Tyler Knight

My younger brother and I are upstairs changing clothes and cleaning up from the from the long flight back East.
I feel the house shake under my feet as the front door slams shut.
Dad is home.

We go downstairs together. Dad is waiting.
Not even as much as a hello after not speaking for 12 years he starts into me…ubiquitous J&B Scotch in hand. The entire bottle.
My brother the successful fashion model goes into public service announcement mode about family, alcohol, and violence in an attempt to placate Dad.
My brother, porn star advocate.
Dropping the bottle where he stands on the floor he fishes into his Dickies shirt-pocket for a crumpled pack of Lucky Strike (non filter). He uses the one already lit in his mouth to jump-start the last of pack 3 for the day.

I recall a father-son lesson from when I was 12; I had just come home from getting the worst of a fight from a local kid Joey McHenry.
Lip busted, t-shirt torn.
It’s not the fact that I got into a fight that set Dad off. As the only black family residing in Farmtown I was the village nigger and I was at a pace of two, three fights a week.
It was the fact that this one I lost.
Unacceptable.
He pulls me into the tight confines of the bathroom, his frame making the space dangerously claustrophobic and lays into me with his beefy hands.
“KEEP YOUR HANDS UP BOY! WHAT ARE YOU? A QUEER?
You let a WHITE BOY beat you up?”.
Gotta love old school Marines.
My skinny 12-year-old frame is thrown into the bath tub, the crack of skull on porcelain. No where to run, Dad continues the edification. I feebly try to defend myself kicking up at him. This pleases him.
Satisfied I will never drop my hands again he flings me out of the tub with one hand.
I am on his six as he lumbers into the kitchen.
I want to stab him with the scissors aside the butchers block, but I am a pussy.

Click-Click Whoosh!.

Gas stove lit, he leans over, and fires up the Lucky Strike in his lips.

Dad: Lighters are for faggots who sit down to pee.

Brother: Come on we…
Dad:Close your fucking mouth. Let your queer for a brother speak for himself.

Even as an old man, he is a large towering over me. brushing  past to refrigerator., bumping shoulders sending my cranberry juice crashing to the floor.
Me: Look at you. You bitter old man! Life didn’t go the way you wanted did it?
Baritone rumble of a laugh
Dad:Like you? You’re a fucking LOSER! I taught you DISCIPLINE! How to be a fucking MAN! I sacrificed my life for YOU. And what do you do? Fucking drop out of college and stick you pathetic girlie prick in girls assholes!
Me:Good news Dad. Eventually you’ll be dead. I’m still young enough to shape my life, but it’s too late you, you isn’t it old man! Outside of a year you’re a corpse.

Mom comes in.
Mom: Why don’t we just sit down at the table? This is the first time we have all been in the same room in forever.

Dad:You believe that fucking kid Wanda? Standing here in MY HOUSE…yelling at ME! At least you grew some fucking balls! Lemme guess why you came back. Not to see Dear ole Dad a final time out of love….you want FUCKING MONEY! Well FUCK YOU, you’re not getting SHIT when I die!

I head for the front door.
Me:Mom, how many times in the 19 years I’ve left the house have I asked you for money?
Mom:…I don’t know.
Me: HOW MANY TIMES MOM? Mom, grow a spine..how many times?
Mom:…Um….4 times?
Me:Four times a month, a year Mom?
Mom:…I….I don’t remember.
Me:*Sigh* Whatever Mom…would you say its safe to say I rarely asked you guys for money?
Mom: …Yes…

I open the door
Me:By the way. The right answer on how many times in asked for money in 19 years?FUCKIN ONCE…ONCE because I knew I would have to deal with this shit.

A potted plant flies between us…whizzing past my outstretched finger shaped into a “One”. In a blur as if tied to the plant by a rope dad flies outside….storming
comes back with a tire iron. I flee.

Running, I grab a toilet plunger without breaking stride from the bathroom, and steak knife in kitchen. We meet in dining room.
Me, dual wielding the plunger in my right hand, and the knife in my left.
(Filipino Martial Arts Training)
Me:I WILL stab you Dad.
He swings tire iron but thanks to my Filipino martial arts training I easily parry and zone out to the side. I do not stab him…I can’t He is still my Dad.
While I am dual wielding he is  extremely  difficult to disarm without hurting him. His size does not help.

Me:Dad, lets say we get rid of sharp objects and stuff…toss tire iron I drop the plunger and knife, OK?”

To my surprise, he does. In a flash, he is on me again. This time his 66-year-old body betrays his intentions…I easily see the swing coming. Silat joint lock, take down, mount. I pound my fists into Dad alternating between his ribs and face.
I feel like vomiting but If I let him up he will fucking kill me. Of this there is zero doubt.

Dad:Such a big man? Your balls finally drop  now, is that it…beating up on an old man. You FAGGOT!

He is not even shielding his face. He laughs at me. I take an arm and transition into a Kimura.

Me:Scream you mother fucker! Tell me how much your arm hurts. TELL ME!

*snap*

He never gives me the satisfaction.

Tough motherfucker.

Leaving him on the floor I hug my mother goodbye. We are crying as I walk out the front door.
Fucking poetic. I give the Old Man his comeuppance and I am the one crying like a bitch.

It is now that I realize he is more of a man than I will ever be.

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Tagged: Creative Memoir, Dream