I remember that one night when my dad was stabbing his new girlfriend with his romance. He was around the same age I am now. I was downstairs watching tv or something. The bed creaked and squeaked. I was an odd mix of cheerleader and grossed-out kid and anxious seeker of an ages-old answer I had contemplated but was afraid to ask: so what’s it like, exactly, to bust a nut? Like, literally, one nut? Which is all the old man had, thus accounting for him and my mother being forced to adopt my ass.
My mother died of cancer at 45. My father would go through a few girlfriends before settling on the one who he was poking upstairs. I really liked the one before this one. She was sweet, didn’t prioritize separating my father and I, cute. This sea hag on the other hand with the fuzzy chin and annoying nasal voice would only enhance her unattractiveness by forbidding me from staying in my own house whenever I visited from Atlanta. I’m not sure how the hell my dad got wood with this one. I’m not sure why the hell he didn’t stand up to her when I did visit and tell her: “My son will be staying here. In his room. The one he grew up in. Sorry. And tough shit.” It’s what men do.
This woman who I heard my old man slipping it to that night would furthermore go on marrying my dad. I guess she loved him, I don’t know. She’d take all his money after he died, aided and abetted by nieces since she didn’t have any kids of her own–that part I do know. Then, in what I’m decisively calling a random act of poetic justice, she goes tits up. It was a year or so after my dad did, that’s all. I rejoiced. I partied. She was not a good person.
I can begrudge my dad’s last wife all I want, and I do. I muddle through anger and resentment sometimes. I know it doesn’t change anything. Bitch didn’t have to be so greedy as to claim everything for herself I guess is my rub, but it’s a big one these days as I’ve been living in financial uncertainty for about the last year or so. I think anyway that I’ve finally turned a corner with a new job, but I’ll have to work a few more hitches and get past a probationary period before I feel real super confident about it.
It’s why a little hand-me down from the old man for the kid’s college would’ve been clutch during this season of my life. I never asked for a penny in my adult life. I never got one, either. Birthday card from your dad–what the fuck is that?
As for that, I’m one year older again, very soon. Stewing over my finances (it would seem some lingering daddy issues too). I want more than anything than to do my kid the exact opposite of how my old man did me. If my son’s anything like me when I was his age, he’s once in a while thinking about his old man going tits up and thinking, What’s he gonna leave me, ya know, inheritance-wise? Not in a bad way. Just a way. The same way other random and dark thoughts intrude our consciousness time to time before we flick them off.
I don’t know where I’m going with any of this circle of life shit. I’m under reconstruction, still. It’s going all right. In a year I’ve done massive work to the house, gotten all my professional credentials dusted off and renewed. Haven’t lost the weight I wanted to, but haven’t put it on, either. I’m about the same age as my dad when he remarried. Part of me reflects on settling down like he did. I want what he and others want, sure. Companionship. Security. Someone to call the ambulance if I fall off the ladder or stop breathing at night. My last real steady girlfriend alerted me to my apnea, and that was over five years ago. Surely I’ve picked up another crick or two since then that needs monitoring or will at some point.
But all I really want for my birthday is money.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 