Chapter 6 - From the Novel "Momentous"
How we remember our relationships with others has more to do with the quality of time we spend with them, then the amount of time, or the lack thereof. She never listens to me, so I keep my mouth shut. How we feel in the time we spend with the ones who love us, has lasting impressions on how we navigate the world beyond childhood. She always smiled so big when I spoke, so I could never stop talking.
Sometimes those feelings are artificial in nature. How someone presents themselves to others often wears their myriad masks, painted on thick, to cover the true nature of their intent. The same baby talk our grandmothers gave us on Christmas when they were piss drunk. Or how our parents would scream at us if we walked too close to the train tracks. We more often than not take our experience with others at face value, unaware of what purpose they serve, and whether they are there to help us or hurt us.
After the divorce, my father was rarely around. When he was, it was more often than not to pick up Bryan. “Come on Michael, he’s been waiting for you all day,� my mother would rise in my defense. “Sorry, I can only take one today,� was his reply. I watched through the living room window, as Bryan waved from the car, and the tears rolled down my face. It wasn’t fair.
What I would come to understand years later, is that our old man had quite the gambling addiction. He would leave Bryan in the casino parking lot for hours on end, while he spent his time inside, shaving zero’s from his paycheck. At least he had the courtesy of leaving the window cracked.
Although rare and a few times between, there were times that I did spend with my father. Those times were the most memorable. He would call my mother, talking of whatever odd job he landed and how things were looking up, and let her know he would be over to come get us. When mom announced that he was on his way, I would rush over to the living room window and wait for him. And wait for him. And wait for him.
But he never came.
“Sorry. Something happened with the car, and I got a call from work…� I could hear him over the phone with my mother fuming on the other end. Whatever the excuse it was, it happened often.
Be that as it may, there were times he did come, and when he did, boy was it great. We laughed, we sang songs to the radio, we played outside, and had the greatest time. Rarely ever did our father spend money on us. “We don’t need money when we have each other,� he would say. Little did we know, he didn’t have any.
I have to admit, the old man was quite the creative cat in the ways he could spend time with us. Countless hours without having to spend a dime. He often would bring stale bread from his apartment with him when he came to pick us up. Every time I would get into his car, if there was stale bread in the back, I knew exactly what we were going to be doing that day. We were going to feed the ducks.
My father was a heavy smoker. He had no shame in the fact. He chain smoked. One after the other. For our consideration however, when he did light up, he would often hang his left arm and head out the window of his car. Driving us to the duck feeding grounds, a small pond off the highway interstate, there was no exception. He would enter the park, step out of the car, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and let the butt drop from his lips, down to the ground, before stomping it out with the heel of his second hand worn leather cowboy boots.
He made smoking look so cool.
These times at the pond worked as therapy for our father. It was a place of peace for him. He seldom spoke to me of the struggles he faced, and would regularly blanket them with his relentless humor. One of the many bad habits I picked up from him as I grew.
To whichever life stresses we were oblivious to before, at the pond he opened up. None of the things he talked about made too much sense to me though. Adult troubles that came out in mumbles under his thick tobacco stained mustache.
I didn’t need to understand any of it. It didn’t matter to me. What mattered is that for a few precious minutes, he removed his mask of fatherhood, put down his guard, and was vulnerable. I felt like he could depend on me. In a way, in these moments I was more there for him, then he could ever be there for me.
Apart from feeding the ducks, there were many other free admission ventures our father would take us on. Like visiting relatives, washing his car, or a relaxing afternoon drinking lemonade at the alcoholic anonymous cafe while our father attended a meeting. Out of every one of them, and there were many, one of the most memorable was a little thing we liked to call, dumpster diving.
For those unfamiliar with dumpster diving, let me explain. To put it simply, it means to dive, usually head first, into a dumpster, or trash bin. Unlike the more common and practical uses for diving, the goal for dumpster diving was to unearth unwanted treasures and objects of value that people threw away. How one determines the value of something is really up to the eye of the beholder.
Our father pulled in front of our house with his rusty red geo prism. “Shotgun!� We would all shout the moment we spotted his car. “The oldest up front,� he would reason. This meant Ben took the front seat, Bryan and I took the back.
Off we went, watching through the crack in the windshield, classic rock on the radio, and dad’s arm dangling from the window. A mix of moods mingled in the car. Ben’s teenage brain and body, flooded with hormones. Bryan, calm but hungry. As for me, I couldn’t sit still. We were going treasure hunting, and I was going to score big today.
There were many locations for big garbage bins that would more likely have the riches we were looking for. In the back of outlet malls, donation centers, or apartment complexes. Our father drove like a snail as he slipped the car into the back alley, eyes squinted, twisting his mustache, like some kind of special agent detective.
“There. Go!� he shouted, pointing at one of the bins. We all ran out of the car hooting and hollering, as Ben pushed hard to lift open the large black plastic lid of the dumpster, before we all took turns jumping inside. We rummaged through the mess, pulling out random objects to present to our father looking on from inside the car. Grabbing onto a long wooden stick, I pulled out a used, but still in great shape, floor mop. “Throw it back,� dad called out. Ben presented what appeared to be some sort of kitchen appliance. “Already got one,� he yelled. Bryan plugged his nose and we all laughed as he held up a rotten banana peel. “Nope. Let’s try the next one.�
“Shotgun!� we all yelled, knowing full well who got to sit up front. We all piled back into the car, rode down to the next dumpster, and repeated the process. “How about this?� Ben showed an old and cracked black synthetic belt strap. Grabbing it from him, he removed his old belt and tried it on. “Too big,� dad said, before handing it back. Bryan brought out a small baseball cap. “This looks nice,� he smiled. Our father examined it, holding it up to the light, bending the front bill as to test its integrity. “I think we have a keeper,� he proclaimed, before placing the hat on top of Bryan’s head. “You lucky son of a bitch,� both Ben and I thought, as we jumped from the trash can, and back into the car.
We drove down a few more blocks, something seventies blaring from the car stereo, when it happened. “Jackpot!� Dad called out, hitting the brakes. Pushing the weighty lid of the dumpster onto the back side of the store’s brick building, in all its glory, lay a lightly used, red and white checkered loveseat. Our mouths hung open in awe as we all worked together to remove it. We then laid it flat next to the car, as our father crouched down, and examined all sides of it, before single handedly hoisting it on the roof of his compact two door sedan.
We rode the rest of the way home proud as can be. An afternoon well spent. We unloaded our treasure at his apartment, helping him lift it up the staircase and into his living room. We then each took turns lounging on it, arms crossed behind our heads, with the looks of achievement on our faces.
A month later, on my ninth birthday, I received a plastic figurine of the Wizard of Oz’s scarecrow from my father. To get anything from him was a joy for me. It was the only gift he ever gave me that I’ve still held onto. And to this day, it still carries the very faint smell of banana peel.
Sometimes those feelings are artificial in nature. How someone presents themselves to others often wears their myriad masks, painted on thick, to cover the true nature of their intent. The same baby talk our grandmothers gave us on Christmas when they were piss drunk. Or how our parents would scream at us if we walked too close to the train tracks. We more often than not take our experience with others at face value, unaware of what purpose they serve, and whether they are there to help us or hurt us.
After the divorce, my father was rarely around. When he was, it was more often than not to pick up Bryan. “Come on Michael, he’s been waiting for you all day,� my mother would rise in my defense. “Sorry, I can only take one today,� was his reply. I watched through the living room window, as Bryan waved from the car, and the tears rolled down my face. It wasn’t fair.
What I would come to understand years later, is that our old man had quite the gambling addiction. He would leave Bryan in the casino parking lot for hours on end, while he spent his time inside, shaving zero’s from his paycheck. At least he had the courtesy of leaving the window cracked.
Although rare and a few times between, there were times that I did spend with my father. Those times were the most memorable. He would call my mother, talking of whatever odd job he landed and how things were looking up, and let her know he would be over to come get us. When mom announced that he was on his way, I would rush over to the living room window and wait for him. And wait for him. And wait for him.
But he never came.
“Sorry. Something happened with the car, and I got a call from work…� I could hear him over the phone with my mother fuming on the other end. Whatever the excuse it was, it happened often.
Be that as it may, there were times he did come, and when he did, boy was it great. We laughed, we sang songs to the radio, we played outside, and had the greatest time. Rarely ever did our father spend money on us. “We don’t need money when we have each other,� he would say. Little did we know, he didn’t have any.
I have to admit, the old man was quite the creative cat in the ways he could spend time with us. Countless hours without having to spend a dime. He often would bring stale bread from his apartment with him when he came to pick us up. Every time I would get into his car, if there was stale bread in the back, I knew exactly what we were going to be doing that day. We were going to feed the ducks.
My father was a heavy smoker. He had no shame in the fact. He chain smoked. One after the other. For our consideration however, when he did light up, he would often hang his left arm and head out the window of his car. Driving us to the duck feeding grounds, a small pond off the highway interstate, there was no exception. He would enter the park, step out of the car, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and let the butt drop from his lips, down to the ground, before stomping it out with the heel of his second hand worn leather cowboy boots.
He made smoking look so cool.
These times at the pond worked as therapy for our father. It was a place of peace for him. He seldom spoke to me of the struggles he faced, and would regularly blanket them with his relentless humor. One of the many bad habits I picked up from him as I grew.
To whichever life stresses we were oblivious to before, at the pond he opened up. None of the things he talked about made too much sense to me though. Adult troubles that came out in mumbles under his thick tobacco stained mustache.
I didn’t need to understand any of it. It didn’t matter to me. What mattered is that for a few precious minutes, he removed his mask of fatherhood, put down his guard, and was vulnerable. I felt like he could depend on me. In a way, in these moments I was more there for him, then he could ever be there for me.
Apart from feeding the ducks, there were many other free admission ventures our father would take us on. Like visiting relatives, washing his car, or a relaxing afternoon drinking lemonade at the alcoholic anonymous cafe while our father attended a meeting. Out of every one of them, and there were many, one of the most memorable was a little thing we liked to call, dumpster diving.
For those unfamiliar with dumpster diving, let me explain. To put it simply, it means to dive, usually head first, into a dumpster, or trash bin. Unlike the more common and practical uses for diving, the goal for dumpster diving was to unearth unwanted treasures and objects of value that people threw away. How one determines the value of something is really up to the eye of the beholder.
Our father pulled in front of our house with his rusty red geo prism. “Shotgun!� We would all shout the moment we spotted his car. “The oldest up front,� he would reason. This meant Ben took the front seat, Bryan and I took the back.
Off we went, watching through the crack in the windshield, classic rock on the radio, and dad’s arm dangling from the window. A mix of moods mingled in the car. Ben’s teenage brain and body, flooded with hormones. Bryan, calm but hungry. As for me, I couldn’t sit still. We were going treasure hunting, and I was going to score big today.
There were many locations for big garbage bins that would more likely have the riches we were looking for. In the back of outlet malls, donation centers, or apartment complexes. Our father drove like a snail as he slipped the car into the back alley, eyes squinted, twisting his mustache, like some kind of special agent detective.
“There. Go!� he shouted, pointing at one of the bins. We all ran out of the car hooting and hollering, as Ben pushed hard to lift open the large black plastic lid of the dumpster, before we all took turns jumping inside. We rummaged through the mess, pulling out random objects to present to our father looking on from inside the car. Grabbing onto a long wooden stick, I pulled out a used, but still in great shape, floor mop. “Throw it back,� dad called out. Ben presented what appeared to be some sort of kitchen appliance. “Already got one,� he yelled. Bryan plugged his nose and we all laughed as he held up a rotten banana peel. “Nope. Let’s try the next one.�
“Shotgun!� we all yelled, knowing full well who got to sit up front. We all piled back into the car, rode down to the next dumpster, and repeated the process. “How about this?� Ben showed an old and cracked black synthetic belt strap. Grabbing it from him, he removed his old belt and tried it on. “Too big,� dad said, before handing it back. Bryan brought out a small baseball cap. “This looks nice,� he smiled. Our father examined it, holding it up to the light, bending the front bill as to test its integrity. “I think we have a keeper,� he proclaimed, before placing the hat on top of Bryan’s head. “You lucky son of a bitch,� both Ben and I thought, as we jumped from the trash can, and back into the car.
We drove down a few more blocks, something seventies blaring from the car stereo, when it happened. “Jackpot!� Dad called out, hitting the brakes. Pushing the weighty lid of the dumpster onto the back side of the store’s brick building, in all its glory, lay a lightly used, red and white checkered loveseat. Our mouths hung open in awe as we all worked together to remove it. We then laid it flat next to the car, as our father crouched down, and examined all sides of it, before single handedly hoisting it on the roof of his compact two door sedan.
We rode the rest of the way home proud as can be. An afternoon well spent. We unloaded our treasure at his apartment, helping him lift it up the staircase and into his living room. We then each took turns lounging on it, arms crossed behind our heads, with the looks of achievement on our faces.
A month later, on my ninth birthday, I received a plastic figurine of the Wizard of Oz’s scarecrow from my father. To get anything from him was a joy for me. It was the only gift he ever gave me that I’ve still held onto. And to this day, it still carries the very faint smell of banana peel.
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