Balls

Dad was two weeks past thirteen when he first embraced his God given talent (Dad’s words not mine) of clear thinking.  Being two years older than every other kid in his 5th grade class bothered him something fierce.  It bothered him day and night.  Even on weekends when he'd normally be out burning ants with a magnifier or blowing up toads with cherry bombs, he was inside moping around – thinking.  Finally, on a hot September afternoon, he got to the bottom of it.  It wasn’t his fault!  No sir. Old man Horvath held him back twice, cause Horvath was a prick and he liked busting balls - mostly Dad's.

From that moment on, Dad was a clear thinker.   He’d get to the bottom of every plot or no good plan by answering a few simple questions.  Who's doing it?  How are they doing it?  Who are they doing it to?  And finally, what are they doing?  With age came maturity.  With maturity, wisdom.  For Dad, wisdom brought not only clarity of mind but simplified thinking.  Before his twentieth birthday,  he'd eliminated the “who” and the “what.”  Those always ended up being “them” and “balls.”  The “to whom” was fairly predictable as well.  It usually circled back to the guy living in Dad’s trousers. 

He could've boiled the "hows" down too, but where was the fun in that.  They kept Dad's creative juices flowing.  So much so, he had a little black book and a tiney pencil in his back pocket.  He'd write them down as they came to him.  In no particular order.  I only saw the book once when Dad was passed out drunk.  I was scared shitless but I eased it out of his pocket and took a look.  It was chock full.  Hundreds of hows; kicked, squeezed, stomped on, stepped on, stole, broke, busted, ripped off, cut off, pinched, punched, mangle, mutilate, mashed, smashed, shattered, yanked, fracture...on they went, page after page.

Dad wasn’t what you’d call a big man.  He stood five-seven but only carried a hundred twenty-seven pounds.  His shoe leather skin sagged and bunched like a poor fitting suite.  A u-shaped crown of thinning brown hair circles his head and reached to his shoulders.  Not much muscle, but he was quick.  Always twitching and jumping like a trapped rodent.  His long, thin, nicotine stained fingers tapped and fidgeted.  His right index finger was curved slightly at the first knuckle.  Bent from years of poking my chest as he drove home the finer points of ball bashing.  Lucky for me he kept his nails bit to the quick so he never broke skin while jack-hammering my chest.  He was dark complected, not from honest work (he didn’t believe in work of any kind) but from blood line.  The eldest of twelve children.  His Italian father and Hispanic mother gave birth to a tribe of faux American Indian.  A bunch of nasty, mean spirited, lazy, good for nothing half breeds.  All except Uncle Walter – he was okay.

 Dad never showed me any love or affection that I can remember.  The only time he ever touched me was to poke chest or smacked the back of my head (when poking didn’t drive the point home fast enough).  Maybe that was just Dad’s way, but it made me wonder if he was really my Dad.  Maybe he got stuck with me somehow.  When I asked him if I could see my birth certificate, he told me it got lost during the move from Helmetta.  When I asked Uncle Walter, his recollection was different.  “...the fuck lost!” he grunted through loose phlegm.  “That son of a whore used it as packin material.  Wrapped up his favorite mug with it.  The mermaid one with the big titties.  The one he got at the Steel Pier.  Saw 'em do it...”

 Last fall, on a stretch of Fresh Pond Road just south of CR610, it came clear to me that Dad loved his beer more than me.  We were heading back to the trailer when our 1942 Ford pick-up, quit for the last time.  Dad wasn’t the best when it came to driving. Some of it was style, some was the busted clutch.  Whatever the cause, a deaf man could hear us coming a mile away.  So, with the engine reving, gears gnashing and Dad drinking, the old Ford gave up the ghost for good.  Dad’s head was still tipped back, coaxing the last few drops from a Schlitz when she quit.  “BALLS!” Dad shouted.  Spraying beer on the windshield as he stomps in on the clutch.   Before the truck rolled ten feet, he threw her into neutral, let out the clutch, reaches over and grab the last of the six pack sitting between us, shouldered his door open and jumped.  Just before jumping, he looked over at me and says; “Boy, you better get your balls out of here less you want to get them smashed to shit.”  Then he was gone.