My Dad

My parents got divorced when I was 4. Honestly, my mom should have left him a long, long time before that. Every memory I have of them being together is pure turmoil.     I remember waking up one morning and going downstairs. Literally, every single piece of furniture was flipped over and broken. The house looked like a tornado had gone through it. My dad had gone on a drunken rampage the night before and destroyed everything. And for some strange reason, after he had broken everything, he had poured maple syrup all over. The dining room table was upside down. One corner of it was smashed off and it looked like somebody had taken a giant bite out of it. This was of course impossible; the table was about 2 inches thick. But I remember thinking that was what he had done to it, that he was some type of monster who was capable.

            Another time, I remember being down in the basement apartment where my grandmother lived. It was very late, probably around 3am when I was awoken very abruptly. My mother had come crashing into the apartment scared out of her mind, begging my grandmother to hide her. She ended up going into my brother’s room where he was sleeping and crawled underneath him. Moments later my dad busted through the door in a rage. He actually went right into my brother’s room, but luckily he didn’t find her. My grandmother went straight to the phone and dialed 911. He looked all over the apartment but didn’t find her; thankfully the sound of sirens came very quickly. He ended up running out the door and jumping over a fence right as the cops arrived.

            As the years passed, my parents both ended up remarrying. My dad never paid any child support but my mom never had them put him in jail. She always said; “well, what good would that do”? Every now and then he would come visit my brothers and I. But most of the time he would call and tell my mom he was going to come take us places, and then never show. Either that, or else he would show up, but he would be drunk and my mom wouldn’t let him take us.

            Anyways, one summer day when I was 7 years old, he called and said he was going to come get me and take me for a ride on his motorcycle. It was a beautiful day, and soon when I heard his motorcycle I ran into my room. He had gotten me a Harley Davidson tee-shirt for Christmas the previous year. I had never worn it before, it was far too small. But I put it on because I knew it would make him happy to see me wearing it. Sure enough, as soon as he seen me, it was the very first thing he said. However, I still had to go back to my room and put on jeans before we left. Apparently, there was some pipe on his motorcycle that would burn my leg if I accidentally touched it.

            A few minutes later I said ‘goodbye’ to my mother and we were off. It didn’t hit me until we had been cruising for awhile, that I had absolutely no idea where we were going. Before I knew it there was nothing but trees on either side of us. Apparently we were going somewhere out in the country, but it was impossible to ask him where over the roar of the Harley.

            My dad had a few different Harleys, he fancied himself as a tough biker guy. I don’t remember my dad ever having a real job. From time-to-time he would do some roofing jobs with his friends, but for the most part he just sold drugs.

            The further and further he got out into the country; I began to see less and less telephone poles. I had absolutely no clue what city we were in so I was really getting concerned. Finally, about 45 minutes into our ride, we slowed down and pulled into a gravel drive way. The first thing I noticed was about 10-15 other motorcycles parked near the house. There were a few other biker guys standing out front and they all turned their attention to my dad and me.

            I stood there awkwardly for about 20 minutes while my dad bullshitted with these guys, talking about their bikes. Next, we went out to the back yard where there were about 20 more men and women dressed in biker-type outfits. They were having a barbeque and drinking alcohol. There was a keg on ice, and also a whole bunch of liquor bottles. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was the only child there.

            As the hours went by, I mostly sat at a picnic table by myself while my dad drank with his buddies. He gave me some barbeque chicken and potato salad, but I didn’t like it. He gave me a hard time about not eating, so I eventually ate it anyways. All I wanted to do was to go home. I remember it beginning to get chilly outside so the party mostly moved indoors. A majority of the bikers had left when my dad took a seat next to me at the table in the kitchen.

            There was a bottle of liquor on the table with a worm in it. I remember mentioning how gross that was that people would drink that. My dad, being the ‘tough’ guy that he was, thought he had to prove it to me. He picked up the bottle and took a few big sips from it. He was trying to get the worm to come to the top of the bottle. So, he held the bottle upside down while it was up to his mouth. As soon as the worm floated to the top he took another huge mouthful and the worm was gone. He showed me the worm in his mouth, and then he started chewing on it. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen.

            When we finally got ready to leave it was night time. I was so relieved that we were leaving; I had wanted to go home ever since we got there. But, we had been there for the better part of the day, and my dad was extremely intoxicated. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized what I was in for.

            As soon as we hit the road I realized that it was pitch dark at night time out in the country. It was difficult to see what was in front of us at all, and the road was full of curves. He began to drive very fast and it was bitter cold with nothing on but that Harley tee shirt. He was all over the road and I was scared out of my mind. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he was going to crash that motorcycle and kill me at any moment. All I could think about was how bad I wanted to get home and never talk to him ever again.

            The ride felt like a million miles and we came so very close to crashing several times. All I could smell was the booze on his breath, but all I could do was hold on as tight as possible and pray. When we made it back to my house it felt very surreal. I was shivering cold and my heart had been bouncing around the whole way. It was by far the scariest experience of my life.

            I can’t tell you how many times my father has crashed on his motorcycles throughout his life. So many times he had broken bones and was laid up. I remember one time in particular that he broke almost every bone in his body. But there is no doubt in my mind that god himself was responsible for my safety that night. I never got on a motorcycle with him again.

            After that particular incident, I promised myself I would never talk to him again. But as time went by I eventually forgave him, I have always forgave him. Throughout my entire life, he has always disappointed me. And every time I would promise myself that I will never talk to him again. But for some reason I would always eventually forgive him.

            When I was little my dad used to call me; “The Gooch” or else “Gooch-man”. It was a corny nickname that he stole from the TV show “Different Strokes”. I didn’t particularly like it, but it was what it was. Anyways, I remember at one point he had moved with a woman who had 3 kids. Her youngest was a son named Daniel, but my dad called him “The Gooch”.

            Alcohol and drugs have pretty much ruled his life ever since I’ve known him. When I got older I realized that he is just a bad guy. There are a ton of bad guys out there, and unfortunately I got one as a dad. I could have let it consume me or just move on, I chose the ladder.

            On my 13^th birthday he called me and asked me what it felt like to be 14. I told him I had no idea.

            While growing up I met a bunch of friends who had very caring fathers, and they didn’t appreciate it one bit. Their fathers would do anything for them, but they still treat their fathers like shit. They would continue to get into trouble, and each and every time their dad was the first person there to pick up the pieces. I began to resent these people; they don’t realize how good they had it and it pissed me off. I like to think I’m a decent person, and he has missed out on everything.

             He recently got out of a long-term drug and alcohol program, again. I gave him a call to see how he was doing. At one point in our conversation he asked me how old I was now, and I told him 31. He laughed really hard briefly and said; “yeah right, you’re not 31.”