making sure he does his homework and takes a bath. I shouldn’t have to be protecting him from a drunk, high father that hates him"

I thought, "Might as well give him all of it while you’re going, Paul." So I kept going.

Very conversationally, I said, "I really have no idea why you hate us both so much. Do you have anything that I can tell him that would help him understand?"

Then I went on the attack again. "I’m the one who had to tell him that his friends can’t come over any more. I was scared they might find your coke and pot. If his friends told their parents about the coke the cops would be called and you’d be hauled away to jail." I glared at him. "I’m the one he’s crawled into bed with when he has nightmares about you being in prison."

"I’m also the one who listens to his prayers at night. Do you know what he prays for?" I shook my head. "Of course you don’t. You haven’t talked to him in a year. I’ll tell you what he prays for. He prays for you. He prays that you won’t kill someone else’s mother with your drunk driving." I nodded. "Yes, he’s made the connection between the way you come home, and Mom dying. He’s even said that he was glad that you weren’t the one who killed Mom."

I took a deep breath. "You think losing a wife is hard. Have you ever had to explain to an eight-year-old kid what a whore is, and why that whore is charging his father $20 for a blow job, and $30 for a suck and f**k? Well, I’ve had to do that, after you let Mikey hear you make a transaction with one of your ladies of the evening. That’s what’s hard!"

I could see that shook him.

I kept going. "In the future, I’d really appreciate it if you’d take your goddamned whores to a motel, instead of bringing them here, and disturbing Mike, not to mention being disrespectful to Mom’s memory. I can’t believe you’d screw a whore in the same bed you slept in with Mom."

He growled. "Leave Marilyn out of this!"

I shook my head. "I can’t leave her out of this. Mom would be so ashamed of you. I’m almost glad she died before you became this monster that you are." I went for the kill. "I really wish it had been you that was killed."

I stomped out of the room, but then turned around and went back in. "Since you seem so determined to drink or dope yourself to death, why don’t you just snort all that coke that’s in your desk and overdose now, rather than make me watch you die slowly? Mikey and I would probably be better off without you."

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