Fathers.... (part III)

It's not that I forgot about this series at all. Honestly! It's just taken me some time to grasp the story I'm about to tell here. It's not easy. There's a reader that frequently stops by here, that is affected by the story in a way that's very personal.

If you're interested, here's where you can catch up.

Fathers (part I)
Fathers (part II)

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First off, I've said it before and I'll say it again. Forgive me Father, but I'm about to sin.......... again.

Secondly, it takes a special kind of friend to bring these thoughts out of you in a positive manner. You know exactly who you are and I just can't say thanks enough. Your support and true friendship, will never be taken for granted. Like I said at my brother C.C.'s wedding, true friends are family you get to choose. It just doesn't get any better than that!

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On a very special occasion not related to this story at all, but for the fact that it occurred at the beginning of the end of a relationship. My Mother's Brother, "Uncle Norm," took me out to the Coronation Hotel for a beer. I feel the need to explain, I was waaaaaay under-age. Fifteen to be exact. But as I said in the beginning of this series, it was a different time back then. So with the two of us sitting very casually but also very quietly out in the back corner of the Hotel, everything was right in Bedrock on that day.

Things changed dramatically, as some asshole and his group of misfits entered the bar, obviously looking for a reason to wind down, (or up) after a tough week of work for "the man." They were rugged and rough, loud and obnoxious and in a very eerie kind of way, cool and exciting. A group of James Dean wannabees all looking to have a good time. Each one constantly looking to out-do the other, in a coolest thing in the world contest to end all contests. A group of serious A types, before there was such a description ever uttered.

They played hard, they played rough and their very presence was enough to require not one but two, of the local Police to be present in the establishment. These were the original "Bad-Boys" of Bedrock. It was actually really cool to a kid looking to be 'something' down the road. Except for the edge that they seemed to carry around with them everywhere they went. It was totally inexplicable, but that edge was as real as the air I was breathing at the time. Something awful was about to happen. Even at the tender age of fifteen, I could sense that for myself. One look at my Uncle told me all I needed to know, it was going to happen soon. Even the Cops seemed on edge all of a sudden. Nothing good, was going to happen in the next ten minutes or so.

"What the hell is he doing in here?" came blasting across the room. It came from the asshole. He was obviously the coolest of the cool. It showed in his stance, his gate when he chose to move and it definitely came out quite clearly, in his booming omni-present voice. This guy was in charge!

Others started to mill about un-comfortably. Mind you, not feeling the same dis-comfort as I was at the time. But still, the place seemed frozen in the stench of fear, as this asshole raised his voice over the sounds of the Willy Nelson song, "Georgia," as it played not so delicately or clearly, in the background. To this day, I can sing and tolerate that song. But truth be told, I hate it with a passion. This asshole, was talking about me!

My Uncle stood and towered over the asshole in a clear display of strength and protection. Norm was a huge young man at the time. There were not many that would invade his space if he chose to show any signs of aggression. But most that really knew him, knew the gentle giant that lived within that gruff exterior. But this asshole didn't care. To him, I was an invader of his private domain. An outsider that just didn't belong. He showed absolutely no fear of the giant of a man that was standing in my defense. It was then that the strangest sensation not only ran through, but seemingly controlled every bone and nerve in my body. The sensation that told me, I needed to stand up for myself.

So I did. All 133 pounds that was me at the time. "What is your problem old man?" I squeaked out in my most manly of voices. "You are, you little shit!" came back at me from the asshole. It was said with such violence, that the words alone nearly sat me back down in my seat. There were other key points in the discussion, none of which are fit for print here, nore are reasonable or relevant to the issue at hand. It was just verbal abuse. Violent and un-carring verbal abuse. It came from both of us. It also came from all of those around. The scene was set and it was becoming abuntly clear, I was about to get into my first serious bar brawl. AT THE RIPE OLD AGE OF FIFTEEN !

I clearly remember thinking to myself at the exact moment of the first punch being thrown, the advice of my Father should such a situation ever seem totally inevitable. "Your best defense son," he said, "is a strong offense." I threw the punch. It connected quite easily and cleanly, much to my amazement. So I threw another. This time, I caught complete air. The stinging sensation that followed, is something that despite the fact that I know I'll never be able to get it out of my head completely, is something I believe actually has to be experienced, to even come close to truly understanding. The asshole hit back! Not once, not twice, but three perfectly timed and quite well executed punches to the head. My head!

My initial reaction was slow and groggy. But eventually, the cobwebs cleared and I could see that everyone was right. Even back then, people stuck gum under the tables for some strange reason. I don't think I'll ever understand that concept. Oh and another thing, the beer on the floor really stunk! But all around me there was action. Others were seemingly tangled in a mass of bodies and flailing arms. This was obviously a bigger deal, then just me and the asshole.

My jaw and cheek hurt like hell. It donned on me suddenly, that I wish I had my Dad here right now. He'd take care of that asshole for sure. There was only one problem with that. My Father was the asshole!

At fifteen I should've been either working, in school or doing my homework. I had no right to invade his private sanctuary that was his time with the boys. That was my Dad's side of the story. He never had the patience to listen to mine. For 20 years, he never would hear it either. We had no contact other than family weddings and funerals for 20 years. The most we saw of each other in that 20 years, was that awful night of the fight. When some genius cop who couldn't make it out on the street thought we should spend that night in the same cell, as we rode out our jail time for our crime. Together we sat there. We sat there until we couldn't do it anymore. That fight ended the same way as the first one. With me on my ass and him towering above me in total domination. I didn't even get a punch in that time. By the time I moved my arm to represent an offense, I felt that sting that was still all to familiar from earlier on in the evening. He wins and I go my own way. End of story.

Or so I thought! At the beginning of our relationship, Peb's wouldn't let the situation lay. She was relentless! Not just on me either. But on the old man and our family as well. I won't tell you how many years it's been exactly, but suffice it to say she was right! The last few years with my Father have been some of the best years of my life. We've never talked about it since, nore do I wish to to be honest. We've become who we are because of that event, not in spite of it. It surely wasn't pretty and I can tell you, I hope that it never happens to anyone out there at anytime. But in silence comes clarity I guess. As we've both finally come to the realization that, we're far too old to fight about anything any more.

I love you Dad.

My sincerest thanks for dropping by....