Things are getting worse in this place. And I don't mean Doc, stumbling through the front door just about every night.
As I've said, I don't mind his getting drunk. It's what happens after he arrives home. Mother goes wild.
"Just leave him alone," I think, but she starts screaming.
She just has to know Doc's going to come home, drunk. So, why does she scream, "You've been drinking?"
She has to know Doc's going to react negatively, as well. He does each time. Each and every night.
I'll bet the two keep dish factory workers busy, making replacement dishes and cups and saucers. She starts the throwing. He joins in and they wing China at cupboards and kitchen floor, shattering each and every piece, screaming at the top of their lungs.
This happens every night. Before each night is over, Mother gets the short end of the stick.
So, tell me, who is crazier, Doc the drunk, or total teetotaler Mother? If you ask me, they're both nuts. I'd never behave that way. That's another reason I know they adopted me and won't tell me the truth about my real parents.
Lately, Doc looks as if he's saying, "Stay out of my way” without saying it. It's even meant for me, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman, better known as Gordy.
Mother uses extra makeup whenever she has to leave the house. Which isn't often. She has to hide the black and blue marks on her face and arms. I mean, wouldn't you think she'd learn by avoiding arguments with Doc?
I don't even like staying around the house—even when Doc's at the office or the Elks Club, getting soused. What used to be a home is now an insane asylum.
A few mornings ago, Doc III, Dork, Crazy Annie, and I were having a pillow fight in Crazy Annie's and my bedroom. We were having a time of it, whooping and hollering and laughing, jumping on beds, hitting each other over heads or backs or any other body part with pillows. We were having a good old time. Enjoying ourselves. Kids being kids, adults would say. I don't think any of us thought having fun would be a problem.
I know better now. It's a big problem. In this madhouse.
On the other side of our bedroom wall that faces south is Mother and Doc's bedroom.
Well, anyway, there we were having a time with our pillow fight, and we hear this lion's roar from the other side of our south wall. "Stop that. You kids better be quiet."
We stopped. For a moment, only. What the heck. We're enjoying ourselves. Nobody's hurt. And nobody's crying. Feathers aren't flying. So, we continue our pillow fight. But this time, we try to be a little quieter about it. We quit yelling and stop laughing so much.
All of a sudden, we hear booming footsteps. Besides, we actually feel them. Our house seems to be shaking. "Oh, oh," says Doc III, who tosses his pillow to the floor.
A second later, Doc throws open our bedroom door. Maybe "fling" is a better word. I don't know, but its suddenness and speed scare the living daylights out of me. That I can tell you. And the way he looks. It's as if a zombie stood there In T-shirt and skivvies. But it's Doc. His hair looks wild. Eyes red with anger. He needs a shave. The stubble is, well, it's hideous looking. "Didn't I tell you kids to be quiet?"
I'm no fool. I don’t answer. Neither do my older brothers.
"Well didn't I?"
"Yes, Father," said Crazy Annie, "you did."
Crazy Annie is not only crazy. She's a first class dummy.
"Well?" Doc asked the rest of us.
"We were just having fun," I said.
"Come here," Doc ordered me.
I obeyed. That's when I saw the leather belt, coiled in his right hand. He released it and let it drop to its full length by his side. Then, it lashed out.
Pain. Agony. I run. But not far. There's not much room in a bedroom with twin beds. He comes after me. I'm on the floor. I cringe. I cry. I hurt.
"Quit your bawling," the madman shrieked, "or I'll give you something to cry about."
"I can't stop. You hurt me."
"You think you hurt now. Keep crying and you'll know what real hurt feels like."
It's not only the additional blows from his thick leather belt that cause agony. It's the way he treats me. All because I was having fun. Being a kid. This was the guy who took me on house calls in order to play the piano for his bedridden patients. This used to be my dad. This used to be "Doc."
Father returned to his and Mother's bedroom.
'You need to go to the hospital," Crazy Annie cries.
I no longer feel pain. I feel empty. "He's not my dad," I claim and blubber.
"He is too, Gordy."
There I was with my crazy sister, but I felt all alone. I lost Doc. Now, I feared Father. Still, I missed Doc. I kind of knew Doc would never return. I was on my own. That I knew. I couldn't trust anyone. Not even my own father.
As I've said, I don't mind his getting drunk. It's what happens after he arrives home. Mother goes wild.
"Just leave him alone," I think, but she starts screaming.
She just has to know Doc's going to come home, drunk. So, why does she scream, "You've been drinking?"
She has to know Doc's going to react negatively, as well. He does each time. Each and every night.
I'll bet the two keep dish factory workers busy, making replacement dishes and cups and saucers. She starts the throwing. He joins in and they wing China at cupboards and kitchen floor, shattering each and every piece, screaming at the top of their lungs.
This happens every night. Before each night is over, Mother gets the short end of the stick.
So, tell me, who is crazier, Doc the drunk, or total teetotaler Mother? If you ask me, they're both nuts. I'd never behave that way. That's another reason I know they adopted me and won't tell me the truth about my real parents.
Lately, Doc looks as if he's saying, "Stay out of my way” without saying it. It's even meant for me, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman, better known as Gordy.
Mother uses extra makeup whenever she has to leave the house. Which isn't often. She has to hide the black and blue marks on her face and arms. I mean, wouldn't you think she'd learn by avoiding arguments with Doc?
I don't even like staying around the house—even when Doc's at the office or the Elks Club, getting soused. What used to be a home is now an insane asylum.
A few mornings ago, Doc III, Dork, Crazy Annie, and I were having a pillow fight in Crazy Annie's and my bedroom. We were having a time of it, whooping and hollering and laughing, jumping on beds, hitting each other over heads or backs or any other body part with pillows. We were having a good old time. Enjoying ourselves. Kids being kids, adults would say. I don't think any of us thought having fun would be a problem.
I know better now. It's a big problem. In this madhouse.
On the other side of our bedroom wall that faces south is Mother and Doc's bedroom.
Well, anyway, there we were having a time with our pillow fight, and we hear this lion's roar from the other side of our south wall. "Stop that. You kids better be quiet."
We stopped. For a moment, only. What the heck. We're enjoying ourselves. Nobody's hurt. And nobody's crying. Feathers aren't flying. So, we continue our pillow fight. But this time, we try to be a little quieter about it. We quit yelling and stop laughing so much.
All of a sudden, we hear booming footsteps. Besides, we actually feel them. Our house seems to be shaking. "Oh, oh," says Doc III, who tosses his pillow to the floor.
A second later, Doc throws open our bedroom door. Maybe "fling" is a better word. I don't know, but its suddenness and speed scare the living daylights out of me. That I can tell you. And the way he looks. It's as if a zombie stood there In T-shirt and skivvies. But it's Doc. His hair looks wild. Eyes red with anger. He needs a shave. The stubble is, well, it's hideous looking. "Didn't I tell you kids to be quiet?"
I'm no fool. I don’t answer. Neither do my older brothers.
"Well didn't I?"
"Yes, Father," said Crazy Annie, "you did."
Crazy Annie is not only crazy. She's a first class dummy.
"Well?" Doc asked the rest of us.
"We were just having fun," I said.
"Come here," Doc ordered me.
I obeyed. That's when I saw the leather belt, coiled in his right hand. He released it and let it drop to its full length by his side. Then, it lashed out.
Pain. Agony. I run. But not far. There's not much room in a bedroom with twin beds. He comes after me. I'm on the floor. I cringe. I cry. I hurt.
"Quit your bawling," the madman shrieked, "or I'll give you something to cry about."
"I can't stop. You hurt me."
"You think you hurt now. Keep crying and you'll know what real hurt feels like."
It's not only the additional blows from his thick leather belt that cause agony. It's the way he treats me. All because I was having fun. Being a kid. This was the guy who took me on house calls in order to play the piano for his bedridden patients. This used to be my dad. This used to be "Doc."
Father returned to his and Mother's bedroom.
'You need to go to the hospital," Crazy Annie cries.
I no longer feel pain. I feel empty. "He's not my dad," I claim and blubber.
"He is too, Gordy."
There I was with my crazy sister, but I felt all alone. I lost Doc. Now, I feared Father. Still, I missed Doc. I kind of knew Doc would never return. I was on my own. That I knew. I couldn't trust anyone. Not even my own father.