10,000 Miles with My Dead Father's Ashes

Home > Other > 10,000 Miles with My Dead Father's Ashes > Page 8
10,000 Miles with My Dead Father's Ashes Page 8

by Devin Galaudet


  I was ashamed of my behavior but held on to the distant sense that I was learning to be just like Dad. The secrecy I cultivated created a push-pull, love-hate relationship with him. I kept the same distance from my own friends for fear of getting caught and perhaps honing my skills for seclusion. It all felt normal.

  While I avoided Dad, I no longer had the same fear of him. I learned to talk around questions, helped him when he wanted, and appeared busy the rest of the time. And I was busy. Dishonesty is a full-time job. I had too much invested in hiding my noble quest for glossy women and altered states to pay attention to anything else. It was a lifestyle that would work its way into most everything I did for the next fifteen years.

  Around the same time, another important thing happened: my parents’ wise investment made money. That entire time Dad had spent fixing, painting, scraping, and scrubbing began to pay off. We, as a family, were no longer constantly broke.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Dad said with a wry grin as he pulled out a crumpled ten and handed it to me.

  “I dunno,” I said. “Go out and do something. I guess.”

  Then he would clap me on the back as I wandered away.

  I think his generosity gave him great pleasure and pride, knowing he didn’t have to scramble for rent. Dad was now able to throw his son a few bucks here and there.

  And I needed more dough for gas and pills.

  She left her blue VW bug parked diagonally against the curb with the car door open and the lights on. It was our moment. She and I climbed through the back doors into my inherited Chevy van, which had uncomfortable, thick shag carpeting throughout and mock-wood paneling on the sides. I had hidden three-quarters of a mayonnaise jar’s worth of Southern Comfort and a pack of Djarum clove cigarettes in my mobile lair. I frequently kept a stash of bad weed and Valiums around, too. For some reason, the alcohol felt so much more acceptable than the pills, which were a private, anytime oasis. I was in high school and considered myself a romantic. The van was equipped with a stove and refrigerator. Neither worked, but I kept a couple of lavender-scented votive candles and a handful of strike-anywhere matches in the refrigerator for mood lighting. These were never used.

  I closed the doors to leave the quiet street behind us.

  She had long, dark hair and light eyes and wore a jean jacket and tucked her pants into her boots. I unscrewed the mayonnaise jar. She took small sips. I took large ones. The booze was warm and curdling from being buried in a flap of heavy shag, or from mixing with Miracle Whip residue. The scent of lasting love hung heavy in the air, and her kisses tasted like receptive panic. We unbuttoned, unzipped, and un-elasticized each other in the darkness of my rolling fantasy suite.

  As sweet nothings were exchanged I saw my mother’s distorted face in the bubble window on the side of the van. Then she banged on the sliding side door of the van. Thud, thud, thud. “Devin, are you in there? Your father wants to speak to you this instant!”

  I waited for a moment in confusion before I said, “I’m busy.” My female party guest looked at me like, “It’s time to stop now.” While I understood the logic, I did not stop. In the weight of the moment, I felt my face heat up from embarrassment and I became uncomfortably self-aware, but I would be damned if I stopped. I had to save face with my muse squirming beneath me.

  Mom moved away from the bubbled window and said, “Your father is waiting.”

  “Yeah, I really don’t care right now. I will come up shortly.” I felt increasingly sick and horrified.

  “Your father…” Mom started to continue.

  I interrupted and said, “Would you get the hell out of here?”

  With that, Mom left; at least I hoped she left. I made a particular point not to look toward the bubble window in the back of the van. I felt better when I heard her slippers slide against the concrete and become more distant as she shuffled away. I took a few extra minutes with my lady friend and bid a fond adieu to romance. I watched her blue bug pull away into the darkness.

  When I got upstairs, Mom stood in a floral print nightgown with her arms folded across her chest. Dad stared at the floor in his boxers, smoking a cigarette, sitting at the dining room table. Both looked weary, their hair flung in contorted sleep positions.

  I reeked of clove cigarettes and soured Southern Comfort. I was annoyed that my sex life had been temporarily derailed, but I prepared to be grilled and busted in a multitude of ways and was not up for all the lying.

  “Your father is so angry with you. You kept him up all night,” Mom said. She waved her hand to express herself. “Do you know what it looked like from up here? It looked like terrorists had taken you. Couldn’t she park a fucking car, that slut? Who is she, that slut?” Mom looked at Dad. Dad did not look up from the floor. Instead he took a slow, cool drag, never raising his head, and let the smoke envelop his face. “Your father was very nervous. He was waiting for the police to come.” She clamored on and on. I lost track of what she was saying. I was red in the face and found myself rocking back and forth, embarrassed but angry, squeezing my lips together, afraid of what I would say. While it was completely my fault, I felt indignant.

  Dad interrupted and said, “Enough already.” He raised his head and looked at Mom. “It’s time for you to go.” His face drooped from age and exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, his big belly jutted out. “I need to talk to my son.”

  Mom folded her arms across her chest again. “Okay, go on,” she said.

  “I will, without you. Now go to sleep.”

  Mom hesitated and slowly turned around and left the room.

  Dad held up his index finger as if to say “hold on a minute” and waited for the bedroom door to open and close. Then he turned his ear toward the hallway and waited to listen for any stirrings. While Dad waited, I wondered how I should approach this. Whatever it was going to be would have nothing to do with the truth. I stank of cheap booze, cigarettes, and lady musk. While this was not new, it was the first time I had been caught, and in such a stupid way.

  Dad said in a low, quiet voice, “So listen, wait!” Then he held up an index finger and listened intently for Mom. When he was certain, he stood up and slammed his foot down on the floor with a bang that reverberated through the house. He yelled, “You will never speak that way to me or your mother again. Do you fucking understand me?” Then he waited with his index finger up.

  Confused, I started, “But I haven’t said…”

  Dad continued, “You don’t fucking get it. There are rules in this fucking house.” Then he paused again with a finger up, rigid in the air.

  Still confused. “Okay, Dad…”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Dad stomped on the floor loudly and waited. Then, “I don’t give a shit. Give me your car keys.” And waited. I reached into my pocket and started to pull them out with a jangle.

  Annoyed, he looked at me as if to say, “put those away,” and bellowed, “Not another word!” Then he sat down and smashed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He pulled out another from a green pack and lit it. He exhaled fully, sank into the upholstered chair, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Okay, we are going to have to come up with a plan B. While you’re grounded, you’re going to find a new study partner. Let’s call him Jeremy. He’ll need some help with homework from you. Math. You’re good at math.”

  For me, the picture was coming into view. I was not going to have to lie about anything. I was not going to have to explain anything. A small nugget of relief grew inside of me. I was going to be allowed my independence. I would keep my car and now had a reason to get out of everything. My body convulsed as anxiety turned into giddy relief. The chill stayed in my bones for another half an hour, and I would shudder every few minutes.

  Dad leaned in and softly said, “Go live your life, but be careful.” Then he leaned back in his chair and took another deep breath, as if distracted by s
omething. “For fuck’s sake, your mother sure talks a lot.” He took another drag from his cigarette and snapped back into the moment. “Okay, apologize first thing. Tell her how really rotten I am, and then make plans with Jeremy,” he said. “And would you wash your fucking hands?”

  For me the clouds parted. I discovered that with a little planning and dishonesty, I could please everyone. It was an idea that I understood through osmosis, but Dad’s coaching gave me a warm glow.

  In the morning, I apologized to Mom with my chin held high. I felt the best connection to Dad I had felt in ages. For a moment, I was one of the boys. It was a good feeling, which would not last long.

  During my apology, Mom interrupted and called me a Nazi with her arms folded across her chest and her long hair in a disorganized mass on top of her head. The use of “Nazi” was Mom’s most loathsome of critiques, which almost made me sing. She was still fuming at my disrespect, and it was all I could do not to grin. I had been given the go-ahead to manipulate the world. I told her about math tutoring and I waited to see if she would buy it or ask any questions.

  It was then I understood Dad was never mad at me, really. He expressed anger on my behalf. When I was scared or crying, he showed anger. Not at me, but for me. When I could not stand up for myself, his anger did. He showed me what men did. I think I learned to understand him more. Of course, this took years to piece together. He got mad at the situation, maybe the injustice. He was still the one who gave me long hugs and would pull me into to a tight squeeze while the two of us lay in bed to watch a game. He was the one who loved me or showed tenderness, but this soon waned.

  It was not that he was less loving, he became more detached. I had too. My drinking and using was in full swing, and Vegas comped cigarettes and beer.

  I had become good at waiting. I knew how to grind out a win over time, not only with poker but with life—or so I thought. I was able to sneak through the window of opportunity and grab what I could and sneak back out before it slid shut. It felt like a spiritual transcendence as I became more like Dad.

  ✴✴✴

  When I was a teenager, Dad began to drink less often but with more ferocity, or maybe I learned to recognize the stumbling and slurred speech more easily. His eyes were glassy, his breath pungent. He came home with clenched fists and a mouth full of provocation. The conversations, regardless of how innocently they started, became arguments.

  Growing up, I swore that I would never drink or smoke. I had already seen enough to know better. At the same time, when I was twelve, I stole two packs of Dad’s Salem regulars and two cans of Budweiser on a crowded Thanksgiving and snuck around to our smallish yard that Dad had taught me to fight in. It was sort of a no-man’s-land. No one ever went back there. I smoked and drank like I was in a race—until I barfed into the ivy. My first thought was that I was not doing it right.

  Within a couple of years, I had become quite proficient at stocking, hiding, and obtaining what I wanted. I had to put distance between myself and those of the living world. There was always a homeless guy or liquor store that would not care how old I was for booze and cigarettes. I found most of the pills in the medicine cabinets of the parents of my friends. It was the eighties, and most adults I knew had a decent supply of Valium and Vicodin on hand. Luckier days produced Quaaludes or Seconal. My parents also kept a fair number of downers in the medicine cabinets. Sometimes a few stray painkillers laid on the coffee table or on the top of my parents’ dresser in their bedroom, or a lone, sticky pill could be found at the bottom of my mother’s purse, tacked to an unwrapped piece of gum. I also discovered hash and pot—treats that usually required additional planning.

  It was a time when my whole face throbbed from red, puss-filled zits—a justification to hide out in its own right. I normally locked myself in my room when I was home and high. The room was a mess, but cozy, so I could lightly play guitar to myself while I reclined on my bed.

  Dad banged on the door before opening it. He stuck his head tightly between the door and the doorjamb as he opened it a crack. His face was puckered with a cigarette between his lips, his eyes were wide, swimming, and red. Without removing the cigarette, he joked, “Your father wants to have a serious conversation with you,” his native Chicago accent overly pronounced from daytime drinking. Under normal circumstances, I could temporarily talk my way out of the dialogue and then deal with the consequences later. I would say something like, “I am going to sleep and then I have some homework.” Or “I will be out in a minute,” followed by “I love you,” and within a few minutes he would just forget about it.

  I said, “I have work to do and I twisted my ankle. I have to keep it off the ground. I also think I ate some bad fish sticks at lunch. I don’t feel so good.”

  Dad just stood there. “Who are you shitting?” he said. “I am not leaving until you get your ass up and talk to your father.” He jutted his lower lip, pushing the cigarette straight up and against his nose. Smoke drifted into his eyes and he narrowed them at me. I could see the playful glow in his eyes turn salty. “I guess your father is just going to stand here and wait for his son to talk to his father,” he said.

  Knowing I had little choice, I slid the guitar off of my chest and slowly stretched. I let out an audible grunt intended to let him know that I was producing great effort to deal with him. I thought about how high I was. How obvious was it? How high was he? How oblivious was my being high to someone as high as he was? Then I started thinking about eating a sandwich. It did not matter what kind. I also wanted marshmallows. I knew there was nothing in the kitchen, but I thought I would go look anyway. I sat myself up and wobbled toward my bedroom door. There was Dad’s face, still smoking in the crack in the door. How did he get there? I had taken a couple Valium after eating a pot brownie. I had no idea how long I’d been standing there looking at him. I decided to play it cool and pulled the door open and walked passed him down the hall.

  He followed me.

  “So what do you want?” I said as I walked into the dining room.

  “Who the fuck are you copping an attitude with?”

  I turned to face him as we hit the dining room. I was sick of him. He was a bully I was tired of having to avoid. I wanted marshmallows, and not to be followed from room to room. I put my hands on my hips and took a deep breath. “What?” I said, avoiding eye contact because I did not know what state my pupils were in.

  As I stood there, I noticed I was looking down at Dad. Not metaphorically, but literally. I was hitting a long-awaited high school growth spurt and he was shrinking. He was still much wider, thicker, and stronger, but I had convinced myself over the next few quiet seconds that my new height advantage, about an inch, was now significant. I also noticed that my arms were longer than his. I had the reach. I had stoned-man’s advantage. I did not stop to consider that I knew nothing about boxing or wrestling, and everything I knew about street fighting I learned from him and he fought really dirty. I also did not take into account that I now had a couple of Valiums coursing through my veins and marijuana in my stomach. It did not matter. That moment, in my mind, was seminal. It was a time for me to stand up to the old man and gain some self-respect. A mythological time when the son becomes the top dog and the father goes out to pasture and learns his place—I no longer wore pantaloons and a macramé sweater vest.

  I leaned forward and lunged at him, pushing him back into the wall and knocking a large painting in the dining room askew. For a nanosecond, I felt a physical surge. I felt powerful as I pinned Dad against the wall, but the moment did not last. He laughed in my face. It was a noxious blast that stunk of salami, American cheese, and cigarettes. My brief confidence left me. I suppose I had time to apologize, but my ego was not ready to give up. I tried to press his arms down to control him. Dad had construction worker strength. He lifted his arm and I went with it. He spun me around several times, pushing and slapping me around some, although nothing would be
bruised except my pride.

  All the flailing and flexing of my baby-girl arms were for naught. Everything failed, and with every worthless move, I felt more belittled and humiliated. The only thing that worked was triggering Dad’s funny bone, as he kept on laughing. I felt myself go crimson. He did not say anything to break the tension, which made me only try harder. I tried pushing him to the wall again. He only pushed back.

  We wrestled around for a bit, Dad laughing the whole time. He was laughing at me and I hated him. He pushed me back harder and dropped his left and threw back his head to laugh and spew his putrid breath at me again. He said, “This must be the bad fish sticks.”

  I was done. With his hand down, I threw the punch I had always dreamed of throwing. It started around my shoelaces and made a wide loop toward his chin. I wanted respect from him.

  I think every son goes through this at one point or another. It is a place where the child becomes a man by overcoming obstacles and stacking a claim of respect after maneuvering past the trials and tribulations and fifty other clichés. All of those dishonors all rolled into the same tightly clenched fist tensioned through my chest and shoulder and sprung toward his face. I felt the burning in my eyes and the fear of what would happen after I connected with his jaw, but I did not care. I had been practicing a punch like this since Dad took me out into the backyard when I was seven. Now the same knowledge he used to educate me turned against him. He was off balance, crude, and drunk. He needed to get cracked. Things happened in slow motion when I threw that punch at my father. I would think of it as a marked occasion in my development as a person, a time to celebrate.

  Dad’s reaction, however, was not as I had hoped. His dropped left hand came back up. His stumbling posture righted itself and my fist hit his well-calloused hand and stopped it. With his other hand, he snapped off a punch that traveled three inches and hit me dead center in the chest with a hollow thump. The oxygen left my body all at once as I crumpled and somersaulted backward, landing under the dining room table.

 

‹ Prev