Real Joe

This week’s homework assignment for my creative non-fiction writing class was on adumbration. “Write a story or several scenes where an object appears two or three times. Consider mapping a character’s change with the object.”

Scene 1
I’m choking back tears, no clue in my ten year-old brain about how to relax my throat so I can swallow this stringy piece of steak.

“You’re not leaving this table till you swallow that damn piece of meat.”

My brother and sister abandon ship while my mother starts clearing the table. “Honey, he’s trying.”

“He’s not. Swallow the goddamned meat, I said!”

I chew and chew and chew but it won’t go down. My dad’s staring at me, sneering at my paralysis. He gets up, shoves his chair into the table, and stomps out of the kitchen.

I don’t know what to do so I just keep chewing. And then I’m in bed, my ear pressed against the tiny speaker in my beige transistor radio, praying that Harmon Killebrew homers on this 2-1 pitch, trying not to hear the screaming in the kitchen.

Scene 2
We’re rolling in the gravel in the middle of the road, trying to gain leverage. Tommy Snyder is the weird kid of the neighborhood, sometimes a bully, but mostly just weird. He tried to run me off the road with his bike so I ran after him, pulled him off his bike and wrestled him to the ground. We’re not punching, just wrestling, and soon I get him in a headlock that he can’t get out of. After about five minutes, my dad walks up to us, watches for a minute, then says, “Let him go, Griff.” Tommy gets on his bike and rides away. On the way back to our house, my dad takes a brief look at my skinned elbows and knees and says, “I’m very proud of you, I hope you know.”

At supper, he’s tells my brother and sister about my big fight. “That Snyder kid’s been nothing but trouble since they moved here. I bet he was the one who knocked over all the mailboxes last summer.” He looks at me and smiles. “He’s had it coming.” And then he asks, “How many hot dogs have you eaten?”

“Four so far.”

“My God,” he laughs. “You must have a tapeworm. How can a skinny kid like you pack it away like that?”

Scene 3
“Hey you guys, come and eat!”

Cassidy scampers down the stairs ahead of them, his white ears flopping, eyes wide with excited hunger.

“Somebody feed the dog, okay?”

My ten year old daughter scoops up a cup of dog food out of the bin in the kitchen and hesitates before she dumps it into Cassidy’s dish in front of him. A menacing growl catches my attention and now he’s on the other side of the room, yelping in pain.

“Dad, you kicked him! He’s hurt!”

My daughter bolts from the table and runs upstairs, crying. Her brothers look at me, wide-eyed and then down at their plates. I pass them the platter of pork chops.

Last week’s homework assignment for my creative non-fiction writing class was titled:
Disjuncture as Key Material (or locating conflict as story pressure)

Brainstorm times when you or someone you know felt angry or out of place or challenged. Make a list. Then, for each topic, give a thematic title, or what the issue at heart is about. Locate which of these experiences taught you or the other person something important. Take one of these and map out the “Dramatic Arc” — that is, how the character began, a couple of obstacles, and how the character changed. Work this into a story.

So I wrote a scene from 15 years ago or when I had a confrontation with my dad. I plan to work this into a much longer essay, with more fully developed ‘place’ and ‘character’ and some chunks of expository as soon as my writing coach tells me I no longer have to go cold turkey on it.

“No, goddammit, I’m not locking up my guns.”

With his teeth clenched and hands on his hip, my dad’s veins bulge out of his neck as we face each other in the driveway in front of his castle, my boyhood home. My mother’s standing on the patio at the front door, watching us, hand over her mouth. I muster an argument one more time. “Why not? It’s for the safety of your grandchildren when they visit, that’s all I’m asking.”

“It’s my house and I’m not changing the way I live just for you and them. So fuck you.”

The script says it’s now time for me to walk away, head down, hiding my quivering lip. I’ve done it a hundred times. But I don’t. Something clicks in my brain and I make a slo-mo decision to be mad, to deliberately ratchet up my tone and volume to match his. I walk a step closer to him, hands on my hip, and I lean my face to within about a foot of his.

“Don’t you say ‘fuck you’ to me, goddammit,” I yell. “I never insult you that way. If you’re gonna yell at me, fine, yell all you want but don’t insult me.”

My mother starts crying and goes back inside the house. He lowers his voice. “Okay, but I don’t think you have the right to tell me how to live in my own house.”

We argue in lowered voices for a few more minutes. He looks at his watch and says, “You’re gonna miss your plane if we keep standing here arguing.” He lightly cuffs me on the shoulder and smiles. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride to the airport.”

In the car, he’s almost giddy. “We’ve never had a yelling match like that before. It’s great to clear the air like that, isn’t it? Did you see your mother. She was freaked!”

“Yeah, that was pretty interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at you like that.”

“No, I don’t think you have. I respect you for it, though. But now I have to ask you, man to man, when are you going to quit being so pussy-whipped by your wife? She’s always bitching about safety crap — seat belts, matches, guns — why don’t you just tell her to go to hell?”

He’s smiling. He wants to be pals with me, united against our wives. Oddly, I’m ready for this.

“Don’t you ever call me pussy-whipped,” I growl. “Robbie and I have learned to hash out our differences. We fight but we fight fair, without insults and putdowns and then we talk it out. You and mom never do that. Never. You’re horrible to each other, hurt each other, and then bury your resentments. Your marriage is horseshit. Mine isn’t, so don’t go telling me how to be a husband when you don’t have a fucking clue yourself on how to be one. And as far as all that safety shit goes, I agree with her.”

“Okay, okay, lighten up,” he laughs. “I was just making a suggestion.”

“No you weren’t. You were insulting me again and it’s pissing me off.”

“Okay, sorry. Say, what time does your plane come in on Friday? I should be able to pick you up.”