On a recent recommendation from my buddy Chad, I came across Bloodlines on Netflix. Chad knew the show about a severely dysfunctional Florida family would speak to me in a way The Waltons never could. Far too many of the similarities between television and my minds eye straddle the thin line between abnormal and completely fucked up. Frankly, it should give me PTSD rather than entertain me but it does; less as a dark and tense drama but somehow oddly comforting. On a very rare occasion I see something and think
OK, even we wouldn’t do that
That notion comes with what Bart Simpson once noted isn’t pride but better described as “less shame.” Obviously, that is a fickle and fleeting satisfaction. The real comfort comes when the awkward tension rests right in my familial wheelhouse.
The show starts with a dark and forboding voice over.
"Sometimes you know something’s coming. You can feel it. In the air. In your gut. And you don’t sleep at night. The voice in your head is telling you that something is going to go terribly wrong and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
I was hooked in a way that my buddy, having been raised in a nice family never could be, what with their morals, sound decision making, and decency. As I watched, I rubbed my hands together and took comfort in the knowledge that I was at home with my people.
Had my eight year old self known the benefit of a team of writers providing me with thoughts and inner monologue, these would have been the exact words in my head when, on a seemingly average Sunday afternoon, I peered into the back seat of my parents idling Ford Mustang and saw a six pack of beer. Even at eight, I don't don't need an inner monologue. I knew that six pack stood as a clear harbinger of doom to me. I didn’t know how but I knew it was going to lead to trouble. I grew that much more certain as my parents blew by me, stopping long enough to inform me they were leaving me in the care of my brother David, nine years older and my sworn enemy.
No team of writers necessary, the wheels were in motion for our own ominous tale. It was sans the benefit of voice over but chock full of honor insulted and defended set against a backdrop of drunken bad decisions and apparently, Valium. Had I known, I would have asked to go and when refused, I simply would have stood in front of the car in a protest that would match the resolve of The Tiananmen Square Tank Man. Of course I didn't have that foresight. My parents were gone, leaving in a cloud of rock and gravel, any notion that this Sunday was going to be average.
Despite only being on the planet for 8 years, I had already amassed a few life experiences beyond the norm. Suffice to say, I had learned early on that nothing was off the table where our family dynamic was concerned. It's prepared me well for adulthood but at eight tender years, that dynamic produced profound, terror on a near daily basis that was unsubstantiated at best four percent of the time.
Thus, as afternoon turned to evening ominous foreboding became sheer panic run amok. Initially, I tried the exercise in futility that was telling myself there was no reason for concern. My dad won’t stay gone long because he knows I’ll worry. I actually did hold out a shred of hope for that one. Despite his many sins, my dad didn’t drink much when I was younger. He grew up around drinkers and he was scared by it. Others in my family drank and he knew it scared me. He was honestly sensitive to that and it curtailed his drinking. That, and he preferred opiates.
The feint hopes evaporated one after the other. As I waited deep into the night, my hysterical bargaining devolved into catatonia and my capacity for worry was outpaced by the exhaustion it took to maintain such frantic levels and I fell asleep. Considering the sheer lack of hours left in the day, it must have been shortly after that I awoke to my dad. His gargantuan head mere inches from my own, he reeked of booze and had a look of equal parts fury and determination. My hysteria immediately returned in full force as he insisted I come outside to the garage, stopping only to treat my brother to a similar gentle and paternal lull from the safety of sleep. Being that my dad's intent was obviously void of any decent parental decision whatsoever, I have to think David’s own fear and confusion might not have matched mine but surely had to be present as we followed the angry drunken giant out our kitchen door.
Upon timidly entering the garage, I immediately knew whatever happened was beyond my own potent imagination. A man I had never seen stood before us. Despite the confusion produced by the hysteria and the eleven minutes of sleep from which I had just been drunkenly roused, several things were instantly clear. The anger I had sensed in my dad was very real. It was clear this man was the unfortunate object of that anger. That bit of clarity came in the form of this stranger's ashen face, mottled with tell-tale purple and red blotches. In some cosmically fucked measure, this person, my brother, and I were in this little adventure together. If nothing else, we certainly had some things in common.
Based on the rumpled pajamas, our first connection to this man: He had also been rousted from his bed by my father. Another commonality between the three of us rested in the fact that none of us knew how or when it was going to end but were confident that the end was going to go badly. Finally, all three of us were equally confident that it was going to end much worse for one of us and here is where the similarities ended.
For starters, I am as certain as anything in my life before or since, that this man’s waking moments were drastically more unpleasant than ours. Also, as a result of a likely detailed explanation from my dad, this man was certainly not confused. Knowing my father as I did, I am certain he made very clear how dire and precarious things were shaping up for said man who, for all intents and purposes, was his hostage. In direct correlation to this lie another diversion between us and it stood as glaringly obvious on that doughy face as the mottling and bruises. The degree of terror felt by this man was greater than anything we had ever known. Our combined twenty-five years could not produce a fraction of the fear of the situation in which he found himself currently mired. Despite having seen our fair share, we simply were physiologically incapable of producing the terror this man felt. His eyes were wide and darting. He was utterly silent. For all I knew, my dad had kidnapped and beaten a mute and brought him to hang in our garage like a prized 8-point.
Deciding he had provided enough dramatics in the entrance, my dad got right to the second act. He called the man Bob and an inkling of understanding crept in. The fact that any eight year old on the planet could have any understanding in a situation like this shouldn’t be glossed over but as I said, I'd seen some shit. I had heard talk of Bob and knew that he was more an acquaintance of my mom, having grown up with her. Tragically for Bob, I also knew how much my dad hated him; though, I guess Bob was probably hip to that by this point.
I didn’t learn it that night but in the weeks that followed, I got some background which again, should be framed against the fact that I witnessed the entire event while wearing size 6 Underoos. Apparently at some point recently, Bob crossed paths with my eldest brother Tim at a bar and brazenly called our mother a name. I likely was told, again at the age of eight, what the name was but I have since forgotten, lost in many more important details to the story. However, in that exact moment, there was nothing in the world more important to my brother than that word except my mother herself. We are all protective of our mom and love her dearly so I can say with no shame that Tim’s love of our mom stood on another level. There was no chance this particular aggression would stand. I’m a little surprised because he could have probably ended the thing then and there. Seemingly every teenager in the seventies knew some Karate. Tim was no different. More importantly, I don’t imagine the shaking, sobbing Bert Lahr version of Bob before me was much more formidable in his normal life. However, my brother must have considered that one of the meaner and tougher people he knew happened to be married to his mother so why not make sure the message is well sent and well received. Being the closest thing to a hero this story has, I’d like to think my brother left that bar and immediately found my dad and put the wheels of this story towards its furious and what should have been felonious, conclusion. Upon hearing the news, I am positive my dad made an instant decision as to what had to be done. My dad believed in old west justice and justice took off her blindfold in a garage turned mock courtroom on Whitewood Drive at 3 am.
After bringing David and I up to speed as to the evidentiary rulings and pretrial procedures, he diverted from form as he was want to do and decided to combine the cross examination and the punishment phase in one. This appeared to be done much to the chagrin of the cowardly defendant and the youthful witnesses. I’m sure David wasn’t enjoying himself, and as badly as I wanted this to stop, I had nothing on old Bob.
From up on high, the judge began issuing his commands.
Apologize to these boys Bob!
Before Bob could get the word “I” from his quivering lips my dad changed from judge to executioner and back again, landing a fleshy backhand before repeating his command with greater insistence.
I SAID APOLOGIZE!
Whack!
(Jesus, how about you let him apologize instead of slapping the shit out of him and maybe he will.)
Thinking the exact same thing, Bob rapidly and hysterically screamed in one frantic word.
IAPOLOGIZE!
For his part, Bob was trying to comply as quickly as possible. I’m sure part of this was adrenaline and part of it was a desire to get the words out in the split second he had before my dad slapped him again. Or, maybe he thought if he got the apology out, this would be over. Again, it was unfortunate for all of us, none more than Bob. My dad was just getting started.
The pattern was the same. My dad would give a command, slap Bob before he could comply, command again in a tone louder and more insistent and then slap him a final time.
They developed an interesting Fred and Ginger chemistry. Playing off my dad's lead, like a doughy, emasculated rodent, Bob would try in vain to comply, wince and sob as the back of his captor's giant paw found its mark, scurry away to avoid that second backhand, fail miserably and then scream an urgent and pleading compliance. Considering the obvious pattern, Bob was stunningly consistent in failure as my dad’s giant hand found its mark time after time.
Tell these boys you’re a coward!
Whack!
TELL ‘EM YOU’RE A COWARD!
Whack!
IMMACOWARDBOYS!
(Got it Bob. Maybe if you shut up and take it, this will end because heads up...the screaming, scurrying, and sobbing seem to be highly satisfying to your nemesis here.)
Tell my boys you're a piece of shit!
Whack!
I SAID TELL THEM YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT!
Whack!
IMMAPIECEOFSHITBOYS!
(Alright for fucks sake, we get it. Can we please go and start the futile attempt at repressing this now?)
I don’t know how long it went on. It seemed to go on forever which is a fraction of the time it must have seemed to Bob. But, all of us stayed through to the pathetic, horrifying end. For mine and my brother’s part, I knew my dad would never have harmed us but after seeing Bob get worked over, my dad had the room. Jesus Christ himself could not have moved me from that garage. As unlikely The Savior appearing in our garage was, there was even less odds that Bob would be soon leaving it.
Finally my brother and I were mercifully excused. As predicted, it was abundantly clear that applied only to my brother and I. We immediately made an about face and left Bob to whatever else my dad had in store for him. A trip to the homes of extended family members so Bob could be meted out with further justice wasn’t completely out of the question. No longer asleep or confused, I had a singular goal. I was not going to be by myself for the rest of that night or any other night for the foreseeable future. Two inches from his six and without a word, I followed my brother up the stairs and, before he could even consider shutting his door, continued directly and forcefully into his room. David, despite acting as my chief antagonist and torturer for every single day I could ever remember, was my only ally and to his credit, he didn’t let me down. He said nothing but pointed to the floor beside his bed. Without a word, not wanting to risk a change of heart, I lie down with neither pillow nor blanket but covered by a gratitude beyond words.
Years later my brother and I were driving somewhere and completely out of nowhere he launched into this memory. My brother spends his life hitting things with a hammer and using his strength and will to pound things into place so I was surprised by this odd psychoanalytic bonding. Feelings are not often top of mind for my brother.
Hey, you remember when dad woke us up and slapped the shit out of that guy for talking about mom?
Trying to sound ironically disaffected, I replied.
“Uhhhhh yep….yeah. I REMEMBER that.”
I emphasized “remember” for effect be it tragic or comic. Maybe both.
My brother paused for a second.
You suppose that fucked us up? It had to, right?
Now the pause belonged to me. I stared at him and when I decided he was serious, I could no longer continue my disaffected ruse.
Fuck yeah I think it fucked us up!
Speaking to no one at all, I matched my declaration in intensity and exasperation by asking a question with no desire for an answer. I'm not sure if it was a response to my brother, my own reflection of the night, or both. Again, I emphasized what I deemed the more important words.
WHAT the FUCK, man?
My question hung there unanswered in the cab of my brother’s truck. There was no possible answer or explanation then or now. Including the night in question, the days and weeks to follow, and the subsequent thirty years until that day, this was the only time my brother and I spoke of it and we never spoke of it again.
I did try and gain some understanding once. In the weeks after, I sought out my dad, an obvious move when you consider the sensitive, compassionate, nature and superior parental skills he had exhibited a few weeks prior.
Self-monitoring clearly not my father’s strong suit, he happily obliged and launched into the entire tale. He told me of the exchange between my brother and Bob. He explained his need for retribution in the name of defending my mom from whatever she had been called. This seemed in contrast to the other fact he shared, that being, he left my mother at a bar with no way home to seek said retribution. But still terrified, I decided against pointing out that disconnect or that he introduced me to several curse words by first hurling them at my mother while in my presence. He told me the story from the beginning, stunningly deciding against skipping any detail. Most notably and inexplicably (which is a fairly bold statement considering the myriad of inappropriate details) he mentioned that Bob tried to offer my dad Valium to calm him down. Despite having no idea what it was or what it did, he proudly told me his response to the offer
“Keep ‘em Motherfucker! You’re gonna need ‘em”
In his life, my dad may have never been more honest than in his direct response to Bob; furthermore, considering his penchant for pharmaceuticals, never as magnanimous.
Still confused and terrified, I asked no follow ups. Ultimately he could see I wasn’t getting the message and tried to explain it away as best he could.
“Someday, you’ll understand.”
Well...I certainly tried. I considered all varieties of angles and excuses. My dad saw a wrong and felt the need to right it.
He was physically imposing.
He operated by his own fucked up code. Being that it changed on a whim based on his thinking at any given instant, the code was derelict of reason or understanding likely even to him and certainly to the rest of us but it was there. He named his son after his favorite gun slinging cowboy so retribution in the style of The Old West might have been the only unsurprising and unwavering facet of the code and the entire story as a whole. Had he not gone about it all as piss poor a manner as he could conceive, he might have been right about my understanding but he wasn’t. I’ve never understood his thinking on this one and I’ve come to know him better than anyone.
Ultimately, I got something better.
In the months leading up to the birth of my son, I diverted from the pride and comfort of our family's dysfunction and set course for righteous indignation. I proudly told anyone who would listen that I vowed my children wouldn't see those kind of things when in reality, my superiority made me look like a pompous ass. First, everyone makes a similar vow and it wasn't like the bar was set particularly high. All I had to do was avoid the pitfall of kidnapping a doughy coward with a charitable attitude towards Valium and not slap him around my garage as my terrified children cowered in the corner.
Second, I desperately needed perspective and thankfully that arrogance crumbled in the face of simple experience. I had my kids and fucked up in my own monumental and less interesting ways and that righteous indignation fell away quickly. I still don’t understand what led him to even conceive that night was a good idea. However, and more importantly, I became a dad, fucked up in my daily course of being one and grew to understand him. I actually grew to feel most sorry for my dad in the entire ordeal. It's a stunning development when you consider the kids in the story, to say nothing of Bob. I know my dad adored me and I'm sure he had inconceivable and immediate remorse the next day and I hope it passed quickly. There was no need for him to punish himself. He fucked up and knew it. He tried to explain it away in the midst of his own shame on that one instance I asked him about it. He first tried to emphasize his nobility and physical prowess. I’m guessing the inclusion of a controlled substance into the story was an attempt at humor. He did hit the mark on that, it just took 15 years. Finally he gave up and offered that platitude.
Someday, you’ll understand.
This is where I feel most sad for him, not as his son but as one father to another. Both possess a near-consuming love for their children in endless capacity and both armed with an ability to fuck up despite wanting nothing more than to never again do so. I see him walking away in shame and hoping he was right, for his sake as much as mine that I would understand someday. As he does, his own inner monologue kicks in and somewhere in his head he hears John Fogerty sing what he already knows and knows I will learn much too soon for his liking.
"I’m here to tell you now, each and every mother’s son. You better learn it fast, you better learn it young because Someday Never Comes."
