THE MEN IN MY LIFE

“The Men In My Life”-final 7-01-05
Amsterdam
c.2007

When I was 18 my Father died of a heart attack. My Mother claims that my Father-(“Fat Dad” who was obese and smoked cigarettes)-had just finished making love to her and while still on top of her, he came, made a “gagging sound”—promptly rolled over and died. It’s a bit unusual because back in 2000, some 28 years later when my stepfather (“Cheap Dad”) died of a heart attack—he too had just finished making love to her, came, made a “gagging sound”—rolled over and died.

I can almost picture my Mother, martyr-like, dour and all-addicted to sadness as some Black Widow circumventing the globe and doing her part in the population control program focused on getting rid of old stingy white men OR middle aged fat rage-aholic white men who had outlived their usefulness on the planet.

I think my Mother’s clearest moments are when she’s talking about exercise or being outside. Even at a very young age, 7 or 8, I remember coming home from school and seeing her doing her leg raises (which I could never do). It seems like she had a sexy six pack (like Venus de Milo) before anybody coined the phrase.

Fat Dad was overweight, smoked two packs of Parliaments a day, was hyper tense and died (in Mom’s arms) of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 44. Cheap Dad was a real tight-wad and loved to nag but had the redeeming qualities of not being abusive physically AND was both super organized and able to build or fix anything from shed latches to car engines to swamp coolers. I was never handy like that. Fat Dad could fix things—if he didn’t break them first. Cheap Dad had an estate worth more than four million when he died. My Mother’s death benefits consisted of a grand total of twenty thousand, half of which she divided between me—which I promptly used to go out and buy a top of the line PC; and my Brother (“Jailbird Bro”). Bro, (a.k.a. “Gregg”) was a former drug dealer, substance abuser and alcoholic. Gregg promptly spent his inheritance on gambling during the time between his first and second stays in the state pen.

Who were these males that made up the so-called male role models in my life? Fat Dad, Cheap Dad and Jail Bird Bro. Ahh my testosterone legacy. My imprint.

Fat Dad fancied himself the happy fat guy, the perfect host when he wasn’t in a rage about something. He could be a charming lady’s man with a yen for mixing mouth-watering Manhattans, playing Guy Lombardo or “The Ink Sports” on his big Magnavox stereo and casting easy, off-color racist, sexist or just plain old dirty jokes. He pictured himself a “company man” too, capable of walking both sides of the fence when it came to playing both the friend of the working man and confidant of corporate managers or the Big Guys upstairs in the suits and ties.

Cheap Dad was former metal worker, all around fix-up man and, well, did I say cheap? He had a sense of humor so dry, airless and stagnate it rivaled the Mojave Desert (or an empty peanut shell) that was basically non-existent. He would criticize the way you ate, buttered your toast, applied mayonnaise or any activity. Once when I went back to Crivitz, Wisconsin for a visit he made some comment about AIDS and I replied that I was busy spreading the virus around his house. One of the earliest conversations I had with him he went on at length about “bending over to pick up a bar of soap in a public shower with other men” and what exactly the word “Greek” meant. He was a stingy homophobic S.O.B. but I am grateful to him for leaving my Mother the dear little trailer out in Arizona, where, after he died I proceeded to go out and visit from about 2000 on. It was safe when he was gone. Just like I felt safe in my house when my real Dad was gone.

Jailbird Bro’s first and foremost line to me after his first incarceration was that “we are brothers so we will always have a blood connection that no one else will ever rival.” He also had a proclivity for telling funny and ironic stories often tinged with racism (prison stories) or red-neckism (good old boys he worked with at the corn syrup factory after the drug-dealing days)—though he often had forgotten the first telling and would go on to repeat the story a second and third time. Bro. also that that self-centered element of “I am the King and you are all my slaves” quality that Fat Dad had but unlike Fat Dad, Bro. had a con man’s innate ability to always be on the lookout for a fast buck, an easy ride or to take “the path of least resistance” as they say in the dumbed-down New Age circles. He had a talent for attaching himself to situations which first seemed to bring him security but which later blew up in his face. Like the 3rd or 4th wife he married for the health benefits. He finally had the double knee replacement he wanted but ended not being covered by that wife’s insurance so he filed for divorce and bankruptcy in prison and the wife got all his worldly possessions EXCEPT his trumpet which my Mother managed to get back for him.

Jailbird Bro pictured himself a great Romeo too--last month’s smoking and boozing girlfriend would be trying to set the house on fire this month. And who could blame them? He wanted the security of a home, to be taken care of but seldom offered anything in return besides his prowess in the sack (which, in the heavy cocaine using years wasn’t there). Like the worst of the heterosexual male characteristics, JailBird’s emotional life always seemed somehow muted when it came to personal matters of intimacy. His latest instruction to the current girlfriend is “After we have sex do me a favor and just don’t talk to me for like two hours—okay?” When she suggested he get therapy, his reply was—if she didn’t like the way he was—he could always leave. Also, like Fat Dad, Jailbird is still prone to what I call “getting his period”. That’s when, for no apparent reason, not even to himself—he cops a “bad attitude”, the perennial chip on his shoulder appears. When this happens you better steer clear.

My male role models. The quintessence of Americana. Thank You God---oh MY blessed ROOTS! ; )