Dead Wrong

“Your protagonist discovers they’ve been wrong about the most important thing in their life.” Prompt: #347- Reedsy

The first time I met my father, he opened a cupboard on the 14th floor in Franklin Park, Illinois. It was also the last cordial thing we spoke about. He was emotional. A human, and then he did what he usually does, pointed his finger at the world, and then asked why you would bring anything else up that happened after you were five. Not really ask, more like yell and call you the n-word a lot, an insult I never really quite understood what it had to do with me, his white son, but he loved to call me the n-word. Once drove a jeep around me as I hauled out trash and called me the n-word for five or nine minutes, and then he went off to his mistress’s house or whoever he goes to when he thinks his son is black.

I can’t remember who said it, and I can’t be bothered to look it up, but all sons are put on this planet to piss off their fathers. I try not to think about it, but my father had sex with my mom, and that night, I beat all the science, everyone else, and was born on October 12th, 1988. I remember the first time I saw him. I was in a cabinet while we were playing hide-and-seek in an apartment. I think most thirty-year-olds fight for today. My second & earliest-longest memory is meeting my sister and holding my younger brother's hand before we met her. We just walked down a hospital corridor. I remember seeing my sister, but it was short. The walk was long. We had short legs.

I think as long as my father has money, he is happy. The greatest man I ever knew, my Papou, or Grandfather, passed a few years ago, and all I know is that he and his siblings sued each other. My brother went to my grandfather's grave on a day when it did not snow and had to wipe away the white so his name was visible. He was there at 8 PM. No one else had come.

I had no idea how spoiled we were, since our family parties had 40 attendees and everyone was barely alive. Now, we have three addicts, my mom, and four of her five children in a wonderful townhouse where my uncle deals cocaine and another does his best, helping my grandmother up the stairs every night. She is a wonderful, well-read woman who romanticizes what this country could have been if RFK won in 1968. I knew her husband, my Grandpa, for a few short years. He died in 1993, but I have a fond memory and a photo that I love of both of us.

My father is a puzzle, I believe most have solved, and a Rubik's Cube that constantly changes its rules.

I read T. S Eliot, The Waste Land, yesterday:

Were told upon the walls; staring forms

Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

William Burroughs and Brion Gysin said this wonderful document was the first cut-up. Random lines, random times, random births, and random parents.

When I was young, I thought my father was the most important thing in the world. Everything I did was to make him laugh, smile, or feel proud. This was before I knew of my father's mental illness, but learn I did. Bukowski said his best literary teacher was his father because he taught him pain without meaning. I’m not a big Bukowski fan, but I agree it’s a third of my literature, and the most meaningful. My father was a man that ave me a thousand bucks in 2008, and I lived, travelled, and worked in more states than I think any formal educational system would accept or pay for; however, this is the same person who grabbed my wet hair from a shower, dragged me to the hallway, and kicked me in the stomach. I remember how hard it was to breathe, but the length of time I’ll never forget is seeing the terror in my brother’s eyes as he wailed on my bones. I’ll never forgive him for that, and by that, he must forgive my brother. I remember when my father's blows stopped hurting, and I fought back. The last time was when I was 25. I called the police for assault, and my mother begged me not to press charges. It was very similar to middle school, when I was told what to say to gym teachers after they said, "All the bruises." The last time I talked to my father, I asked why he did these things, and he called me “A chick” and “I can’t believe you still think of this. You are a loser.” He did not call me the n-word, which he usually does.

I do forgive him. I am happy I do not have what he has and feel bad for him, but every once in a while, I get terrified that I am him. I recently had a drink, did not do well, and thank the only person who showed up at the hospital, who was a prankster, thank you, and people were scared. That was the biggest wake-up call I’ve ever had, much more than being in the hospital with withdrawals, because I did not know I was capable of such behaviour to one of my best friends that I will love till the day I die. I did not sleep for days, and all I wanted to do was tell them it was all right. Everyone who cared about me. Weeks passed, and I met a woman from Texas. I’ve never met anyone like her. I’m smiling right now thinking about her. Her eyes are blue, and when she laughs, they become these little crescents. She's like this Texan rabbit, and I love her. I’ve never met anyone in my life whom I fell in love with at first sight, but in her company, I am comfortable, I kiss, and am constantly in awe of her talent, intelligence, humor, and beauty. She my b.

I used to think I was the world, and I was dead wrong.