Memories of My Father : The Bug
August 29, 2013
Circa Summer, 1976
The Aggravator’s Gene I surmise, must be responsible for heightened levels of creativity.
Our Dad was never a very artistic kind of guy. But when the aggravation gene kicked in, he was a veritable Picasso.
Dad had many hobbies. All were of the healthy, stay at home variety. He built models. He built radio kits. He learned to cut gemstones. I look back now and realize that some of my friends had fathers who hung out in bars. Some had Dads that were gonzo sports fanatics. My Dad made things. Some were unique. Some were meaningful. Some were even useful. But all were made with a careful hand, and a steady eye.
One afternoon in the summer of my 15th year, I walked by his workbench, and saw him carefully sculpting something out of the odd black clay he used to hold his gemstones in place while cutting. It wasn’t modeling clay, and I’d never known my Dad to sculpt anything before, so I leaned over for a better look. When I did, he sort of slid the whole sculpture under some other work, and gave me a “What’s up?” smile. He wasn’t telling me to go away. Dad would never do that. But… he didn’t necessarily want me in on what he was up to either.
“Whatcha makin’?” I asked innocently. “Ah… nothing.” He said, dismissing me. It was obvious that he wanted to keep his private project private. I didn’t take offense. I had only got a brief glimpse at it, and it looked like some sort of bug or something. I just figured that he was goofing off, and didn’t feel like anyone making fun of his little attempt at sculpting something. That was cool with me.
But two hours later, I walked by again, and he was still working on it. I didn’t pry further, but I thought it unusual that he was investing that much time in his little sculpting project. Little peeks here and there confirmed my assessment. He was making a bug. This was tres strange on the one hand, and clearly none of my business on the other hand. Later, after he was finished, I saw no trace of the finished work. I figured maybe just once in his life my Dad had gotten bored, and done something silly. Like sculpt a bug, and then smoosh the sculpture back up into a blob when he was done.
Now, it’s important to know that in our small suburban house, there were two bathrooms. Our bathroom, meaning mine, my brothers, and my Dad’s. And mom’s bathroom. Mom’s bathroom was inviolate. No male human had ever stepped foot in that room and come out alive, and none ever would. Under pain of death. Horrible, agonizing, excruciating, painful death. It simply wasn’t done. No matter how bad we had to go.
So I thought it unusual when I watched my Dad disappear into Mom’s bathroom, and re-appear a minute later. Surely he hadn’t actually used Mom’s bathroom? The Mysteries of the Mom/Dad relationship were still totally beyond my young years, so I let it pass. If he was dumb enough to risk the wrath of Mom, then he deserved what he got. I pretended not to notice, and vowed silently to myself to deny all knowledge if questioned on the matter.
Time passed. Maybe it was an hour or two. Maybe longer. But eventually I saw my mother disappear into her bathroom, and shut the door. I had forgotten that Dad had been in there a bit earlier, but when she gave a loud, startled scream, and came tumbling through the door, her side-zipper polyester pants undone, but held together at the waist by hand, I suddenly remembered Dad’s furtive moves of earlier. And then I remembered the sculpture.
You know, the one that looked like a bug…
Suddenly a mental image flashed across my mind. I knew my father well. He had placed it under the seat. Where maybe one hairy little bug-leg protruded. Maybe protruded just enough to be felt by a bare bottom. The owner of which would almost certainly have to lift the seat a tad to investigate what might be causing the foreign sensation. Where her eyes would fall upon… a big, hairy, black bug.
I totally lost it. So did my Father. My younger brother Chris didn’t have any idea what was going on, but Mom was screaming, and his older brother and father were laughing their butts off. That’s funny to an 8 year-old. He fell down on the floor with us, and began to howl.
Now, my mother has a sense of humor. About most things anyway. But that sense of humor tends to only stretch one way. When she’s doing the dishing. Being dished on was another matter entirely. My father and I continued trying to catch our breath through the gales of laughter, while Mom gave us a look that could wither an oak tree. She turned on her heels, zipped up her polyester slacks, and slammed into the master bedroom in a huff. I heard her rattling around, and I buried my face in the cushions of the couch to stifle the laughing fits.
Suddenly, I realized that my Dad’s laughter had stopped abruptly. I looked up to see my mother standing in the doorway holding a 3-foot long strip of wood. It was a yardstick. It was the yardstick. The one she used from time to time to discipline her unruly children. Dad was still lying on the floor, but he wasn’t laughing anymore. He was checking his exits, and then he made a truly Herculean effort to push off the floor and make it through the door to the kitchen, and down the steps into the basement. To safety. But it was way too late for that. Mom was on him in an instant with that yardstick.
Now, my brother and I pulled some shenanigans that truly merited the whippings we got with that yardstick. But we never saw the like of the beating that she threw my father that afternoon. My father is built like a fireplug. Short, broad, and not an ounce of fat on the man. I’ve seen him dead-lift the railroad ties we used for landscaping in the yard, the ones that weighed maybe 175 pounds each, without even turning red in the face. And here he was, his arms slung over his face for protection, getting the Holy BeJeezus smacked out of him by this tiny, angry woman, trying desperately not to let her see the giant smirk on his face, which would undoubtedly make the whipping harder and longer. And it was truly the most hilarious thing I think I’d ever seen.
More hilarious were the implications. It never once crossed her mind that perhaps my brother or me may have crafted the evil sculpture. She had gone straight for my Dad. It did our hearts good. We’d suffered much over the course of our lives as a result of The Aggravator’s Gene and we fairly howled with laughter while he took his beating. With every whap of the stick across his scalp, and arms, and back, and butt, we howled.
Paybacks were sweet.