And now another chapter from...

"Donald: What Did I Drink?"

Chapter Six: My Father, That Bastard

"I hate my father. I hate him for what he did to me, my mother, the monestary on 7th and Johnson, and the minor league baseball team that practiced at the field adjacent to our house. I've never told him this to his face, because while I hate him, damn did I respect him. It's a good thing he is dead, because I can't imagine him picking up this book, reading that I hate him, and then taking me out for pie and darts (our regular Sunday night outing, until the Quakers moved in next door.)

"I remember the day the Quakers moved in next door like it happened no more then 30 seconds ago. I ran inside, and informed my dad of what was transpiring outside. He stood up, put down his needle point, and hit me in the shoulder with a nearby 2x4. As I helped myself to my feet, he looked me in the eye, announced, "You're dead to me, son!" and downed a pint of vintage 1880 Scotch he received in the mail that morning from his imaginary friend, His Royal Highness of Scotland, King James Kiltson IVX.

"This did nothing but confirm two truths I've always known about my father: he loves his Scotch more then there are stars in the sky; and- while he has never had a single "real" friend, all of his imaginary friends were of high stature, both in the political world and the underground crime world. I am reminded of the temper-tantrum my father threw the morning I told him King Kiltson was not welcome to join us on our father-son Cub Scouts' trip to the local Humane Society. I have never seen a grown man punch a kitten to death with such vulgar hatred before in my life. (I would put it on par with the last time I saw my father punch a kitten to death. I had just informed him we would not be able to "afford" to fly in his "best-friend- in-the-whole-wide-world-ever," Lord Pickleberry Of Southeastern Northwestville in for my third wedding, and he beat the hell out of that kitten. The hell I say.)

"After my father shared with me his wishes that I be dead, and that I no longer associate with him, I saw him get in his car and drive to his job at the Make-Your-Own Taco stand he manned outside of the Little Theatre. He worked there day in and day out, thirteen-hour days for as long as I knew him. He'd always bring left-over and expired shredded lettuce and sour cream home as a treat. If we were good.

"And I was never good. At least, according to my dad. He would always yell that at me as I drove away. He even did it on that fateful day when he let me know I was dead to him. And it meant more to me then anything I've ever experienced before or after. Ever.

"I think that was the last time I saw my father alive and in control of all his motor-capabilities before the zoo accident . . ."

Archives (when more then one is written.)