Sins of the Father

A small town boy's coming of age story set against a violent family past.

They say every journey starts with a single step, or in this case, a single complete sentence.

     I was born at the end of an era and the beginning of a decade. A time between wars but a time that was far from peaceful; in my country nor my home.

     Now, because I was born premature, underweight and overwhelmed by the sudden size of my new world, the hero of this tale wasn’t to see his new home on the sunny plain for ten days; ten days of remote warmth, bright lights and astringent smells. But, see it I did and over the next thirteen years I owned the sidewalks, the bike trails that ran the length of the trickle creek on the southern border, every alley and abandoned house, shack or forgotten shed. Depending on the time of year, you could ask me where to procure a tasty nut or sweet fruit and I could point you to the right alley or backyard.

     Some nights I would climb the old klaxon tower behind the Veterans Hall and survey all that was mine and then flick half smoked Pall Malls into the dark and marvel at the pretty sparks that would explode off the terracotta roof of said Hall. Some nights I would sit up there just to wait for the next train to roll slowly through and break the deafening silence that the cicadas and I seemed to hate so much. 

     It was 1973 and with my puka shell necklace, long brown hair and floral collared shirts, partially unbuttoned for the ladies' pleasure, I looked just like David Cassidy….if David Cassidy was a short, tubby eighth-grader with a bad complexion and a, more than occasional, black eye. 

     I admit I was not the most popular kid, but I realized I was smarter than most of them. I was just a social idiot, trying to relate to them with fantastic stories of unrealistic situations with plot points way above their heads. I knew things. Oh, I knew things. I knew how to calculate pi in my head, I knew what show was gonna be on what channel at what time and on what day. I knew where Elmer Tofft buried his missing wife. I knew the father of the pregnant cheerleader’s unborn child was Howard the fifty year old projectionist at the Potterville Picture Palace. I knew the sound of uncomfortable chuckles following my jokes or stories. I knew when my dad was in a bad way. What I didn’t know was when to shut up, even between the blows.

     My dad. My old man was the original old school S.O.B.. He was the real deal. Born into a large professional ranchhand family, at the beginning of the depression, he was the youngest and smallest of nine boys. To hear my dad tell it, he had to get up every morning and whup his brothers if he was to get any breakfast. A bloody nose for a piece of toast was a fair trade and a great start to a day if a bit of lard was leftover to be smeared on it. His days were long and his nights were short. He loved the work and he loved the starry night sky over Texas but hated his family. This abuse and unappreciation for his contribution to the family went on for years until one day. As my old man tells it, one day his dad was boxing his ears in the barn for the sheer meanness of it when he happened to get his hands on a branding iron in the corner by the stalls. He said he laid his Pa out stone cold. He actually thought he was dead. So he saddled up his favorite Appaloosa and rode out to catch a Rio Grande Pacific flat car rolling through the northern part of the ranch. He never looked back. He was thirteen. Later, my dad said he found out he didn’t actually kill him, but it didn’t really matter to him since he wasn’t his real Pa anyway. I learned later that wasn’t true.

     On holidays or just a good day, my old man would tell my mom and I stories about his early life. Sometimes it would be about how he survived during the war by picking fruit from southern California to the Washington/ Canadian border. Following the harvest and living in fruit camps, or how he learned to speak Spanish and play guitar from his fellow itinerant farmers. Sometimes he would just disappear into his stories as if he was reliving them instead of retelling them. I swear he’d take me along with him. I would be standing next to him as he fought a back alley match against a giant in Modesto just so that he could afford to eat that night. Or sitting beside him outside a honky tonk in Bakersfield dealing with a sloppy drunk waving a straight razor as he worked the door for beer and a sandwich. But my favorite stories are from his short lived days as a Hollywood stuntman and bodyguard. Nobody could ride a horse off a steep embankment or take a punch (real or fake) like my old man. But sometimes, when my dad was in a dark mood or drank whiskey (which he rarely drank), his stories got dark. They were nightmarish and there was no getting away from him. He held your attention through fear and an unspoken threat of violence. 

     Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I would walk the creek from bridge to bridge or just sit in my perch above the town where nothing ever happens and smoke. Flashes of second hand horrors filling my mind with fear and loathing. Bloody knife fights and greasy, beard stubbled perverts. Old dead hookers with needles still in their arms. Cadillac driving shylocks with deep blood stained trunks. Sick junkies, orchards of buried children, starved and abused farm animals. Tents full of frozen farm laborers and outright murder. I would sit under my klaxon on these sleepless nights, flicking butts onto the clay roof below and looking for a distraction. One such night I climbed my tower sporting two fresh black eyes. After finishing a half a pack of Lucky Strikes, I saw it. 

Through swollen lids, I found my distraction.   

     The last bell sounded at 2:40. School’s out for the weekend and the school day just couldn’t end fast enough for me. It wasn’t the taunting or the bullying or the loudly whispered insults from across the library, because there wasn’t any. It was worse. No one would meet my eyes. Not even the teachers. In fact, the teacher that was famous for giving me the most grief, Mr. Strong, my Phys Ed coach basically ignored me the whole period. He never even yelled encouraging insults at me once. So, with still heavy lidded eyes and heavy thirteen year old kid stuff on my mind I mounted my Schwinn and left the school.

     Riding two blocks north and then three blocks east, I saw my distraction and I sped toward it. Passing the line of cars now forming, a type of peace came over me. My soul felt lighter. No, my body felt lighter. If I had known this would be the last time I would see my quiet little town for ten years I might have told my mom I loved her. I couldn’t help my old man but I could help myself. So, like my hero, my enemy, I rode my trusty steed alongside a slow moving Southern Pacific flat car and boarded a stolen ride to my future.

I never looked back.