Dad

Dad was a large personality type. A salesman. He sold real estate, eesh, the very term “salesman” revolts me, and as you know, all salesmen have a shtick. They have to go big with their personality thing. They dominate all conversations. It's just their thing. They are fun yet display that in your face personality. It's what they see as success. They are Showmen first and foremost. It defines them, the show is all there is, and the bragging results are the stories they collect and re-tell over and over again for the rest of their lives.. It is all there is to them. There is nothing else to talk about.

His presentation was everything. He dressed slick, slicked back his thinning hair, wore a suit beyond his means and drove a giant boat Lincoln, all to impress. Everything was about impressing people, and did pretty well in the 1960's southern California real estate market. Corona Del Mar real estate. Prime beach houses that go for several million now but back then was just starting to explode. The 405 freeway was under construction in 1966.

In his family, all were taught by my granddad, the successful eye surgeon, who divorced his first wife and ran off with his young maid, see there was a precedent set already, a trend if you will, in my family DNA of males, which is to find the next more attractive female as soon as possible so you can leave the last one ASAP in a wake of destruction. “Escape” is in my DNA sequence.

Lots of stress in my dad's life however. His high end clients were the rich and even movie stars, (Star of Marcus Welby for example, you are too young, Google it) almost bought his property but then changed his mind at the last second. Not good for a hard drinking 60's salesman. Just think Madmen the real estate show. That was my dad's life. He started to fray at the edges.

My dad had already had a kid and divorced within a year, them married my mom, then had me. Not a promising track record already. But the next round lasted longer than his DNA should have predicted I guess. Being a slick talking, slick dressing man of success, well I imagine the ladies caught his eye. They did, at bars or drinking events, which would be his venue of choice. I don't know why my mom and him fought to divorce, but I have a pretty good guess.

Then he met my next mom. Think Kamala Harris as your mom. Think Mary Tyler Moore in the movie “Ordinary People” . This was my pretty faced evil snake of a stepmom. Gorgeous, smart as hell, and pure evil deep inside. She did not like me one bit and I agreed with her. She was oh so wonderful with an audience. Smiling, joking laughing, the perfect hostess, the best quips, but with the IQ of Satan, she was the worst human being I had ever experienced.

That lasted a few years, then dad's drunk eye wandered yet again. Anyone but her probably entered his mind, just guessing, that is what I would have said. One night he came home late and very drunk. He was 6'4' drunk. We had a nice tiled entryway, and I was on the balcony looking down on the scene being awakened by all the commotion.

He tottered and swayed. He was talking drunk calm, but Satan stepmom was loud and not happy at all. He swayed one last time, in slow motion, straight as a 6'4” board, fell flat back onto a tiled floor, whacking his head so hard he should have died. I screamed. Kamala was bitching about him being drunk. I can't believe this is what I said but this story is about the truth. “He is just tired” is what I yelled.

I cringe at that sentence. I wrote that. I have been a shitty writer all my life, right on through this very moment. I just write this shit now to tell you what happened the best I can remember it. I defended my dad no matter what. It was an unconditional love of sorts. A delusion. The next day he gave a drunk speech in the living room...

“You want me to be happy right??” I enthusiastically agreed. We had a bonding moment, it was good, even though he is leaving to go live elsewhere in order to have sex with the new lady. He was in his bed a month later and pulled the trigger. I was told he had a heart attack. I did not find out the truth for another 16 years.

Again, all the memories I chose to save are the horror movie clips. So Stupid. Why? I can't tell you. There was fun and laughter at many times on many days. I hate that I pasted only the poison in my brain photo book.

One day, late in this story, me and dad are driving somewhere, just me and him. He is drunk. He has decided it's time to give me the talk. I am thirteen, and yet obviously late for the whole puberty thing. I would not even start for another two years. He is obviously not happy with my state, a lanky weak child, and he is cheering me on, telling me all the great things that will happen. Trying to give me the big talk, I imagine sex would have come up. We are not even to the top of our street when a neighbors dog runs in front of the car and he nails it. Now, in the middle of our big talk he has to stumble over to the house and tell them he hit their dog. The salesman gets out out of it somehow, but That was the end of our talk.

The last time we talked, I am at his new apartment. He is not drunk, he is hammered. He might have lost his job. He has a tape recorder on the table that he is dictating his new book idea into. He is playing it very upbeat to me. I am just there watching the movie in front of me. He goes to pee. I am in complete frozen confusion. I just try and get through the movie.

I have a dream that he died a few days later. I was in a fort I built in the tiny gravel “dog run” side yard of our new condo. Sleeping overnight outside the house to get farther away from the evil stepmom. It is so vivid, this dream. Then Kamala breaks the news. I actually feel it this time.