The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 31: Surviving Adolescence

Everyone knows the stereotypes of the son and the distant father: the resourceful father with the inept boy; the athletic father and the bookish kid; the extrovert father siring an introvert son; and on and on. Freud had plenty to say about these relationships. (Best not to dig too deep in that morass.) As a child, I sensed I was not the son my father had expected.

I don't think being a different type of boy would have made a difference. We never discussed emotional or personal issues. Not unusual in the staid 1950s. I cannot remember him holding me in his lap or giving me a hug. (He must have, but why don't I remember?) Some expectations of fatherhood have changed since that decade. Some have not.

Dad wasn't cruel, but rather indifferent, impatient, preoccupied. He was happiest building his model railroad in the cellar or his sailboat in the garage. I never thought of Dad as a passionate man. Loyal – yes. Responsible – definitely. Intelligent – absolutely. Never a hint about another woman. He was not a strict disciplinarian preferring to leave that to Mom. As a man, he worked to support his family. At home, Mom was in charge.

Adolescence is constructed on the bedrock of sexuality. Dad never talked to me about sex. Sometimes he and I skated too close to sex for comfort. For example, the 'Human Sexuality' lecture. And then there was Scouting. The summer before eighth grade, I went to Scout camp. The week before leaving, I returned from delivering papers to find a bag on my bed. Inside I found a jock strap! I put it on and studied myself in front of the bathroom mirror. I looked sexy. Dad never mentioned he'd bought it for me, and I never indicated I'd found it. Everything was left unsaid.

Dad gave me one piece of advice before I left for camp. "As a new scout, some older boys may try to do something to you. My advice: take it like a man and don't be a tattle-tale."

"What do you mean?" I asked, being a smart ass. "Like short-sheeting my sleeping bag?"

"Something like that." He walked away, shaking his head, knowing I had not missed his point.

He was right to think that. I wasn't totally naive. I knew my father's words referred to sex, but in what way? His tone hinted at something exciting, but forbidden, catnip for the adolescent mind. Homoeroticism hangs over a Scout campsite like dense smoke from a smoldering fire of damp wood. At camp, I saw a scout put a stick between his legs and rub it. "Hmm," I thought, "I'll have to try that when I get home." If there had been a jerk off badge, I would have earned it hands down.

By the time leaves fell off the trees, I'd sprouted hair on my chin. One Saturday I told my father I needed to shave. "You can use my razor. It's in the medicine cabinet." Case closed. Did I expect him to jump up with enthusiasm, escort me to the bathroom, and show me how to insert the razor and hold it at the correct angle against my skin? The razor reminded me of the fin on a fish and looked dangerous. What if I cut an artery?

"Dad, I need help."

He came into the bathroom, acting impatiently.

I managed to shave without slicing myself, but that was the only satisfaction I got from the experience. It could have been a perfect moment for bonding, long overdue. But by that time, I'd internalized the belief he didn't think of me as a sexual male. I'd grown up suspecting I'd done something wrong and was flawed in some profound way.

Around this time, my father and I connected in a strange and indirect way. He was never aware of it. With the family away for the afternoon and the house empty, I went to the bathroom to masturbate. This was during my 'at-every-opportunity' stage of my teenage years. When finished, I had to pee. My urine smelled different from normal. I couldn't describe the smell, but the odor was distinct and pungent.

Then I remembered a morning six years earlier. While I took a bath before school, Dad came into the bathroom, raised the toilet seat, and peed. The smell! Why did my mind retain this nasal memory from childhood? Now that morning came back as if it had happened only the day before. I suppose at seven years old, anything to do with the size and shape of a penis or the color, volume, and odor of urine was a scrap of information that I instinctively knew was important to remember.

With the memory of that smell, I concluded my father jerked off in bed after Mom got up and before he shaved. Dad does this? He's married! In a nonverbal way, my father had told me something about the reality of sex and I only 'heard' him six years later.

Every day during recess, I listened, kept count, and arrived at the conclusion that every boy beat his meat, choked his chicken, cranked his shank, fisted his mister, flogged the log, frosted his pastries, humped his hose, pulled his weasel, spanked his monkey, wanked his crank...It only takes a word and imagination.

Learning about my father was a revelation. For the first time, the temple door opened, and I belonged in the tribe.