It's been forever since I wrote, remember? That's dumb. How can a Diary remember anything? You aren't a person. Which is why I tell you things I wouldn't tell anyone else.
I wrote last time that Dad seemed surprised when I asked him if we could talk. Yeah, I know. I called him Father after he started acting crazy with his belt and belt buckle. The buckle hurt more. What hurt most of all was that he was the one whipping me. Next, I called him Dad. You'll soon find out why. Now I don't call him anything. I just answer him when he talks or yells at me.
Let me explain.
First, what I wanted to do was talk to him about building a shack in the back of our garage. That is, before he had a chance to talk to Mother. She'd scream bloody murder, I bet, saying, "That boy will not build a shack on this property." I ask you, Diary, where else could I build it?
When I'm around her, I think she even breathes anger.
Ever since Dad gave me the go-ahead, she's called me "Mister Piss Pants." And that's even after I'd taken my sheets and blanket and underwear down the basement every morning and put them in the washing machine. I add a cup of laundry soap, close the lid, and turn the dial. After the washing machine shut off, I go back downstairs, put everything from the washing machine into the dryer and turn it on. When it shuts off, everything's dry. That's when I bring them back upstairs.
I might've peed my pants when I was a baby wearing diapers. But I don't pee my pants anymore. I pee the bed, instead. Mother claims I do it on purpose. I mean, what almost ten year old boy would want to wet his bed and wake up as if he just got out of a swimming pool filled with piss?
It's about time I stopped. Wouldn't you think? I even stopped drinking anything, milk or water, after supper. But I still wake up wet. No doubt about it. I'm definitely a reject.
She made a deal with Dad after she nearly killed me: "Gordy has to wash and dry his own piss sheets and blankets and underwear. I'll take care of his rubber sheet and clean it." The rubber sheet is under my regular sheet. That's so the mattress doesn't get wet. My old mattress had a big hole in it. With the new mattress, she bought a rubber sheet. Dad bought her a clothes dryer. Now, she couldn't hang my sheet with the big stain on the clothesline anymore. Or maybe she could. Maybe that's why she's so angry.
It could be she's so mean because Dad told her he approved of the shack. Without too much trouble at all. I told him Johnny Nelson's dad said he'd give me the extra wood I needed for the shack's front and rear. Maybe even a door. A window, too. I told him Mister Nelson would help me build the shack as long as "Doc gives it his blessings." Which was what Mister Nelson said the day after he and Jonny were in back of our garage.
That's when Dad asked me, "Why don't you call me Doc anymore? I enjoyed your calling me Doc."
Well, I couldn’t tell him. Could I? I realize he wasn't drunk at the time because he could stand straight. And not wobble. Which he usually does when he's drunk. Also, he smiled. When he's drunk, he hardly smiles. He usually laughs really loud, but he doesn't smile. When I explained about the shack, he answered straight, too. "Sure," is what he said. Just like that. When he's drunk, he either mumbles or yells and uses curse words at Mother. She curses at him, too. If she'd just keep her mouth shut when he comes home drunk. I don't understand why she wants to get hurt. But she can't keep her yap shut. She never does. Then, after he beats her up, she cries. I cry, too. So does Crazy Annie, my sister.
Thing is, I couldn't tell Dad the truth. Although I wanted to. If I did, he would've changed his mind about the shack. Right away. No questions asked.
"How does 'Dad' sound?" I asked.
"Better than Father," he answered, as fast as a scared rabbit chased by a beagle dog. Then, he added, "But I rather liked Doc." He smiled. And his voice was soft. As it usually is when he's sober. He looks kind of neat when he smiles. His black mustache smiles too.
Just about every morning before he goes to the office, he stands in the bathroom with the door open, looking into the mirror. That's after he shaves the small hairs on his face with a razor with a Gillette blue blade in it. I watch him. When he's finished shaving, he wiggles his nose up and down and sideways and stretches each cheek, one at a time. All the time, he's looking at that mustache. Very carefully. He has a small scissors he uses to clip some hairs in order to make that mustache look perfect.
It's kind of neat to be around him when he's not drinking. At those times, I nearly forget about the way he acts when he's been drinking. That's when he's not nice at all. He goes crazy. When he does go crazy and Mother wants to get away from him, she runs to the bathroom and locks the door. That's when he screamed for her to "Open the goddamn door." She didn't. I don't blame her. I wouldn't either.
Both Crazy Annie and I were awake. "Tell me a story, Gordy, pretty please."
"I can't think of a story," I told her. Which was the truth. How can you tell a story when a crazy man is on the other side of your bedroom door?
"Gordy, puh-leaze."
So, I make up a quick story about a kind doctor who finds a boy in a furnace. Of course, the coal in the furnace is not lit. Yet.
"That's not a story," cried Annie. "That's where you think Father found you."
All of a sudden, there was no screaming. Mother was quiet except for her crying. Which was soft like.
We didn't know until later that Dad had gone out to the garage. We didn't hear him open and close the doors. When he came back in the house, though, he slammed the rear door as hard as he could. "Ka-boom." It sounded as if a Jap Zero had dropped a bomb on the roof of our house.
Next thing you know, he was screaming. Right outside our bedroom. "Open that goddamn door, or I'll chop it down." Then, he added, "I have an axe."
Chop it down? Axe? We don't have an axe. But then I remembered. My oldest brother, Doc the Third, had a hatchet. Dad must've had that. When Mother howled and cried, I felt kind of felt sorry for her. I guess a guy forgets how he really feels at times.
"I won't open the door," Mother screamed. "If I do, you'll kill me."
"You goddamn right I'm gonna goddamn kill you."
With the hatchet, he started pounding away at that bathroom door. Crazy Annie and I could hear pieces crack and split and fall to the floor. That's when I opened our bedroom door. I couldn't believe what I saw. Dad was in his underwear. His face was bleeding. He didn't have his glasses on. He was shrieking. He was sweating. His eyes looked crazy as he pounded away.
"Leave her alone," I screamed. "Leave my mother alone." He was ready to break that door down totally. That's when I yelled louder than ever, "Leave her alone, you sonofabitch." He used that word a lot when he was drunk. I learned it from him. And from her, too. It's the first time I ever said the word. Aloud. I didn't even use it around my buddies.
Annie was crying really loud. "Father, you're not going to kill Mother, are you?"
Annie was his favorite. "My little doll," he'd often say. He had taken pictures of her with his many cameras. She wore a dress Mother had crocheted. It had a blue ribbon around its waist. Three large framed colored pictures of her along with two dolls were on the parlor wall. In them, Annie could be seen standing on the same couch, a doll on each side or her. They were as tall as she was.
"Which ones are the dolls?" Dad asked older people whenever they visited. He always smiled when he asked that question.
Wobbling and sweating and with his face bleeding, this man who claimed he was my father made his way to his special armchair in the parlor. He plunked down in it and cried and cried and cried. Maybe because Annie asked him that question. Anyway, he didn't seem so drunk anymore.
Sometime later, Mother came out of the bathroom. Her nightie was ripped in front. I saw black down below. What was that? Eventually, I figured it out. It was hair. What was black hair doing there? I was scared of her more than ever. She wasn't like the dummies that didn't wear any clothes at Johnson & Hill Department Store, that is, before the ladies dressed them. I'm certain she saw me stare. I couldn't look anywhere else. "You kids close the door and go to sleep."
I closed the door. Yeah, we could sleep just like that, couldn’t we? After we nearly witnessed our first murder. Thankfully, our dumb parents stopped fighting. Eventually, I fell asleep, but I don't know when because it took a long, long time after Annie stopped crying.
I woke up in the morning, wet again.
I wrote last time that Dad seemed surprised when I asked him if we could talk. Yeah, I know. I called him Father after he started acting crazy with his belt and belt buckle. The buckle hurt more. What hurt most of all was that he was the one whipping me. Next, I called him Dad. You'll soon find out why. Now I don't call him anything. I just answer him when he talks or yells at me.
Let me explain.
First, what I wanted to do was talk to him about building a shack in the back of our garage. That is, before he had a chance to talk to Mother. She'd scream bloody murder, I bet, saying, "That boy will not build a shack on this property." I ask you, Diary, where else could I build it?
When I'm around her, I think she even breathes anger.
Ever since Dad gave me the go-ahead, she's called me "Mister Piss Pants." And that's even after I'd taken my sheets and blanket and underwear down the basement every morning and put them in the washing machine. I add a cup of laundry soap, close the lid, and turn the dial. After the washing machine shut off, I go back downstairs, put everything from the washing machine into the dryer and turn it on. When it shuts off, everything's dry. That's when I bring them back upstairs.
I might've peed my pants when I was a baby wearing diapers. But I don't pee my pants anymore. I pee the bed, instead. Mother claims I do it on purpose. I mean, what almost ten year old boy would want to wet his bed and wake up as if he just got out of a swimming pool filled with piss?
It's about time I stopped. Wouldn't you think? I even stopped drinking anything, milk or water, after supper. But I still wake up wet. No doubt about it. I'm definitely a reject.
She made a deal with Dad after she nearly killed me: "Gordy has to wash and dry his own piss sheets and blankets and underwear. I'll take care of his rubber sheet and clean it." The rubber sheet is under my regular sheet. That's so the mattress doesn't get wet. My old mattress had a big hole in it. With the new mattress, she bought a rubber sheet. Dad bought her a clothes dryer. Now, she couldn't hang my sheet with the big stain on the clothesline anymore. Or maybe she could. Maybe that's why she's so angry.
It could be she's so mean because Dad told her he approved of the shack. Without too much trouble at all. I told him Johnny Nelson's dad said he'd give me the extra wood I needed for the shack's front and rear. Maybe even a door. A window, too. I told him Mister Nelson would help me build the shack as long as "Doc gives it his blessings." Which was what Mister Nelson said the day after he and Jonny were in back of our garage.
That's when Dad asked me, "Why don't you call me Doc anymore? I enjoyed your calling me Doc."
Well, I couldn’t tell him. Could I? I realize he wasn't drunk at the time because he could stand straight. And not wobble. Which he usually does when he's drunk. Also, he smiled. When he's drunk, he hardly smiles. He usually laughs really loud, but he doesn't smile. When I explained about the shack, he answered straight, too. "Sure," is what he said. Just like that. When he's drunk, he either mumbles or yells and uses curse words at Mother. She curses at him, too. If she'd just keep her mouth shut when he comes home drunk. I don't understand why she wants to get hurt. But she can't keep her yap shut. She never does. Then, after he beats her up, she cries. I cry, too. So does Crazy Annie, my sister.
Thing is, I couldn't tell Dad the truth. Although I wanted to. If I did, he would've changed his mind about the shack. Right away. No questions asked.
"How does 'Dad' sound?" I asked.
"Better than Father," he answered, as fast as a scared rabbit chased by a beagle dog. Then, he added, "But I rather liked Doc." He smiled. And his voice was soft. As it usually is when he's sober. He looks kind of neat when he smiles. His black mustache smiles too.
Just about every morning before he goes to the office, he stands in the bathroom with the door open, looking into the mirror. That's after he shaves the small hairs on his face with a razor with a Gillette blue blade in it. I watch him. When he's finished shaving, he wiggles his nose up and down and sideways and stretches each cheek, one at a time. All the time, he's looking at that mustache. Very carefully. He has a small scissors he uses to clip some hairs in order to make that mustache look perfect.
It's kind of neat to be around him when he's not drinking. At those times, I nearly forget about the way he acts when he's been drinking. That's when he's not nice at all. He goes crazy. When he does go crazy and Mother wants to get away from him, she runs to the bathroom and locks the door. That's when he screamed for her to "Open the goddamn door." She didn't. I don't blame her. I wouldn't either.
Both Crazy Annie and I were awake. "Tell me a story, Gordy, pretty please."
"I can't think of a story," I told her. Which was the truth. How can you tell a story when a crazy man is on the other side of your bedroom door?
"Gordy, puh-leaze."
So, I make up a quick story about a kind doctor who finds a boy in a furnace. Of course, the coal in the furnace is not lit. Yet.
"That's not a story," cried Annie. "That's where you think Father found you."
All of a sudden, there was no screaming. Mother was quiet except for her crying. Which was soft like.
We didn't know until later that Dad had gone out to the garage. We didn't hear him open and close the doors. When he came back in the house, though, he slammed the rear door as hard as he could. "Ka-boom." It sounded as if a Jap Zero had dropped a bomb on the roof of our house.
Next thing you know, he was screaming. Right outside our bedroom. "Open that goddamn door, or I'll chop it down." Then, he added, "I have an axe."
Chop it down? Axe? We don't have an axe. But then I remembered. My oldest brother, Doc the Third, had a hatchet. Dad must've had that. When Mother howled and cried, I felt kind of felt sorry for her. I guess a guy forgets how he really feels at times.
"I won't open the door," Mother screamed. "If I do, you'll kill me."
"You goddamn right I'm gonna goddamn kill you."
With the hatchet, he started pounding away at that bathroom door. Crazy Annie and I could hear pieces crack and split and fall to the floor. That's when I opened our bedroom door. I couldn't believe what I saw. Dad was in his underwear. His face was bleeding. He didn't have his glasses on. He was shrieking. He was sweating. His eyes looked crazy as he pounded away.
"Leave her alone," I screamed. "Leave my mother alone." He was ready to break that door down totally. That's when I yelled louder than ever, "Leave her alone, you sonofabitch." He used that word a lot when he was drunk. I learned it from him. And from her, too. It's the first time I ever said the word. Aloud. I didn't even use it around my buddies.
Annie was crying really loud. "Father, you're not going to kill Mother, are you?"
Annie was his favorite. "My little doll," he'd often say. He had taken pictures of her with his many cameras. She wore a dress Mother had crocheted. It had a blue ribbon around its waist. Three large framed colored pictures of her along with two dolls were on the parlor wall. In them, Annie could be seen standing on the same couch, a doll on each side or her. They were as tall as she was.
"Which ones are the dolls?" Dad asked older people whenever they visited. He always smiled when he asked that question.
Wobbling and sweating and with his face bleeding, this man who claimed he was my father made his way to his special armchair in the parlor. He plunked down in it and cried and cried and cried. Maybe because Annie asked him that question. Anyway, he didn't seem so drunk anymore.
Sometime later, Mother came out of the bathroom. Her nightie was ripped in front. I saw black down below. What was that? Eventually, I figured it out. It was hair. What was black hair doing there? I was scared of her more than ever. She wasn't like the dummies that didn't wear any clothes at Johnson & Hill Department Store, that is, before the ladies dressed them. I'm certain she saw me stare. I couldn't look anywhere else. "You kids close the door and go to sleep."
I closed the door. Yeah, we could sleep just like that, couldn’t we? After we nearly witnessed our first murder. Thankfully, our dumb parents stopped fighting. Eventually, I fell asleep, but I don't know when because it took a long, long time after Annie stopped crying.
I woke up in the morning, wet again.
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