A Facebook post on a page about the
city in which I grew up brought back a memory that fairly illustrates growing
up with my father in the 60’s and 70’s. Not
a deep thinker nor calming influence, he.
Throughout
the 60’s the Big Boy franchises were very popular. As soon as teenage boys got hold of their
licenses they headed to our local Frisch’s Big Boy. The glass-front building was trimmed in
red. In the rear was the drive-in
area. You parked your car in the best
spot you could, one that would make sure you were seen and also that you could
see everything going on. The best spots
were pretty much “owned” by one or two guys; whenever they arrived on the
scene, whoever was in “their” spot vacated immediately to make room for the man
in charge. My brother, Terry, was one of
those men. He was athletic, tall, and
was given the best genes in the family.
He was a naturally gifted football player and the local public high
school competed against the local private Catholic school for his attendance at
their schools so he could play on their team.
Whenever Terry and his friends arrived at Frisch’s, they were guaranteed
a spot in the drive-in.
Through Terry my father learned about
Frisch’s Big Boy being the local teen hangout.
This is important because my father thought he was way more clever than
he really was, and thought he understood teenagers more than he really did (if
at all). So when one night we endured an
onslaught of eggs from a carful of local kids, he was certain he was going to
catch them and make them pay.
My mother worked 35 years for
A&P. She began in the meat
department shortly before the store, just 10 blocks from our house, opened, and
retired as head cashier when it closed.
Most of the time Mom walked to work and home again. But once in a while my father took a night
off getting drunk on beer to pick Mom up.
He spent a lot of time at the little grocery store behind the Sears
store where he worked, drinking with other Sears employees and L&N railroad
employees from the next block. We got to
know the grocery store owners very well.
I used to call, anonymously, and ask them really clever, funny questions,
such as:
“Do you have pickled pigs’ feet?”
“Yeah, we got ‘em.”
“Well, put some shoes on and no one
will notice!” Then I’d hang up the phone
and roar with laughter.
Another good one: “Do you have Sir
Walter Raleigh in a can?”
“Yes, we got it.”
“Well, you better let him out
before he suffocates!” Again, roars of
laughter pealed through our house.
Really, I should have been a writer for ‘Saturday Night Live’…I’d be a
Billionaire!!! (Actually, I have the “Hee-Haw”
television show companion magazine to thank for these zingers.)
I did this, not because I disliked
the store’s owners (actually liked them very much), but because it was one way
of dealing with my anger at my father’s drinking.
Anyway, on these nights my father
wasn’t holding up the little store’s meat and cheese display case, he, my sister,
and I would pile into the car to go pick up Mom after she got off work. My father always parked on the street, out
front of the store.
One very hot summer evening we were
all getting into the car. Dad jumped
into the driver’s side, I slid into the middle, and my sister spread out in the
back seat. Mom had some groceries and
was putting them into the car when another car, full of teen boys, pulled up
alongside ours and lobbed three fresh eggs through Dad’s open window. The eggs smacked open on top and on front of
the dashboard, slowly dripping down into the heater vents, onto the floorboard,
and, of course, all over us.
My Dad’s first reaction, as usual,
was to blame Mom.
“If you weren’t so goddamn slow we’d
have been gone before they drove by.”
Mom just took it, as usual.
Mom’s first reaction was to clean
things up. She wanted to go back into
the store to get some rags to clean up the car, and us. But Dad would have none of that.
“Get in the goddamn car; I’ve gotta’
go find these little sons of bitches.”
“Oh, Glenn, how are you going to
find them?”
“I know where they hang out. They’ll be at Frisch’s in a few minutes,
probably bragging to Terry about what they just done. I’ll bet they’re friends of his. Hell, he prob’ly put them up to it!”
Terry and my other brother, Bill,
are children from my Mom’s first marriage, so of course they never could do
much right, as far as my father was concerned.
My Mom was forever trying to take up for them; my father was forever
blaming them.
Dad drove us home, practically
shoved us out of the car, and took off for Frisch’s to catch these local
snot-nosed thugs who pelted our nice Ford station wagon with chicken embryos. Mom wanted to clean the car, first, but Dad said
no.
“I’m going to make those little
bastards pay. They’re going to clean
every inch of this goddamn car and make it look brand new.” We stood on our front-porch steps, watching
Dad frantically throw the car into reverse, practically taking out the utility
pole that stood in front of our house, jammed the gear shift down to D, and
took off towards Frisch’s. Wow.
I pictured a carload of bloody
teens, returning home and trying to explain how some man had beat the living
shit out of them. Because if my father
had found those kids, that’s exactly what he would have done. He had an irrational temper, and many times
in my life did I witness it come to its tempestuous fruition, not the least being the time he was playing football with my brothers and fell and cracked a
rib. He broke a coke bottle against the
house and threatened to slice both my brothers open at the necks.
“They did that on purpose!” he
said, finishing off another beer.
The car sped up Grandview Avenue,
barely slowing down at the busy intersection with Breckinridge Lane.
Two hours later Dad returned home,
dejected and exhausted from all the anger.
He couldn’t find the kids that perpetrated that heinous crime, but he
had threatened about a dozen kids to call him and tell him if they learned who
had “destroyed” his car. Yeah, he
understood teenagers really well.
He came into the house and went
right to bed.
The next day was a Saturday, so
everyone was off work or out of school, except Mom. That’s when Dad decided the car should be
cleaned. But by then the eggs had dried
solid, almost melding into the plastic of the beige dashboard. We scrapped and scrubbed, scratching the
dashboard in places, until we had removed as much as possible. It wasn’t until the following winter, when
Dad first turned on the car’s heater, that he realized we hadn’t completely
removed the eggs from the car.
“Goddamn kids!”
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