Nicaragua

(This was originally posted on Reddit) 

My dad is special.

If you peruse my post history you'll notice that he and I don't see eye to eye anymore and that he maybe probably most definitely has narcissistic personality disorder and was/is rather hard to live with. At times he is a nuclear level asshole. But my dad is also my hero because I love him and always will. His life history seems to have fallen out 50-50, good and bad. He's done some mean, moronic, bone stupid and awful stuff in his life, but when he did good, he did really good.

My dad is a Vietnam vet. Like most vets he came home and was promptly treated like the maggot-ridden mouse the cat dragged in. The concept of veteran support was slightly better in the 70s than, say, the 1940s, but only slightly. Plus there was some stuff the Air Force decided didn't happen, so Dad couldn't talk about that at all. Dad basically drowned PTSD and memories of Danang under approximately all the alcohol. This tanked his first marriage and left him in the position of having to either dry out and face his ghosts or die.

Eventually, he dried out, and like most recovering addicts he became an evangelist for sobriety. Dad made his living as a salesman, and felt better selling sobriety to drunks than he did selling diamonds or eye glasses or paper. And he was good at it. Which is how he landed in a group home for teenage boys in the French Quarter of New Orleans back in the 80s.

Again, my dad has issues. At times he can be a selfish bastard and at his absolute best, he's doing things for his own benefit first. But I am not exaggerating when I say that he saved the lives of a lot of these kids. These were kids who came home from school and discovered that their whole family had moved away without him. These were kids who thought the other kids were lying when they said Milk comes from cows, because they had seen with their own eyes that milk comes from the store. My dad's job was to keep them from killing each other, keep them sober, and try to teach them some kind of life skill because as soon as they turned 18, they got a bus ticket to the city of their choice and couldn't contact anyone from their group home for several years. The kid who told me this story was one of several who hunted my dad down as soon as it was legal to let the only father figure they'd ever had know that they were okay. When Dad had a stroke out of state, about four of his former foster kids sat with him because he is, and always will be, their dad. He fucked up by the numbers, alright, but he also did good by a lot of these kids.

But it wasn't easy. Sometimes the kids needed a lesson and consequences. And there's a whole list of things you can't do to kids in foster care, especially a highly supervised setting like a group home. You can't spank or restrict food. Confinement is out. Chores are reasonable but only up to a point. And you've got this whole behavioral pattern called "negative attention seeking" that basically meant most of the kids wanted to be yelled at and punished, because being yelled at and punished was the only kind of attention they ever got. It was familiar and safe, to these kids, to be beaten, sent to bed without supper, and be yelled at in the morning for good measure. These kids couldn't understand why the house parents didn't do that. They kept trying to force somebody, anybody, in authority to do the kind of violent bullshit they expected from parents. So whatever consequences you used couldn't feed into that cycle. It made working with these kids a challenge.

One area that nobody could seem to fix was Family Night. Every Wednesday the group home was supposed to take their battered collection of kiddos out to do something fun and normal. Bond with them. Give them a chance to see that normal and safe is kind of the opposite of having an abusive parent, and that love means something other than getting hit. It's a great theory. But putting it into practice meant getting ten plus teenagers to all agree on the same thing: "Where do you want to go tonight?"

And the battle would start. The movies. The arcade. The mall. The roller-rink. No, I want the movies. I want the mall. We did the mall last week. On and on, moving into fist fight territory. And nothing gets on Dad's nerves like stupid, pointless, ballsy, immature bickering. He wanted to teach these kids a lesson and get them to knock that shit off. But he couldn't. Most of the parental go-to tools just...don't work on these kids.

Which meant it was time for Dad to get creative.

Now, my dad tried most of my life to get a hobby. He tried dozens but none of them stuck. My mother thinks it's because he tried too many at once. I think it's because his real hobby is fucking with people. My dad is never as happy as he is when somebody gives him an opening to con them. He once took my brother for twenty bucks on a trick pool shot, and he won by walking the cue ball around the obstacles. He once spent two hours feeding the pair of us utter bullshit and only broke character when he told us he had made it all up. When you become the beneficiary of his hobby, he will try to be benevolent and bring you in on the joke so you have some fun too. He's not a sadist. But his goal is still fucking with you.

And dad figured out real quick that he didn't have to punish these kids, he just had to make their lives miserable. Do what Dad wants, have a good time. Don't do what he wants, twist in the wind. He just had to do it in a way that didn't violate the program's framework.

So one day he's checking the movie times while the kids are fighting over where they're gonna go, and he sees it: The answer to the problem. The most beautiful solution his devious, brilliant, self absorbed mind could conceive of. So he tells the kids he will put up with the battle tonight, but they needed to pick their weekly activity out before next Wednesday, or he was gonna do it.

Picture a dozen-plus juvenile boys, most of whom have very poor respect for authority, looking back at a kind of scraggly quasi-hippy who is overly fond of ponchos. This is the guy who planted a container garden to show them that eggplants don't produce eggs, who spends a lot of time talking about twelve steps and Jesus. He's got socks on with sandals. The Big Lebowski hadn't come out yet, but when it did these kids immediately tried to figure out which rug was tying the whole room together, man. Picture them looking at him like what's the worst you can do, old man?

Dad folded up the newspaper and let them fight. The lesson would go best if they didn't take him seriously.

Wednesday comes around, and they haven't picked an activity. This is now, after all, an authoritative battleground. This is a supervised group home. Dad can't make them go shovel shit, if he tells them to sit and do homework they can just say they won't. Being put on restriction, they've done that before. There is no way my Dad could make these kids decide on a fun group activity a week in advance. They now had a place to fly their defiance flag high and prove they were bigger and harder and badder than my dad. And they could do it by not agreeing to have fun. No sir. We will not agree. No fun will be had. Fuck the man.

The kid who told me this story was in his late twenties, early thirties. He had just gotten out of the navy and there were at least fifteen years between him and that home in New Orleans. And I could still hear the horror and awe in his voice when he told me what my father did next.

He folded the newspaper and said, "Alright. My pick."

And then this die hard pro-capitalism Republican veteran took a dozen teenage boys to the local communist club's student documentary on the starving children of Nicaragua.

The kid who told me this story said that he finally broke when an old Korean war vet stood up, shook his fist at the screen and shouted "God Bless Ronald Regan," halfway through the film.

When it was done, Dad took them home because that was the group activity, as promised, and they didn't get another one until next week.

Next Wednesday, Dad asked, "So what are we doing tonight?"

Oddly enough, they already had a movie picked out.

Don't Mess with Slim

(This story was originally posted on reddit. I wrote it. I figured it needed to be preserved for posterity)

 Uptown got its hustlers, the bowery got its bums, and the first time I heard that Jim Croce song, I knew it was really about my daddy.

Dad was an MP at Da Nang, so while he wasn’t actively a target most times, he saw shit. He was there for the Tet Offensive. He was at the gate when the nearest barracks took a direct hit from rockets and he watched as the guys came out in pieces and on fire. Little kids would run up to eat the bugs the spotlights attracted and he got to decide if these were just kids or really young Charlies about to shoot the idiot gate guard (they were just kids). He was patrolling the armory when that took a direct hit, so he got to see a couple million bucks of artillery go off all at once from really close up. All in all, he did not have a good time.

When the military cut him loose, the landing resembled the wet bar on the Hindenburg: visible, catastrophic, and filled with copious amounts of alcohol. He eventually came up for air shortly before he met my mother. He didn’t just have bark on him, he had the whole damn tree. He wasn’t too sure why the pretty blond hippy lady wanted to date him, but he was gonna try the best he could not to fuck things up. He really wanted to impress her AND her family.

Unfortunately for Daddy, my mother’s family most closely resembles a sack of rabid cannibalistic cats halfway through dining on each other. My mother was and is the only sane one. He did not realize this at first, but oh God did he learn.

Now, despite being sober, my dad frequently took my mother to bars. Not for the booze, but for the pool. In the unemployable stage of his alcoholism, Dad made his living snookering suckers at the pool tables. He kept his hand in once he sobered up because figuring out the necessary English to hook one ball around another helped the world make sense. He hated disco because all the good clubs took out their pool tables and put in dance floors, and that was just unforgivable. When he and Mom went out, he ordered tonic water so the bartender would ignore him, restrained himself for a couple games with Mom, and then mopped the floor with anybody dumb enough to challenge him.

So Dad didn’t quite understand what was going on when the Queen Cersei of my maternal lineage, my aunt, invited him and my mom to a bar so they could “visit”. Dad knew academically that most people socialize via alcohol consumption (One of the things about an alcoholic is they lose that concept of recreational boozing. You're either doing it to get shlitzed or you've got no business being in a bar). He figured they were gonna shoot a couple friendly games while they got to know each other. Mom, sweet summer child being her default setting, assumed the same thing. But my aunt invited her sister's recovering alcoholic boyfriend to a bar specifically so that he would have to watch as she and my uncle, the Ultimate Dipshit, attempted to drain it of intoxicants. Her goal, which remained unchanged for the next twenty-five years, was to get my father drunk. The Ultimate Dipshit was glad to help her because it meant he could drink, and to him alcohol was the one true meaning of life.

Dad caught on real quick, ‘cause when your hobby is fucking with people, you recognize when someone wants to screw you. He ordered his tonic water and stuck to the parts of his life appropriate for polite company. Cersei and Dipshit weren’t polite, of course, but Dad really wanted to impress my Mom and didn’t think eviscerating her family was going to do the trick.

Then the Dipshit, for some reason, became fixated on Daddy's pool skills. He decided that Dad was not as good as Dad claimed, and basically began poking him with a verbal stick. Why don’t you show us how good you really are? How about a nice game? Man to man? Cause you a man, right, dude? I mean you got that nice military record and that makes you a man, right, dude? Right?

Dad did not have enough sobriety or distance from Da Nang to respond. He knew that beating the Dipshit in pool wouldn’t give him enough satisfaction, and beating the Dipshit into the bar would get him and the cute blond lady he was dating thrown out. He was kind of used to getting tossed out of bars, but he really wanted my mom to like him. So he drank his tonic water and did his best to be a very sober rock.

And then the Dipshit did it. He pulled on Superman's cape. He spit in the wind. He made his play for the lone ranger mask and he chewed on my Dad's last goddamn nerve. He pointed at the piece of shit pool table in one smoky corner and said “You liar, I bet you couldn’t even clear that table over there.”

Daddy looked at the piece of shit table and registered that it was seriously a piece of shit. Improperly leveled. Plywood bed at best. Pilled felt, stained and nasty. He drained his water, turned to the Dipshit and said, “I bet you everyone's drinks tonight that I can clear that table with a broomstick.”

Dipshit said, “you just go do that, then.”

Daddy smiled.

He politely asked the bartender for the pool balls and the broom. After he racked ‘em up, and somehow managed to get the cue ball to stay put, he unscrewed the broom head and chalked up the blunt end. Sight the ball. Adjust for warp and the fact that this is an unbalanced broomstick. Commence play. Daddy spanked my uncle’s drunken little ego into the ground by sinking every single ball, with a final little flourish on the 8 ball at the end.

He walked back to the bar, screwed the head back on the broom, gave it to the bartender, got my mom a beer, and then ordered another tonic water on the Dipshit's tab.