Father's Curse

Father's Curse

Kids are always embarrassed by their parents, myself included. The
problem for me is that I resemble mine so much, my father in
particular. His mannerisms became mine, the distinctive timbre of his
deep baritone voice he shared with me as my stature approached his. I
took many things from him; his jokes, his stories, his booming laugh.
To his dismay I also took up his world class cursing.

You have to know where my father comes from to understand this stellar
talent. He grew up on the mean streets of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in
the shadow of the elevated train station at the intersection of
Kensington and Alleghany streets, know by the natives as K&;A. He
fostered his penchant for salty talk in the alleys and back streets of
the City of Brotherly Love. He snatched up choice morsels of snappy
patter at school, the playground and yes, even at church. His home
inspiration was Grandma, whom my father claims could peel paint right
off a garage door by the sheer force of her fierce oration. By the time
Dad graduated from elementary school he had the working vocabulary of
an entire shift of foul-mouthed dock-workers. High school and college
brought new opportunities to add to his arsenal. He discovered that the
English language was rich with insulting and degrading expressions and,
as time passed, he developed the ability to disparage an adversary
without the victim even grasping the gist of the exchange.

But he really shone when he was angry. When you raised Dad's ire,
everyone in earshot knew it. Being cussed out by Dad was a harrowing
experience to say the least. Threats, profanities, aspersions on your
character, outraged questions about the quality of your intelligence or
lack thereof; all mixed freely with a Shakespearean vocabulary of
explosive variety and accented by a flurry of flashing hand gestures.
What can I say? Dad's intense.

As you move away from home, you strive to distance yourself from your
parents. In fact, in public some of us will even deny we have any. I'm
guilty of this to a point. Alas, my father's faults are so entertaining
that if I deny him, I lose some of my best material. Nonetheless,
before new friends would meet my dad, I tried to prepare them in a vain
attempt to mitigate the impact. (I won't begin to narrate the
mortifying ordeal of introducing my girlfriend to Dad. Suffice it to
say that this trial-by-fire was so outrageous that nothing I could do
to drive her away would compare. Having seen one of Dad's tirades from
a safe distance, she confided to me later that she was now immune to
shock, could witness the entire panorama of human suffering with calm
detachment and should probably sell all her worldly possessions and
join the Peace Corps. After that kind of life-changing adventure,
marrying me was an anti-climax.)

Another useless attempt at preparing a chum happened during college. I
had found a new friend named Charlie. He had wavy dark auburn hair, big
brown eyes, a kind smile set in a round face with a big friendly jaw;
in short he appeared the model of cherubic innocence. He also had a
streak of malicious mischief I would regret not having spotted
sooner.

Dad called one Saturday to invite me and whomever I would care to
bring along to storm the local amusement park with our entire clan and
have a picnic lunch, his treat. I immediately thought of Charlie. It
sounded like a great time. Charlie was a churchgoer, so naturally I
assumed he would be scandalized by my father's unpredictable behavior.
On the way to the park, I explained gently to Charlie about my father's
tendencies and he assured me that he would be prepared. We found the
family arrayed at the covered picnic tables already digging in. I led
Charlie over and sat down by Dad. Over fried chicken, potato salad,
pickles and chips, I introduced Charlie and jovially swapped news with
everybody. Dad started up a conversation with Charlie and I held my
breath. Dad was normally really genial but he could sneak up on you. It
seemed to be going pretty well though, so I started to relax.

Suddenly, Charlie turned on me. "So, Chris tells me you swear a lot"
he chirped, with a crooked smirk. Dad froze, a forkful of pork and
beans suspended halfway between his plate and his stony visage. My
mouth dropped open. How could Charlie sell me out like that? I knew I
was in for trouble. I winced in anticipation. I wasn't prepared for
what happened next.

With quiet dignity, my father carefully lowered his fork. "I have no
idea what he's talking about," he intoned soberly, giving me a side
glance of disapproval. "Sometimes your kids exaggerate your weaknesses
to their friends," he explained, a note of sad resignation in his
voice. "Happens to me all the time. I've tried to dissuade them, but
they all do it." He nodded toward the rest of the family. "I guess it
makes them feel more independent or something."

"I know what you mean", Charlie sympathized, "my little brother is
always doing the same to me."

I couldn't believe my ears. I was eating lunch with a traitor AND a
liar. At that point it was obvious that anything I said would merely
confirm my infidelity as a son, so I shut up and ate, letting the
conversation wander around without me for a while. After lunch, we all
decided it was time for the rides.

The roller coaster at our local amusement park is built to give a
false air of sturdiness. It's one of the only full-sized wooden
coasters still in use in America. It's always painted a spotless white,
like an enormous picket fence. It doesn't appear too high or scary from
the road, but kind of low and squat and homey, inviting you to a
pleasant little ride in wide friendly circles and mild rolling dips.
Looking at it you'd never know that it was a clacking, rickety
death-trap calculated to rip the air from your lungs as it hurtles you
'round hairpin turns at speeds not meant for humans and over rises that
drop away suddenly to abandon you and the tiny metal cart in which
you're strapped to the vagaries of gravity. It must have been
envisioned by a sadist with a nasty sense of humor. In short, its
incredibly popular.

Dad and Charlie and I strolled by the long coaster-line nonchalantly,
the two of them chatting like old war buddies, while I listened
sullenly. Dad put his arm around Charlie's shoulders, pointed to me and
said, "What do you say, Charlie. Shall we take Ol' Faithless here on
the Roller Coaster?" Charlie agreed enthusiastically. I hid a grin. I'd
been on the coaster with Dad dozens of times. I knew I'd soon be
vindicated and my reputation restored.

The wait was long. Dad choose the back of the coaster, just like he
always did. I smiled in anticipation. Charlie and I took the seat just
in front of him, letting the automatic bar drop over our heads and into
our laps. The car jerked loose of its moorings and slipped around the
corner to start the long, agonizing crawl to the top of the highest
rise. The chain under the car hummed metallically, ringing as it spun
around the cogs. The car clicked rhythmically and the tension rose
palpably. As we neared the top, all the passengers held their breath at
once. There was a moment of pure silence as the car seemed to hang in
time on the peak of that precipice of shiny steel rails and blinding
white wood. Gulls wheeled above us and we gazed out over the sea of
multi-colored automobiles filling the parking lot that stretched a
half-mile in all directions below.

Then the car lurched forward and everyone screamed wordlessly at once.
Except for Dad. He let loose a burst of blistering invective that would
have curled the ear-hairs of the most jaded sailor. Beginning with 'A',
his abuse ran the gamut to 'Z' and beyond, with several picturesque
stop-offs for all the more interesting letters in-between. To describe
his swearing in geographical terms, we visited every scenic port in a
worldwide tour of creative, multi-cultural, Olympic-level cursing. He
left a blue streak in the air, not even pausing to breathe as we
squealed around the first rib-breaking corner. The condemnation
continued as we rocketed over the bumps, which only changed the volume
of the profanities, hiccup-like as the air was forced from his lungs.
Purple prose chased us around corners, up hills, down inclines and
finally caught us as we careened around the final turn and screeched to
a stop, the hiss of the pneumatic brakes censoring the last vexations
as Dad finally ran out of breath. Tears of hysterical laughter
streaming down our cheeks, Charlie and I fought for air. People in the
seats in front of us were chuckling, but no one looked back. Dad
extricated himself from the back seat and waited patiently while the
two of us struggled to rise. We kept bursting into guffaws as we exited
by the ramp. Dad had the air of a chagrined house-cat caught falling
off a window sill. He looked for all the world like he'd intended it
that way all along.

Becoming a grandparent has softened my father somewhat. He has
struggled long years to rein in his temper and to temper his speech.
I've changed a lot too. I learned that Dad doesn't need me running
interference for him, and any friend of mine has to accept my dad as he
is. I no longer try to warn anyone about him, even at the amusement
park.

Besides, I'm too busy embarrassing my own kids.