Chapter 1
When did we stop being a family?
When did the feeling of daddy and sonny-boy come to an end?
Was it when Dad divorced Mom?
That didn't seem likely.
Because that should have brought us closer together, he and I.
As though it had not been a divorce, but a death in the family, the death of the one without whom the family itself would not have been possible.
Except that it did hot happen that way.
Maybe if it had, things would have been different.
We would still have been a family.
I could have visited Mom, or she could have come to see me.
I was even ass hole enough to think it would work that way.
But I guess, when you're seventeen, about to become eighteen, about to graduate and go out into the world on your own, the "child" is seen by the court as almost a man in his own fight.
And since my dad already called the lamp shop "Smith & Son", and I happen to be the son thereof, there wasn't much question of custody, visitation, or anything else about the offspring.
And as for Mom's wanting to see me, that was another laugh.
She had been distant from me, from both of us, for a very long time.
She had gone through the motions—keeping house, cooking the meals, doing the laundry—as though it was some kind of low-wage, hourly-rated, unskilled labor.
Which, by her estimation, I suppose it was.
Because she allowed. Dad to buy his half of the house, getting herself a small condo.
In another city.
She wanted nothing to do with me or him.
Which was perhaps my fault as much as Dad's.
The things we did—fishing, hunting, working out at the gym—were not so much designed to exclude her as they were inherently nothing in which she would have the least interest or inclination.
Even the business, successful as it was, was just Dad during the day, Dad and me after school, weekends, summer vacations.
Because it was so simple.
You got everything from the glass factory or overseas.
You put the glassware bases on one end of the belt, started it up, and walked them down the line, assembling as you went.
And it was a beautiful business.
Because the whole of the quantity was equal to ever so much more than the sum of its parts.
I mean, you took three to five dollars worth of parts and turned them into a ten to twenty dollar lamp.
At least, that's what Dad charged the five and dime stores.
And they were happy to get them at that price.
So that we were making a damned good living.
Low overhead, high profits, and the corporation bit, so that the taxes were low.
Maybe if I had decided to go to college, things would have been different.
But it made no sense.
I was sucking down big bucks, fresh out of high school.
Because, with me able to make lamps full time, Dad talked the buyers into giving larger orders.
True, he could have gotten a guy to help him, maybe even hired a couple of them so he could play executive.
But that didn't appeal to him.
Because it was like pissing away part of the profits.
Like Dad said,
"Listen, Jack, you know what your labor's worth?"
I shrugged.
I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one.
"Nothing!"
And I started to get pissed.
But he continued,
"Your labor, mine—nothing.
"Because we gotta stick around anyway, suckin' air, see?"
"So, while we're hangin' around, suckin' air, we may as well do somethin' with our hands.
"So you tell me—why do I hafta shell out good dough so some other bums can keep busy while they're suckin' air?"
You can't argue with logic like that.
And Dad was nothing if not logical.
Everything he did made sense in strictly practical terms.
And those were the only terms with which he ever dealt.
I don't recall my father ever expressing one philosophical idea, one so-called higher thought.
I even asked him about it once.
"You know what philosophy is?"
The old rhetorical-question again.
"Bullshit. That's what it is.
"People start spoutin' a buncha crap, they sound like your mother.
"She was good at that.
"Always on my back about 'higher values', or, 'meaning in life*.
"Shit like that, you know?
"Got to the point that we could never talk.
"Two different worlds.
"Tell ya the truth, I think she was from Mars ta begin with.
"Lucky you look like me, or there could be a problem."
I suspect that I looked like him on the inside, that is, the way I thought, as well as on the outside.
The sized, the muscle, they were his and therefore mine, right enough.
But it was more than that.
The physical world, that was where it was at.
Aesthetics?
Other peoples' tastes.
Not that we were cynical, bitter, overly critical, or anything.
Just the opposite.
We just plain didn't give a shit.
Slowly, as furniture or bedding or linens or anything got worn out, had to be replaced in the house, it was done with plain stuff.
No frills, no decorations.
One day, Dad and I packed up every last knick-knack, every piece of bric-a-brac, and shipped it to Mom, along with most of the books in the house.
Dad and I did not miss them, any more than we missed her.
We did everything together.
We ate together, worked together, and played together.
As for excitement, well, perhaps we weren't all that close.
I was dating a few girls.
And Dad also was going out, seeing—people.
I asked him why he never brought them home, but he said it was because he wasn't that serious about any of them.
I told him I wasn't that serious about any of the girls, but that I still brought them around once in a while.
He said that that was because I was a good kid.
But that he himself was no longer either good or a kid.
So his dates were on a more
"gut level", as he put it.
I don't know.
Maybe a person sees just what he wants to see.
I would often see Dad in the locker room at the gym, talking quietly, intently to some guy, breaking it up if I came too close.
Meaning close enough to hear what they were talking about.
But I never asked him what it was about.
And he never explained.
Or even introduced me to the guy.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, just some guy I know."
Enlightening, right?
And there were evenings when we would run into each other, coming back from a date.
"How was yours?"
"Terrific! Yours?"
"Oh, okay, I guess."
"Waddaya mean, okay?"
"Nice enough girl, Dad, but nothin' to get serious over."
"Waddaya mean, serious?"
"I mean like—committed."
"Well, son, I tell ya—There's serious and then there's ... serious, know what I mean?"
And he pumped fist and forearm suggestively.
"Yeah, well, Dad, these are young girls, you know, and I am a gentleman."
"Oh, are you now?
"An' would ye be after puttin' on airs, foin gentleman that ya are, boyo?"
"Come on, Dad, knock off the accent.
"You know what I mean.
"I can't do like you with the worldly people you see.
"I mean, what if I was to get one pregnant?"
"Well, there's no danger of that with my dates, I can tell ya!
"I'm perfectly safe on that score."
And I actually thought that he meant because of precautions they took.
"Ya mean ya don't fool around at all?" he asked.
"Oh, we do everything but."
"Well, there's something to be said for that, then, I suppose," he conceded.
"After all, a hole's a hole."
"Well put, Dad."
"Well, it's true enough, Jack.
"What difference does it make, as long as the feeling is there?
"The feeling and the feeling and the feeling, that's
" all there is.
"And the rest is bullshit and don't you be forgettin' ya heard it here first."
"Words to live by."
"Damn straight!"
Sarcasm was wasted on him.
So it went.
Until one night, when he pushed it further.
"So," he continued.
"Tell me about it."
"It?"
"Do they give ya a blowjob?"
"They do."
"Do they letcha take 'em in the ass?"
"Really, Dad, I—"
"Just answer the question, lad!
"Or are ya ashamed of what cha do, like maybe it won't stand up ta the light of day?"
"It's not that, Dad.
"It's just—you're my father."
"Well I should hope so.
"And by the look of ya, there's not much doubtin' the truth of that."
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh? And what didja mean then?"
"I meant, I meant—forget it."
"Forget it.
"Man asks his best friend and constant companion a simple question and he's told ta forget it."
I looked at him then.
We had had conversations before but this was the first time he had pressed me like this.
And I didn't know why and I didn't know where it was leading.
But I decided to find out.
"Okay, Dad.
"Yeah, there is one.
"There is one that I fuck in the ass.
"And I eat her and she eats me."
"Swallow yer come does she?"
This was too much.
"Dad, what do you want?
"You want me to write you a fuck book here and now?"
"Merely curious ta see how you're gettin' along out there in the world, Jack."
"Why, Dad? Why?"
"Because," he sighed, pacing the living room,
"we go around just the one time in this world, we do."
"Yeah, so?"
Could it be the old man was mellowing, becoming philosophical, and him not yet forty-five?
This oughtta be good.
"So, it wouldn't hardly do for ya ta be all hung up in yer sex life.
"'Cause that's the only life there is, really.
"Your mother never believed that, but I do.
"A man's alive only when he's in the saddle.
"A man's a man only when he's in the saddle.
"A man doesn't understand that, he's wastin' his time.
"And the problem with the ladies is, they just don't understand that.
"They're always draggin' their moods, their status in life, the way the world's treated them, tomorrow's grocery list, and the kitchen sink ta bed, right alongside 'em."
"You want some, they don't.
"They letcha have it as a favor.
"And favors, as anyone can tell ya, have ta be paid back.
"So it all turns into a kind of whorin', is what it does.
"I give you a little now, and in return, here's what you hafta do fer me.'
"Until the politics of it, the balance sheets of it, are marvels to behold.
"And you tell me, now, what's that to do with life?
"Not a helluva lot, I can tell ya.
"And meantime, a man's juices build up.
"And not just down here," and he grabbed his cock through his trousers,
"but up here as well," and he tapped his head.
"So a man ends up sayin' to himself, 'If touchin' the flesh', if usin' the flesh is all that important, and I can see by the feel of meself that it is, then what's to be done?'
"What's to be done?"
"What is, Dad?"
"Whatever it takes, son, whatever it takes.
"The path of least resistance, as they say."
"And why are you asking me all these things, telling me all these things?"
"Ta make damn sure you're not fucked up in the head.
"To see to it that you've got no hangups.
"Because they'll drive ya crazy, lad.
"Kill ya, they will, like a cancer in the brain, growin' an' growin' an' there's no help for it and no way out.
"You're young, Jack.
"You've gotcher whole life ahead of ya.
"Don't waste the years, Jack! Don't waste the opportunities. Don't limit yourself! Don't blow it, Jack!"
"What are you, what are you—advising?"
"Deny yourself nothing, Jack, in the way of what your mind desires.
"Don't fight it.
"Go with the flow, is what I'm sayin'.
"Now, I can see by what you've been doin' that you're not off to such a bad start.
"But it ain't all that great, either?"
"You mean because I haven't fucked a girl in the cunt yet?
"I've got some very real concerns there, Dad."
"I know ya do, son.
"That's the trouble with women.
"All their concerns are real, as real as the one ya just named.
"I haven't denied that, have I?
"Oh, they're real enough all right.
"As real as tomorrow's sunrise, they are.
"And yet, a man has to be free.
"That, or give up bein' a man."
"Then what's to be done, Dad?"
"I've said as much as I dare, Jack.
"You can lead the horse to water, as they say, but if you have to explain to him that what he's lookin' at is wet, then he's not yet ready to drink.
"Go with the flow, is all I can say."
Go with the flow.
Arcane advice, for alt its simplicity.
And for all the intensity with which it was delivered.
What Dad said made a lot of sense and no sense at all.
"It's late, Jack.
"We both need a good night's rest.
"A lot of work to be done in the morning, you know."
And he trudged off to bed.
And I?
I went to my room, determined to sort all this out next morning, and slept soundly.
Morning.
Breakfast.
As though the conversation of last night had not happened.
Everything normal.
Work.
Busy, as Dad said we would be.
Fast lunch.
Still, everything was not ready when the truck showed up.
"Better get us some more help, Dad?"
"Not a bit of it, me lad.
"I'll stay tonight."
"But I thought we were going to the gym."
He shrugged.
"A man's gotta do—"
"Okay, Dad.
"You stay.
"You be the hero.
"But I'm not.
"Because this is getting really ridiculous.
"The orders are getting heavier and heavier and there's still just the two of us humping this shit out."
"Yes, well, perhaps we'll hit a slack period and you'll see the sense of it.
"The light at the end of the tunnel, as it were."
"Don't count on it."
Clearly, Dad wanted to change the subject.
"There's roast beef in the fridge, but I'm not sure it's enough."
"That's okay, Dad, I'll eat out, on my way over there."
"Or after, son. After would be better."
"Yeah, right."
I decided to take Dad's advice.
I wanted to go up on the weights and tonight I was scheduled to work the upper body.
The increase and the area of concentration militated against a heavy meal beforehand.
And I'm a big guy, so heavy meals are the only kind I eat.
So here I was, changing into my gym stuff at my locker.
"Hey, where's your partner in crime?"
He was big.
Bigger than me.
And older, going bald.
And changing just as I was, getting ready.
And smiling.
"My what?"
"Partner in crime.
"I've seen how you guys cheat on some of your movements."
"Guys? Oh, you mean me and my fa—me and the guy I work out with."
Don't ask me why, but I didn't want to blow Dad's image at the gym.
There was just a bunch of guys.
Relationships, they didn't count; getting built did.
"You really think we cheat?"
The man shrugged.
"Your curls. If you bent any further back, they'd be leg lifts.
I laughed.
"My partner's not here tonight.
"But I am working uppers,
"Care to watch my form, since you seem to be such an expert?"
"Don't hafta be an expert ta see where you guys are goin' wrong.
"Name's Larry, by the way."
"Jack."
We shook.
"And your partner, the one who's not here?"
"That'd be my—that's Bill."
"Bill, he repeated.
And I looked at him a bit funny, trying to remember.
Because I was almost sure I had seen my father talking to him one time, in one of those strange, intense conversations.
"I thought you already knew Bill."
"Seen 'im around is all, just like you."
"Guess I was mistaken."
"Whatever.
"Shall we hit it?"
"I, uh, probably don't need that much help," I said, not wanting to impose on the guy's exercise time. "Just for the curls, I think."
"Mostly for the curls," he conceded. "I'll be around."
The curls come last for me on the upper body routine.
They're the killers.
Every routine I do ends with a killer, the one thing I go all out on, limping off to the showers an exhausted, semi-cripple after such intensity.
So I sort of kept an eye out for the guy, just to make sure he was sticking around.
He was.
And doing some quite impressive bench presses.
I couldn't see his build beneath the bulky sweats, but, judging by the iron he was pumping, that couldn't be liverwurst underneath there.
Finally, I was ready for the curls.
He was making the wall pulleys sing, their elevators loaded to the max, as he pulled them out, facing away from them, clicking the handles together in front of himself.
He looked up, sweat beading and dribbling on his face, and smiled.
And completed his set before grabbing his towel from a wall peg and mopping his face with it.
"All set?" he asked.
"You tell me," I said, leading him over to the bar, picking it up. He watched as I did the first set.
"When you're curling almost your own weight, gravity takes its toll on form," he said.
"So you're always gonna lean back a little at the peak of each rep.
"But if you put your feet about a foot wider apart, it won't be too bad."
I looked at him and picked up the bar, as soon as I got my breath back, careful this time to place my feet as he had suggested.
And I was glad I had not gone up on the weights on this exercise.
Because the better form made for a tougher lift.
But the strain was in all the right places, namely both heads of the biceps.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Better and worse both," I replied.
And he laughed knowingly.
"Come on, sport," he said, "one more set and we hit the showers."