Wind Beneath My Wings
Not half a year ago, I put my fist through a wall. I remember the events immediately before and immediately after, but a full recollection of the actual blow is lost to me. I only remember the blind fury slipping over my head like an assassin's garotte, the quick way the world seemed to black out and phase back in, and the unsatisfying lack of resistance as a piece of drywall crumbled under my knuckles. It takes an awful lot to make me angry; anyone who knows me has probably seen me mildly annoyed at worst. What pushed me to the brink and beyond for one overwhelming second was an email from my father. In it he said I was a lair, worthless, and eagerly invited me to get out of his house. I almost did, then, but I held out a few more months until his continuous insults and put-downs brought me to the point where I fashioned a noose out of some old rope I found in our storage unit. When I slipped it over my neck and felt the thing scratching against my neck and smelled faintly mothballs and decay, I broke. I broke down sobbing, burying my face in a pilow not to starve my brain of oxygen but to stifle my bawling. The next day, I calmly called my best friend Goose, who was wel-informed on the situation, and slipped him the code words that meant that I had hit rock bottom, that I couldn't be at my house anymore for fear of a full breakdown or worse.
Ten hours ago, I almost buried my fist in my father's sneering face. At this point, I've moved in with Goose three times to date and all for the same reason: my father is deriding me for not having a job, my father is insulting me for not working enough, my father is reminding me that he thinks I'm not worth the money he'd spend sending me to college. Tonight was good for the first ten minutes. He gave me a big smile and a hug, and we chatted for a little bit. He asked if I was working tomorrow. I'd just called my boss, so I said 'no, but I'm doing a gig Tuesday and Wednesday for another guy." My father asked if I was going to go to Labor Finders at five thirty in the morning and try to find work there. I told him that instead Colleen and I were going to call up the New College people and get our questions answered before we leave. I'm still not sure what happened next, but he started lambasting me, chiding me for being lazy, calling me irresponisble and worthless. The next thing I knew, I was on my feet and shaking. You all know that my hands normally have a tremor to them, but this was the kind of feral Parkinson's you see in people dangerously close to the brink of animalistic fury. I was yelling at him, belting out for him to shut up, to shut the fuck up, that I didn't need his fucking money, that I wasn't worthless and that I'd worked my ass off.
Then I felt it; that same creeping blackness that signaled a drop in all human tendencies. I imagine, looking back, that I heard horse hooves and smelled steel. What I really did hear was my father's voice, much smaller, saying "If you hit me, I'll call the cops." I wondered what he was talking about before I realized that I'd stopped my fist maybe two inches off the bridge of his nose. I looked down at my stepmother, whose face had blanched. I tried to remain fairly civil, and then just ignored him until he had taken his fill, and then grabbed the phone when it rang. It was my friend Goose. I briefed him in a whisper that was almost a growl about what had happened. Even though we'd done this little dance before, I must have been bad, because he sounded worried when he said "We're coming over. Don't do something stupid." I hung up the phone and I could hear my father yelling at Colleen for sticking up for me. I calmly reached down and grabbed the first object my fingers brushed-in this case, a pool cue. I tested the weight on the end, tightened my grip, hefted it a few times. It felt good in my hands, it felt RIGHT. I could feel raw power flowing beneath the grain of the wood; I knew this was The Equalizer, my weapon of righteous justice, and an oilly little voice creeped into my ear and slithered "Break his fingers, and keep him breathing." I saw the scene perfectly in my mind's eye; me kicking down the doorway, nonchalantly brushing Colleen aside while her eyes widened in horror, one last grin at my father before I brought the pool cue down across the bridge of his nose. Colleen came out of the bedroom; I'd put the cue down by then, but she asked why I was smiling.
The reason I tell you all this is because I've been lying awake for hours now playing scenes back in my head. The most common one is what I imagine to happen had I gone through with that first swing, but there are others, some brutal, most distorted recollections of my father's diatribes. My treacherous mind threw up just now a memory buried for years; I was ten years old, and we were in a restaurant. Thick, aromic, husky cigar smoke filled the air. The lights were dimmed low, and there was a pleasing buzz of the upper class chattering over lobsters the size of my one-year-old brother and expensive steaks. My father was seated at the black grand piano, in his best tuxedo. His fedora with a silk rose tucked neatly into the band was perched far back on his head. His hands started to dance across the keyboard as he began to play "Wind Beneath My Wings." The room began to fade, and there was only me, my father, and the music.
The reason I'm telling you this is the same reason that the last paragraph took me an hour to write; I had to walk away stifling sobs. I have these two conflicting images of my father, and all I can wonder is where my Dad went. Where is the music man now? Where was the man that fought hard for me to live with him, the man that always made me smile? Is it really my fault? Did I drive him away, leaving only a memory and a ligering scent of cologne?
At this point, Constant Reader, I've got some things I could worry about. I no longer have any support, financially or otherwise, for college, and I'm due to leave in eight days. I could worry about the thoughts I'm having, the flashes of nightmare while I'm still awake. There's whether or not I'll go to New College or college at all or join the military until I can cry "G.I. Bill" and pick up my life a few years down the road. There's a thousand more, but none of them matter. Because, now, Constant Reader, as I'm watching my own hands dance across the keyboard, I'm fighting to keep tears buried, and I hear a voice. It's my own, many years ago. It's the voice that half of me thinks in, at least for tonight. It's a small voice, steeped in fear and hurt. It's a heartbreaking voice, and it keeps saying over and over,
"I want my Daddy back."
Ten hours ago, I almost buried my fist in my father's sneering face. At this point, I've moved in with Goose three times to date and all for the same reason: my father is deriding me for not having a job, my father is insulting me for not working enough, my father is reminding me that he thinks I'm not worth the money he'd spend sending me to college. Tonight was good for the first ten minutes. He gave me a big smile and a hug, and we chatted for a little bit. He asked if I was working tomorrow. I'd just called my boss, so I said 'no, but I'm doing a gig Tuesday and Wednesday for another guy." My father asked if I was going to go to Labor Finders at five thirty in the morning and try to find work there. I told him that instead Colleen and I were going to call up the New College people and get our questions answered before we leave. I'm still not sure what happened next, but he started lambasting me, chiding me for being lazy, calling me irresponisble and worthless. The next thing I knew, I was on my feet and shaking. You all know that my hands normally have a tremor to them, but this was the kind of feral Parkinson's you see in people dangerously close to the brink of animalistic fury. I was yelling at him, belting out for him to shut up, to shut the fuck up, that I didn't need his fucking money, that I wasn't worthless and that I'd worked my ass off.
Then I felt it; that same creeping blackness that signaled a drop in all human tendencies. I imagine, looking back, that I heard horse hooves and smelled steel. What I really did hear was my father's voice, much smaller, saying "If you hit me, I'll call the cops." I wondered what he was talking about before I realized that I'd stopped my fist maybe two inches off the bridge of his nose. I looked down at my stepmother, whose face had blanched. I tried to remain fairly civil, and then just ignored him until he had taken his fill, and then grabbed the phone when it rang. It was my friend Goose. I briefed him in a whisper that was almost a growl about what had happened. Even though we'd done this little dance before, I must have been bad, because he sounded worried when he said "We're coming over. Don't do something stupid." I hung up the phone and I could hear my father yelling at Colleen for sticking up for me. I calmly reached down and grabbed the first object my fingers brushed-in this case, a pool cue. I tested the weight on the end, tightened my grip, hefted it a few times. It felt good in my hands, it felt RIGHT. I could feel raw power flowing beneath the grain of the wood; I knew this was The Equalizer, my weapon of righteous justice, and an oilly little voice creeped into my ear and slithered "Break his fingers, and keep him breathing." I saw the scene perfectly in my mind's eye; me kicking down the doorway, nonchalantly brushing Colleen aside while her eyes widened in horror, one last grin at my father before I brought the pool cue down across the bridge of his nose. Colleen came out of the bedroom; I'd put the cue down by then, but she asked why I was smiling.
The reason I tell you all this is because I've been lying awake for hours now playing scenes back in my head. The most common one is what I imagine to happen had I gone through with that first swing, but there are others, some brutal, most distorted recollections of my father's diatribes. My treacherous mind threw up just now a memory buried for years; I was ten years old, and we were in a restaurant. Thick, aromic, husky cigar smoke filled the air. The lights were dimmed low, and there was a pleasing buzz of the upper class chattering over lobsters the size of my one-year-old brother and expensive steaks. My father was seated at the black grand piano, in his best tuxedo. His fedora with a silk rose tucked neatly into the band was perched far back on his head. His hands started to dance across the keyboard as he began to play "Wind Beneath My Wings." The room began to fade, and there was only me, my father, and the music.
The reason I'm telling you this is the same reason that the last paragraph took me an hour to write; I had to walk away stifling sobs. I have these two conflicting images of my father, and all I can wonder is where my Dad went. Where is the music man now? Where was the man that fought hard for me to live with him, the man that always made me smile? Is it really my fault? Did I drive him away, leaving only a memory and a ligering scent of cologne?
At this point, Constant Reader, I've got some things I could worry about. I no longer have any support, financially or otherwise, for college, and I'm due to leave in eight days. I could worry about the thoughts I'm having, the flashes of nightmare while I'm still awake. There's whether or not I'll go to New College or college at all or join the military until I can cry "G.I. Bill" and pick up my life a few years down the road. There's a thousand more, but none of them matter. Because, now, Constant Reader, as I'm watching my own hands dance across the keyboard, I'm fighting to keep tears buried, and I hear a voice. It's my own, many years ago. It's the voice that half of me thinks in, at least for tonight. It's a small voice, steeped in fear and hurt. It's a heartbreaking voice, and it keeps saying over and over,
"I want my Daddy back."