supernovice

You Take What You Need From Your Father

Fathers Day has never been a big deal at my house. My dad hates
celebrations. He goes through the motions for Christmas because it
means a lot to my mom. Hell put up with Easter because it means he
gets to eat ham. You can pretty much get to do whatever you want if
you give me ham, hes said many times in my life.
But Fathers Day is technically his holiday, and therefore he feels he has the right to squash
it in our house.
Anyone can fucking procreate, and most eventually do. I refuse
to celebrate a statistical probability, he announced on Fathers Day
when I was seventeen.

I was about to graduate from high school, and my relationship
With my dad during the last year had been rocky. Everything we did
Seemed to annoy one another. I dealt with the friction by avoiding being
in the house while he was there, and he dealt with it by repeating the
phrase, You mind? Im watching the fucking Nature Channel.
So when he told me on the morning of Fathers Day that year that
he would not partake in a celebration, frankly, I was fine with it.
But my mother was not.
That night I sat on my bed reading a brochure from
San Diego State University, where I was heading in the fall, when the
door to my room opened and my father entered.
Sorry to interrupt whatever it is youre doing, he said.
Im just looking at some of the classes they have at State, I said.
Oh yeah? Like what?
You want to know?
Ah, fuck it, not really. Listen, your mother thinks youre going to
go off to college and hate me and then were not going to be friends
again until Im dying and I got a wad of shit in my pants. Thats bullshit
right?
Ah
So, look, Im not an easy guy to get along with. I know that. But
you know I would murder another human being for you if it came down
to it. Murder. Fucking homicide. If it came down to it.
Why would you need to do that for me? I said.
I dont know. Maybe you get mixed up in some gambling shit or
you screw some guys wife or dont matter. Not my point. My point is: I
may seem like an asshole, but I mean well. And I want to tell you a story,
he said, taking a seat on the foot of my bed before quickly jumping up.
Your bed smells like shit. Where can I sit that doesnt smell like
shit?
I pointed to my desk chair, which was covered with dirty clothes.
He brushed the clothes onto the ground and collapsed in the chair.
Just for your information, this chair also smells like shit. This
isnt a non-shit-smelling option. In case a girl comes over or something.
Whats your story, Dad? I snapped.
I ever tell you how I mangled my arm? he asked, pointing to the
large, white crescent-shaped scar that practically circled his entire
elbow.
Yeah, lots of times. You were, like, ten and you were on the farm
and you fell off a tobacco wagon, then the wagon rolled over it.
Right. But I ever tell you what happened after the wagon rolled
over it?
Maybe.
He leaned back in the chair.
I was laying on the ground, bones poking through my skin. Your
Aunt Debbie is just going ape-shit. They pop me in our car, and we drive
forty-five minutes to Lexington to the doctors. This is 1946 Kentucky,
and my town was a shit stain on a map so we had to drive to the city.
So...
the doc sees me, dresses the wounds best he can, and puts me up in the
hospital bed. At this point Im about to pass out on account of the pain.
I almost had that happen once, I interrupted.
No you didnt. So anyway, Im lying in my hospital bed when your
Grandpa gets there. And your Grandpa was a tough son of a bitch. He
wasnt like how you knew him; he softened up in his nineties. So
Grandpa grabs the doc, and your Aunt Debbie and the two of them go
outside my room. I can hear them talking, but they dont know that. The
doc tells your Grandpa that they think theres a good chance that an
infection has already taken hold in my arm. And Grandpa, in that
scratchy voice hes got, asks what that means. And the doc tells him it
means they have some medicine they can give me that might kill the
infection, but it might not, and if it doesnt, Ill die.
You heard the doctor say that?
Yep.
Whatd you do?
What do you mean? I had fucking bones coming out of my elbow.
I didnt do shit. So the doc tells Grandpa that theres a 50/50 chance the
medicine works. But then he says theres another option. He tells Grandpa if they amputate my arm at the elbow, theres a 100 percent
chance that Ill live.
What did Grandpa say? I asked, inching toward the edge of the
bed.

He said, Give him the medicine. And the doc says, But theres a
50 percent chance hell die. Then its quiet for a bit. Nobody making a
fucking peep. Then I hear Grandpa clear his throat and say, Then let him
die. There aint no room in this world for a one-armed farmer.
My dad fell silent and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs
out. My dad hadnt told me many stories about his father at this point,
and I wasnt quite sure how he felt about the man. This was the first
time I had gotten a glimpse.

Man, Im really sorry, Dad.
Sorry for what? he asked, his face morphing into a look of
confusion as he sat up straight in the chair.
Well, thats, I dont know, thats really messed up. I cant
believe Grandpa did that.
What in the fuck are you talking about? The man saved my arm!
They were going to cut off my arm and he saved it. Thats my point:
Grandpa could be an asshole sometimes but when it came down to it, he
was there for me.

Thats what you took from that?

Hell yes. I dont know what else you were expecting me to take.
Imagine me with one goddamned arm. Be a fucking disaster. Anyway,
Just like Grandpa cared about me, I care about you and I dont want you
out there hating me, cause I dont hate you. I love the shit out of you.

He stood up, ironing his pants front with his hands. Jesus H.
Christ, do something about the fucking smell in this room.