Each of us held our breath for what seemed like minutes as Brandon’s body was hurled to the ground. Sensing that an outstretched arm attempting to catch his fall would be a set up for a broken wrist or worse, he pulled his right arm into his side and prepared to land on his right shoulder. I would love to have video footage of this beautiful catastrophe, including the looks on our faces as we watched him come crashing down to the grass covered ground that just happened to be riddled with pile after colossal pile of dog shit. Even now, I feel myself wincing as I recall these images.
After striking the ground with his right shoulder, Brandon allowed his body to roll in order to absorb the energy of the collision and bleed off the momentum that kept his body moving forward. As any running back who has just been dropped by a brilliant one arm tackle knows, a rolling stop is better than a skidding stop. Likewise, in this situation, Brandon’s body knew that skidding across the turf was much more likely to abrade his skin. Furthermore, he instinctively knew that a sharp surface among the soft blades of grass such as a stone or small stick was much more likely to impale or lacerate him if he slid, rather than rolled, across the ground. And so, as he came slowly to rest, all of his body surfaces had ample opportunity to come into contact with a large swath of terra firma. Although this colossal wipe out resulted in no physical harm to his body, the precise location at which it occurred ensured that neither Brandon nor any of those present would ever forget what had gone down on that blessed spring day in the park.
Unfortunately, we would also never forget Brandon’s reaction to the fiasco. His body had come to rest with him on his back. He lay there for several seconds and flopped his arms out to his sides and yelled, “Holy shit!”
Ryan ran toward him calling out, “Honey, are you okay?”
The chick with the dachshund had, at this point, reigned in her miniature hound and was reading it the proverbial riot act by saying things like, “Piper is a bad, bad puppy! You could have hurt that man. Piper needs to stay with Mommy! You are naughty, Piper!”
Piper didn’t seem to be remorseful or regretful of his behavior, even though he’d gotten kicked in the process. Although his Mommy had retracted the leash all of the way and he was now restricted to a three-foot radius with her at the center, he kept straining at the leash and eyeballing Charlie. You could even still hear a low growl emanating from him as if he was saying, “This ain't over yet, you big brown dumbass. Not by a long shot!”
The chick kept walking in order to escape the scene of the crime as soon as possible. She looked at Brandon and said, “Sir, I’m so, so sorry! I hope you’re okay. Piper can be a real brat sometimes. Sorry again!” She’d put a little distance between the groups now and I heard her say to her friends, “I am, like, so embarrassed! OMG. Piper, you are in big trouble!”
Somehow, I didn’t think the little fucker was going to be in much trouble. I also didn’t think this was the first time the little four-legged turd had fucked with other dogs and their owners. He was a menace, but I had to give him chops for selecting a worthy victim on this day.
As I watched this idiotic lady of leisure and her troublemaking pooch flee the scene, I suddenly heard shouting. “Oh, what the fuck? Goddammit! I’ve got dog shit all over me. Fuck!”
Apparently, Brandon had discovered what made this part of the park the absolute worst place to have a wipe out. I was starting to smirk, but the comedic aspect of the situation quickly evaporated as Brandon continued on with his tirade.
“Just get away from me,” he shouted at Ryan as she approached him with a concerned look on her face.
She initially recoiled, but she couldn’t suppress her impulse to want to help him. With a soothing lilt to her voice, she said, “Hey, it’s okay, Brandon. I know it’s gross, but let’s just go home and get you cleaned up. Are you hurt?”
He sat up and placed his elbows on his knees. His head was hanging down in front of him. He slowly looked up and made eye contact with Ryan, then started growling at her, “I’m not fucking hurt and I don’t need your help, so just back the fuck off! I am not a child and you are certainly not my fucking mother.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone,” she said, as she turned and walked to the trail leading out of the park. We could all see that her eyes were extra shiny due to the tears that were starting to spring from them, and we heard her voice break as she replied to him. Immediately, I was once again feeling the rage build inside that comes only from having someone mistreat your child. Something else was bothering me as well. I was extremely disappointed with Ryan’s response to Brandon’s verbal abuse. It was much too similar to my mother’s reactions to her abusive husband. It was almost as if she, like my mother, had accepted the fact that she would be the object of her mate’s disrespectful and disparaging outbursts. It seemed that her emotional investment in her relationship was so great that she was completely willing to take the bad with the good. This did not bode well for her long-term happiness and self-esteem.
The rest of us began to follow Ryan’s lead and exited the scene. I guess we all figured that the fun was over, and it was best to let Brandon cool off. At that moment, I was entirely conflicted about the fact that this asshole had just lashed out at my daughter right in front of me and the rest of her family and I was expected to just walk away. I struggled to resist the impulse to read him the riot act for cursing at Ryan and hurting her feelings. After a few moments, during which I fantasized about stringing Brandon up by his ball sack, my better judgement won out and I decided to follow my family back to the house without saying a word to the shit-covered jackass.
By the time we entered the short path through the woods, Charlie had approached his master, who was still sitting on the ground brooding. He sensed that Brandon was upset and approached him slowly. His whimpering caught my attention and I turned to look. We had rounded a curve in the path, so I had to find a small window in the vegetation that made up the dense foliage through which the trail led. I could see Brandon, but he could no longer see me or the rest of the family.
I saw him looking at his dog, who was slowly moving toward him with his nose extended and ears back as if he wanted to ask, “Hey, master. Are you alright? What the hell just happened, anyway? Did I do something wrong?”
The look on Brandon’s face, with his clamped jaws and the downturned corners of his mouth, made it clear to me that his emotions were boiling within him. As a growing boy, I’d seen this look on my own father’s face many times as his violent temper built up what seemed to be a head of steam, the pressure of which growing with each sequential breath he took. In my mind I was transported back to a time when I looked on as my father’s muscles tensed and his fists clenched as he subconsciously contemplated how to release his emotional steam. Of course, the only way he could process his boiling emotions was through an explosive act of violence. Without projecting his frustrations on his family and then punishing us for whatever had upset him in the first place, he completely lacked the ability to bring his emotions back into equilibrium. More often than not, my mother was the victim of his violent depressurization. I could still visualize the knowing look on her face as she prepared to experience his abusive tantrum. In these moments, she always searched the room with her eyes and located me and my younger sister. Taking care to act casual in order to prevent upsetting us, she would tell us to go on and head to our rooms, where we could start working on some task she assigned us. We knew that she was just providing us an exit strategy so we wouldn’t be collateral damage when my father’s internal boiler reached maximum pressure and exploded.
My consciousness was pulled back to the present moment as Brandon erupted in his own fit of violence. I knew that poor Charlie, who was just trying to soothe his master with a reassuring sniff or nuzzle, would provide the outlet he needed to blow off the built-up emotional pressure within him. Charlie was a quick, athletic animal, but his reflexes were not quick enough to respond to the balled-up fist that shot out at the end of Brandon’s right
arm. The right hook landed squarely on the left side of Charlie’s head, knocking him off balance. He let out a loud whelp as he received the blow. Although he understood that Brandon was losing his temper, he dutifully resisted the impulse to dart away in order to put distance between himself and his master. Instead, he crouched down with his tail between his legs and his ears submissively laid back. He whimpered as he looked up at Brandon, who had sprung up to his feet. Brandon looked around frantically, trying to determine if anyone was witnessing his embarrassment or his temper tantrum. He seemed to be looking for someone or something to focus his rage on. I heard him mumbling to himself and caught a few ‘motherfucking dog’ and ‘piece of fucking shit’ comments among his other imperceptible utterings.
As he looked down at Charlie, who was still crouching and watching the man who he loyally served and always gave unconditional love. I was literally sickened when in the next moment Brandon spat out, “Fucking dogs!” as he stepped forward and kicked his innocent pup in the ribs. “Let’s go, goddammit! I’ve gotta get changed,” he said, as he turned toward the trail leading home.
Charlie followed behind him, although he had a look of pitiful apprehension on his poor doggy face. His ears were still pulled back and his tail was still tucked under. He was whimpering intermittently as he considered the maltreatment he had just received at his master’s hand, but he didn’t miss a step as they negotiated the tunnel through the dense foliage which had been hacked clear in order to create a passageway to the cul-de-sac. As Brandon rounded the curve in the trail which had allowed me to conceal myself as I witnessed his behavior, he noticed me standing in the middle of the path. I’m sure I had a disgusted look on my face when his eyes met mine, because he stopped walking and said, “What’s your problem? I’m the one covered in dog shit.”
All that immediately came to mind in that moment was the response, “You’re an asshole, Brandon. Get yourself cleaned up and get the fuck out of my house.” He stood there with his mouth open as if he couldn’t believe he had been spoken to in such a way, so I said, “Go!”
He gritted his teeth as if he was stifling some type of retort, then he looked down at the ground and marched past me, bumping my right shoulder with his own as he passed. I shook my head from side to side and reminded myself that this was how pussies made themselves think that they’d instigated a physical altercation that the other party didn’t have the balls to respond to. I fantasized for a brief moment about turning around, tapping him on the shoulder, and then decking him with a right cross as he turned to face me. My better judgement won out, however, so I let him pass me and travel beyond striking distance, at which point it was no longer an option to easily lay him out.
As Charlie approached me, I squatted down and patted him on the head. “You’re a good boy, Charlie,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault that your papa is a douche bag.” He stopped whimpering and licked my chin as I turned and laid eyes on his black-hearted owner to make sure that he didn’t respond unfavorably to my assessment.
“Charlie, let’s get a fucking move on! Let’s go! Heel!” Brandon barked out from further down the trail. Once again, the faithful pooch fell back into step behind his master.
I didn’t want to see Brandon’s face again that day and I certainly didn’t want to smell the poop smeared jogging suit he was wearing, so I decided to return to the park where I could go for another short walk while I processed what I had just seen. I have always been a total dog lover and would have been upset to see anyone treat their pet with such viciousness and cruelty. The idea that bothered me more, however, was what Brandon’s malevolent behavior toward his dog had told me about his true nature. This was a man who dealt with difficult emotions such as embarrassment and shame by delivering pain and misery on others. The display of poor sportsmanship leading to his emotional outburst in the pool that day and his cruel treatment of his innocent pet were not going to be isolated events. This was someone who, when emotionally stressed or upset, would lash out at those closest to him to quell his own emotional turmoil. As is true in most situations involving domestic violence, the most convenient recipients of Brandon’s violent reactions would be his future wife, and someday, his kids. This guy was a ticking time bomb and it was easy to predict that he would willingly and repeatedly choose to inflict pain and humiliation on others in order to distract himself from his self-perceived suffering. Today I had become painfully aware that Brandon had all the makings of a wife beater, and my sweet daughter was going to be his wife. What had also become clear to me was that this bullshit was unacceptable, and it was going to be up to me to keep Ryan from making the worst decision of her life.
Chapter 21
My worst fear had come to fruition. My sweet and level-headed daughter had made a disastrous decision regarding her life mate. It was the evening of their rehearsal dinner. Ryan was actually getting married the next day. As the girls finished getting ready, I sat in my big, brown leather chair in the parlor, which was down the hallway and around the corner from the main living area of the house. It was a place within the house where I could be alone—oftentimes to read or listen to music while my kids watched an episode of The Office, Friends, or some other vintage sitcom on Netflix. My children seemed to always gravitate back to these shows that they had seen a hundred times each when they wanted to veg out. Many of these shows were funny—some even hilarious—the first few times I’d seen them. Once we had reached the point that the kids could quote half of Michael Scott’s, Dwight’s, or Chandler’s lines, however, the entertainment value had been depleted for me. I couldn’t keep my own living room from being hijacked by the sitcom zombies who looked just like my offspring most of the time, so I often just said ‘fuck it’ and took off to my own corner of the house.
I was leaning back in my comfy chair with my feet up on the matching ottoman, literally beside myself as if my consciousness had sublimated out of my physical body. I imagined I was floating in the air above my pool table, looking critically at the pitiful creature lounging in the brown leather chair in the corner. There sits a man who let his daughter fall in love with and commit to marrying a total asshole. As I critically examined myself, I was forced to acknowledge that my once-healthy family would never recover from the contagion with which it had become infected. It was as if we were in the initial stages of a disease caused by a virulent organism named Brandonococcus, which had been carried into the household my oldest daughter. Initially, only I had shown signs of illness, but now each of my family members were suffering from the ill effects created by the pernicious pathogen.
How many times had I, as a good parent, made my kids wash their hands after making contact with people and objects that may be contaminated by a virus or another type of harmful microorganism? This insistence on personal hygiene was not solely intended to protect that particular child. It was a protective measure for the entire family which would prevent an infectious organism from taking root in one child, and then using that individual as a vector to contaminate the rest of the household members. We had successfully prevented many individual and family illnesses in this way. How could we have failed to see that the most virulent entity Ryan had been exposed to was, in fact, her future husband? Based on the characteristics of this particular pathogen that I had witnessed so far, I truly feared for the emotional health and overall potential for happiness of my daughter, and I wondered what other manifestations of this disease were yet to occur.
As I sat there in my chair drinking my Goose Island IPA and staring at the lustrous, brown paneling of my entertainment center across the room from me, I reminisced about the many times that Brandon had offended me. What bothered me more than the idea that I’d been offended by his behavior was the knowledge that Ryan, who usually had a good head on her shoulders and had always been quick to defend her family, as well as herself, was not. Even when he was aggressively rude to her or one of us, she seemed to excuse him and would often attribute his words or action
s to a misunderstanding or a temporary lapse in his otherwise impeccable behavior. She would often suggest that his misconduct had been brought on by fatigue or undue stress that he was dealing with in his professional life. She also failed to recognize the extreme jealousy and possessiveness that Mandy and I, along with Lizzie and Emma, had witnessed and had tried to point out to her. Somehow, Brandon had, for the most part, pulled the proverbial wool over Ryan’s eyes. Although we knew that she did not believe her fiancé to be perfect, she obviously felt that he was close enough to perfect to be worthy of her love and companionship for the rest of her life.
Probably because we never would have initially guessed that Ryan would develop legitimate feelings for the horse’s ass, the relationship seemed to have developed overnight. Actually, though, it had been about sixteen months since Brandon had first shown up for the ill-fated Sunday dinner. During this time period, we had spent a lot of time with him and Ryan, mostly during family occasions. We have always been an active family, and Brandon, along with Lizzie’s procession of boyfriends, was always invited to participate in the swimming, frisbee tossing, and game night activities, as well as the countless occasions when we passed the time together sharing a meal or just hanging out. He didn’t always choose to engage the rest of the family during these gatherings, but he did so often enough that there had been ample opportunity to observe him and develop an opinion of what type of guy he was. The more we grew to know him, the more obvious it was to us that he was wrong for our daughter and not worthy of her attention, much less her love. Unfortunately for all of us, Ryan had formed the opposite opinion was now standing at the precipice of a life devoted to him.
Fatal Flaws Page 14