I could barely see the newspaper I was reading, when something outside caught my eye. I see my Dad looking out his front door. His front door is actually a back door. He lives in a little in-law house that's located just in front of the main house, so his front (back) door faces directly to the french doors that lead into our kitchen. It's not as confusing as it sounds.
He looks straight at me. I can see him through the space between the shutters, but can he see me? I'm in the back of the kitchen, which is actually the front of the kitchen if you're in the main house. The lights are out. It's dark in here. I turn my the light on my cap off. I'm not moving. Not even breathing. My music is so low that if you didn't know it was on you probably wouldn't hear it. But my Dad can hear it. Somehow, and I don't know how it's even possible, somehow he can hear it. He can hear everything. Everything except the stuff he's supposed to hear.
My Dad opens his door. Takes a cautious step outside. Shuts and locks his door. I guess he's afraid his three year-old great-grandson might break inside his house and steal his TV or something. He's still looking in my direction, his eyes bugging out for better focus, I suppose. He walks across the courtyard and tests the doorknob on the kitchen door. It's open.
Dang, I forgot to lock it.
He turns the doorknob, pushes the door in, and comes inside... but it's too late. Like a ninja, I've disappeared into the shadows.
"Heh, heh, heh," I laughed to myself.
Today was payback for me, because of yesterday. Man is a creature of habit, and I grab myself my noon cup of coffee. I'm sitting in the island in the kitchen. I grabbed the newspaper. My Dad has already had his way with it, so it's all mixed up. I pay for the paper, so you would think that the least my Dad could do would be to put it back in order when he was done. You would think so, but you'd be wrong.
My Dad is sitting in the great room in his favorite chair. It used to be my favorite chair, but when my Dad moved in, it became his favorite chair.
"Just sit somewhere else," my wife would tell me. "What does it matter?"
Spoken like a woman. I don't mean that in a sexist way. I'm just saying that women don't understand the need to mark and defend their territories. Let me just say that, to men, it matters.
My Dad is watching something else besides baseball. He's watching reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Bob Crane is his favorite actor. I once tried to tell him how Bob Crane died, but my Dad would have none of it. My Dad also likes to watch the afternoon news, mainly because of the weather girl with big boobs.
I grab the newspaper, and I try to put it in order. I say "try" because there's no Sports Section. No Sports Section? That's right, there's no Sports Section.
"Dad," I call out to him, "do you have the Sports Section?"
No answer. Bob Crane is kissing Colonel Klink's sexy blonde secretary. That's got my Dad's attention.
"Dad." Pause. "Dad!"
"What are you yelling at me for?" he finally answers.
"Do you have the Sports Section?"
"What?"
"Do you have the Sports Section?"
"The Sports Section?"
"Yeah."
"What would I be doing with the Sports Section? I don't like sports."
This from a man who watches ninety-nine per cent baseball--and one per cent women with big boobs--on television.
"When you were reading the newspaper, did you put it someplace?"
"Why would I do that?"
I don't know, to drive me nuts? That's what I wanted to tell him. What I actually said was: "Because you were reading the paper."
"What?"
"Maybe you misplaced the Sports Section, because you were reading the paper."
"I haven't read the paper."
It was my turn to go, "What?"
"I haven't read the paper this morning."
I looked at the newspaper in my hands. It was like an unmade jigsaw puzzle with one missing piece.
"What do you mean you haven't read the paper?"
"What do you mean what do I mean? I haven't read the paper."
I look at my Dad. There's not a girl with big boobs on the TV screen, so he's looking at me back, directly in my eyes.
"I... haven't... read... the... paper," he insists.
What do I do? Call him a liar? My wife will read the paper eventually, but in the morning all she's interested in are the ads. That's how she plans her day. By deciding where she's going to spend our retirement funds. My point being that I know it's not her who disected the newspaper.
I think my Dad must have thrown out the Sports Section to get even with me for yesterday. Either that, or he likes looking at the sexy pictures in the gentlemen club ads. I can't fault him for that. I would just like to read the Sports Section first, before he hides those sexy pictures under the mattress of his bed.
My Dad's still looking me square in the eye. Daring me to call him a liar. I know inside he's laughing. At me.
He makes a large smack, smack, smack noise, and turns back to watch the television. I go back to trying to put back the newspaper in its original order. I'll read what's left, but I won't enjoy it.
No, siree... I won't enjoy it at all.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com. American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
No comments:
Post a Comment