I miss my Dad

If my Dad were still alive, he'd be 61 today. It was my Dad who inspired my quirky sense of humor and love of slapstick. I also, unfortunately, got my temper from him. Even though Dad had a knack for being goofy it was never a good idea to laugh at him when he lost his temper, no matter how funny it was. And even worse than laughing at him would be to tell him to "calm down." I learned that one the hard way. I guess because he knew I shared in the love of all things rage-like he would frequently fly off the handle when it was just the two of us. It was kind of like two kindred spirits of suppressed anger seeking comfort in each other's company. I liked to stomp up stairs, he liked to throw tools. Ahhh, the magic of family.

One of my favorite stories to tell about my Dad is the one where we were driving to the grocery store to pick something up for my Mom. I was living at home right after college, so my relationship with my parents was a little strange, but I still liked hanging out with my Dad, especially if he was just looking for company on a ride and I got to control the radio. He had finally stopped driving the Dodge Ram van (yes, it had carpet inside, even on the walls) and was cruising down the streets with class in his fairly new Grand Marquis. We headed down the long street of Hyde Park Ave. and as I was obsessively changing the radio stations I noticed my Dad getting upset about something. I thought it was my failure to pick and stick with something on the radio, but his increasing blood pressure was caused by two young hoodlums on a small worn down motorbike. They were both probably about 12 years old and were driving about 10 miles per hour down the middle of the street. Obviously this made Dad mad for a number of reasons, all of which he told me all about: first of all, these kids weren't even old enough to be driving that thing, second, the vehicle was unregistered third, it was unsafe for them and for other drivers and fourth, they were going way too slow for his liking. Dad started beeping and they ignored him. So he really laid on the horn, which sadly resulted in the moped going even slower. These kids obviously didn't know who they were messing with. A vigilante in a giant green car meant business; Dad rolled down his window and told them to get the hell out of the way, the kids laughed, swerved and gave him the finger. This made Dad furious, the only way to deal with these bad seeds now was clear... it was time to scare the crap out of them. I hadn't been driven around in the Grand Marquis too often before that day, but it was on that day I realized that 8 cylinders is a whole lot of car, more car than a moped can handle. Good thing those kids were thinking ahead and were able to get next to the car instead of under it. But these 12 year olds were fearless and even though they had almost been run down they had enough balls to take out a key and ran it down the entire passenger's side of the Grand Marquis as they rode next to us. I made eye contact with them and shook my head in disbelief, somehow trying to side with Dad, yet give them some kind of warning to back off, please, for the love of god, back off. This was one of the three times in my life I uttered the words "calm down" to Dad. I probably squeaked them out and they weren't even audible, but I felt like I had a civic duty to say something. I looked over at Dad and the expression on his face made me hope that he hadn't heard me after all. I decided that no matter what happened at that point, I would keep my mouth shut.
As the kids came closer to the car, Dad would swerve towards them, trying to run them off the road and on to the sidewalk, the kids would get on the sidewalk for a minute, then back onto the road to torment the Grand Marquis with the key. This went on for a few minutes, the kids would get closer to the car, Dad would get closer to the kids, a key would come out... you get the picture.
We finally came to the stretch of the road with the police station, so we were soon followed by flashing lights and sirens. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hunched over in the seat, trying to look like I had nothing to do with any of this. We ended up pulling over across the street from McDonald's where a barefoot woman with curlers in her hair came running out, shouting "I saw the whole thing! He totally tried to kill those kids! I saw it! He was gonna run 'em down!" Apparently we had drawn all sorts of attention in Clearly Square, even from crazy people who should have been wearing shoes while dining on a Big Mac. The police officer told her to step aside as Dad calmly rolled down his window. I was certain that Dad was going to jail and I would have to take the bus home with this barefooted bitch who was saying my father was a killer. The police officer asked what the problem was and Dad replied in his best Boston accent,"These kids ahh bein' ahhhhsholes." I'm not sure why this happened, but that was all Dad had to say, the officer took the kids and the moped away and Dad and I went to the store.

We never talked about the incident again, because I know it wasn't one of my Dad's proudest moments, but also because there was no need, I understood. I told my Mom about it after Dad passed away, she didn't believe me.

I miss you, Dad.