The title is complete bullshit. Well, maybe not complete bullshit. But the content is the true story of my life. I was inspired by thebaglady’s continuing translations of her Dad’s story, Fifteen Years In America and motivated by this comment that I left regarding it.
My dad taught part time at a community college, and he made paintings. In 1985 those were his two sources of income. But when not earning money, which was often, he roamed downtown Benicia as an eccentric.
He announced his presence to whatever cafe or restaurant he was at by loudly throwing his Webster’s dictionary on the table. It was one of those dictionaries with finger-hole page marks for each letter of the alphabet. Then he would peer around the room at anyone who was surprised, curious, or offended. And if he found such a victim he would stare them down, trying to provoke an argument. But usually they’d just look away. Then he would sit. Then he would read about an artist or philosopher or mathematician that was alive hundreds of years ago. Someone like Michaelangelo, Descartes, or Nietzsche. And none of those guys were going to slip a word past him. He was armed and ready with 10 pounds of vocabulary.
He was going for the gusto.
Then there was the station wagon.
He said he needed a way to carry paintings. That’s why we had station wagon in the first place. Actually, we had two station wagons. But he said that wasn’t enough space. So, he did what any rational, enlightened man would do. He cut a hole in the roof of one of them. It was not so neatly sliced.
Imagine if you were not skilled in say, heavy construction. Then imagine you took a hacksaw to the roof of your car. You cut a hole in that badboy. You’d end up with something that could be called “Freddy Kreuger’s Nightmare on the Station Wagon.” And that was incidentally, an accurate description of my Dad’s creation.
But then that still wasn’t enough room, so he cut the entire back section off of the station wagon and built a wooden structure there. It was open at the top, and extended past the roof of the car by about three feet. It turned the car into a mix between a pickup truck and something that gets made fun of in mass-emails. But then he was worried that his paintings would get rained on so he added another five feet of wooden structure. It was covered at the top but open at the back. It turned the car into a mix between a tall van and something that got made fun of even before they had mass-emails.
Every once in a while he sold a painting. A painting needed to be brought somewhere. And when that happened, fuck U-haul. He was ready.
Meanwhile, in a separate reality, my mother was teaching a dance class. Usually she taught private lessons, but this time she was was teaching a large group class. And in that class was a guy who was not only the worst student in the class, but the worst student she ever had. He was Chinese, and his name was Michael.
One day I was walking downtown with my mom, and a white Mercury Capri, circa 1980 rolled up. In the back seat were two Asian girls that I thought were pretty cute. And in the front was Michael. “Hey! What are you doing here?” my mom said. “These are my nieces,” said Michael. We got in the car.
Then we went to Foster’s Freeze. My mom chatted with Michael and I chased one of those girls around the restaurant. Literally.
Some things were changing, and some things would stay the same.
3 responses so far ↓
1 thebaglady // Dec 11, 2008 at 4:30 pm
OMG is michael your stepdad? I sense some foreshadowing
2 I of the Storm // Dec 12, 2008 at 2:22 pm
“Fifteen Years in America: Five of Which I Spent Pretending to be High on Weed, and the Other Ten of Which I Spent Narcking, In Other Words, Being a Narc…”???
3 Ian Ian Ian // Dec 12, 2008 at 4:43 pm
thebaglady – Yep, Michael is my step-dad
I of the Storm – You got me. I’m actually an undercover cop. All of our conversations have been recorded for quality control and training purposes.
And don’t criticize me. Beauty is in the I of the beholder.
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