Nuclear Family Warhead

I just found out yesterday that a friend who used to live next door to me committed suicide by cop.  After hearing about what had been going on in his life, I can almost see why he would make such a desperate decision.  He had an outstanding warrant for theft, and he knew it; so when the police officer saw him crossing the parking lot and told him to stop, he must have known that the time was now.  You see, he had been waiting for this opportunity.  It is why he had purchased a toy gun.  It is why he painted over the orange tip that identifies it as a toy gun.  It is why he painted it gun-stock silver; so that it would look every bit as threatening as he would need it to in order to get the policeman to end his misery.  Once, and for all.

Jim (not his real name) lived next door to me in El Paso for 2 years in the early 90’s.  He lived with two other roommates; I had one.  They had a swimming pool.  We had 3 acres of land and a landlord who enjoyed mowing our lawn.  No kidding.  The rent for my roommate and I was $425 a month.  Not each; total.  Our houses were conveniently located 2 blocks from our favorite watering hole; Aceitunas Beer Garden.  I was (along with my friend Paul) the first paying customer in that bar the day they opened.  I was also the first customer ever asked to leave that bar.  Same night; but that’s another post.  When ‘Tunas would close, the party would invariably move to our place, or Jim’s place.  We’d all play cards, try and blow my speakers to Pearl Jam, play front yard soccer barefoot and break every toe on both feet at the same time (yep, me again) and generally have a great time.  15 years ago today, July 4th, 1993 our 2 houses hosted a 4th of July party to end all 4th of July parties.  It was epic; The Who could have written a song about it.  It was that good.  As time went on, we each moved on and moved away from our little party planet.  Everyone, that is, except for Jim.  He could never let go of the euphoria that alcohol gave him.   

I think everyone knows, or has known, someone who could be classified as a “mean drunk”.  Jim was a mean drunk.  Even back when we were neighbors, if he went a little too far with the booze, it would be a bad night for everyone.  NukeMom knew him back then too.  He used to flirt with her, or any girl, for that matter, in a drunken stupor that no girl would find attractive.  He would hold on to her arm and not let her walk away.  On more than one occasion, it almost led to fights.  NukeMom and I weren’t an item yet, but we would be soon after.  Jim just always wanted and needed someone to listen to him.  As he drank, the need got greater; both for attention and alcohol.  We all out grew it.  He, apparently, never did.  He was fighting something much more sinister, known only to himself.

I hadn’t seen, talked to, or thought about Jim for a long time.  Then yesterday, my little sister sent me a link from the local newspaper.  I read it in disbelief.  Jim’s life had gone horribly wrong after we had lost touch.  In the summer of 2004 he was arrested for Aggravated Sexual Assault Of a Child.  It was a little girl.  She was 9.  I almost threw up.  He served prison time and was on probation when the shooting occurred.  After he got out of prison, none of his old friends would have anything to do with him.  He allegedly got into the drug scene and continued his downward spiral.  I looked him up on the sex offender web site after hearing about all of this and saw a picture of a truly broken man.  The look on his face was one of total despair.  I wanted to pity him, but I couldn’t.  Not after what he had done.

I’ll never understand what can possess someone to violate a child.  To me, there is no greater sin.  The reason I am having such a hard time with this, is because we already lived through this nightmare a year ago.  My neighbor across the street was arrested in July for the same offense.  We didn’t know.  Mr. and Mrs. AP didn’t know.  The Doc and his family didn’t know.  None of us knew.  He never had a chance to commit anything so heinous in our neighborhood, of that we are sure, but the shock remains.  Someone so close.  Someone we knew.  Someone we didn’t know at all.  3 days before his final court appearance before trial; he hung himself in his jail cell.  He left a wife, an 18 month old son and a bewildered community.  You just never know.  I think of his poor wife; an immigrant who had found happiness in her new, adopted country, and wonder how she makes it through each day.  I mostly think of their little boy.  I picture his father pulling him around their driveway in his Radio Flyer wagon, his laughter filling the neighborhood.  Unaware.  Unaware of the demons that lived in his father.  I wonder who will tell him.  I wonder when they will tell him.  I wonder if they should tell him.

Jim turned to face the officer and blurted out a string of obscenities, knowing it would raise the level of tension.  The officer, clearly getting agitated, told Jim to back off and calm down.  Jim continued his ranting and announced to the officer “I have a gun!”  He then reached into his back waistband and pulled out the toy handgun that he knew would be the means to his end.  The officer retreated, unholstered his pistol and fired at Jim until he had no bullets left.  Reports say it was at least 4 shots.  One witness says she heard as many as 10.  As Jim lie on the ground dying, the officer had a chance to get a good look at the gun that had been pointed at him.  It was then that he realized that it was a toy gun.  I can only imagine the turmoil and anguish he and his family must be enduring right now.  An unsuspecting executioner in another man’s desperate fight to quiet the demons.  Once, and for all.

Apparently Dr. Isaid No has returned from the dank slums of Eastern Europe.  I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. AP the other day and they told me there had been a Doc sighting in the neighborhood.  It was more than a sighting, actually, it was a full-blown encounter.  Mr. & Mrs. AP did some spring cleaning and had a garage sale.  None of their customers ran over my mailbox this time, so I judge it a huge success.  After the sale they had a few toys left that they wanted to give to Bunson, the Doc’s 4 year old boy.  The Doc agreed and the toys were delivered.  Bunson had a blast all afternoon playing with his new used toys.  Then came bath-time. (Cue dramatic music).

It seems that the Doc and Bunson had differing opinions on bath-time; namely, when it should occur or if it should occur at all.  The Doc was for full body scrub-down while little Bunson was in the “I’ll play with my new toys whether I stink or not!” camp.  Guess who won that battle?  Bunson eventually made it upstairs with the assistance of some gentle persuasion followed by a full body lift and carry.  I understand that it wasn’t pretty.  After bath-time, or “Time Served” as Bunson would call it, Bunson returned downstairs at the urging of Nurse Thighhighs to apologize to the Doc.  Or so it seemed.

The Doc was relating this story to Mr. & Mrs. AP when they thought they found a discrepancy in the delivery.  Doc’s account was that Bunson came downstairs, tears still flowing and stated: “I’m sorry I was a crybaby-asshole.”  As in: “I’m sorry I was acting like a crybaby AND an asshole.”  After a few awkward  seconds, Mrs. AP made the gentle suggestion that perhaps that hyphen was actually a (gasp) comma, which would change the dynamic completely.  Did little Bunson actually say: “I’m sorry I was a crybaby, asshole”?  As in: “I’m sorry I was a crybaby YOU asshole!”  The Jury is still out.  I’ll let you know when they reach a verdict.

I remember distinctly where I was the moment my father died. I was 30,000 feet in the air, somewhere over Western Mississippi or Eastern Arkansas. I was in a deep sleep due to overwork and stress from my father’s rapidly deteriorating condition. It had been a rough two days; trying to decide what to do, and when to do it.  Dad had been sick for a very long time. Emphysema does that to a person; it takes you slowly, not in one fell swoop. I had been in contact with my family as his condition waned in those final days. Finally, my sister told me, “You’d better come if you want to say goodbye.”

I left North Carolina for El Paso during the late afternoon. It was the end of October, so daylight disappeared quickly. It was dusk when we took off, and the darkness chased us all the way to West Texas. I had gathered my things quickly when I was preparing for my trip, and on the plane I was doing a mental checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. More work for an already overtaxed mind. I remember packing my suit and thinking what a morbid action that was. Was I a pessimist? Dad is going to die? Or was I an optimist? I’ll take it just in case, even though I know I won’t need it? I think I was a realist; after more than 10 years of fighting this affliction, Dad had given up the fight. The suit would have to be worn.

Mom and Dad had celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary only a month before. We were able to make that trip home to help them celebrate. I remember Dad seeming a little detached, almost as if he was savoring a long term goal that had been met. He was happy and smiling, as much as he could be, while fighting for breath, yet I could sense an undercurrent. I didn’t know it at the time, but I believe what he was feeling was accomplishment, and closure. Accomplishment for reaching this admirable milestone; and closure in that his journey was coming to an end.

He had fought so hard, for so long, that I believe that he was ready to go. It had just become too tiresome; the dread of knowing that a walk to the bathroom would leave him physically spent. The self-reproach of having to be waited on hand and foot by my Mother. The realization that each day became harder; less livable. It’s one thing to fight everyday to improve your life, knowing that you control your destiny; it is quite another to die a little each and every day knowing that there is nothing that you can do about it, and that the family that you hold so dear can only sit there and watch.

I bolted upright at 8:02pm, on October 26, 2002, startling the person next to me on the airplane. When I awoke, it was as if I had not been asleep at all. No cobwebs, no feeling of tiredness, just a feeling of total and complete peace. The last time I had felt that way was back in childhood before the worries of real life and responsibility had come. I can’t really describe it adequately; it wasn’t a feeling of joy, certainly not sadness, just a feeling of…lucidity. The worries and troubles of a job that I loathed were gone. So too, were the feelings of angst and sorrow for my dying Father. For in that moment, I knew why I had awoken, and I knew who had awoken me. While asleep, I had been dreaming of my Dad. I remember that in my dream I kept trying to convince him to keep fighting, that I was almost home. Just wait for me Pop. I remember him smiling that calm, reassuring smile of his as if to say; it’s alright, you’re already home.

As I gazed out the window of the airplane, I could see the sun setting to the west, like a giant ball about to roll off of a table. We were flying well above the clouds, and I noticed something I had never seen before. The tops of the clouds were completely flat; smooth as glass. There wasn’t a ripple, break or crease to be seen. It was as if I was looking at the floor of Heaven. I have never seen anything like it before or since. I researched trying to find out why the clouds would look that way, but came up empty. The rays of the sun were splashing off of the cloud tops in a way that made the entire sky look and feel like it was on fire. The brightness not overwhelming, and the sight nothing short of astounding. I knew in that moment that my Father was saying goodbye to me, and that this was his fond farewell. The show outside the airplane was exclusively for me; no one else even noticed. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t there for them to see.

I met my brother and sister curbside at the airport. As I climbed into the backseat I asked them how Dad was doing. My brother and sister turned around, and through tears my brother said, “You didn’t make it in time, I’m sorry.” I was emotionally spent, and immediately lost it. After trying so hard to get home in time, I had failed. After a few seconds of selfish weeping, I realized; I had made it in time. I asked my sister what time Dad had died. She said it was a couple of minutes after six, their time. That would make it almost exactly 8:02pm on my watch. The full realization of what had happened hit me at that moment, and instead of a feeling of sorrow, I was filled with joy; for I knew that I WAS with Dad when he passed, I just wasn’t at his bedside. He did that for me. And I will be forever indebted to him for it. Thanks, Pop.

(Update: July 1st, 2008) Mr. Lady at Whiskey In My Sippy Cup has awarded me the “Perfect Post” award for this tribute.  Thank you, Mr. Lady, I am truly humbled.

Thanks also to Lindsay at Suburban Turmoil and Kimberly at Petroville.

The meat wagon pulled into my driveway the other day.  I’m not talking about the county coroners’ Hearse, or a burrito buggy that frequents construction sites; I’m talking a 1998 Dodge Ram 1500 with dents a plenty, peeling paint and in desperate need of a tune up.  I mention the tune up only because the children who were riding their bikes up and down the street were now lying in the grass gasping for air.  The eye-catcher; though, was the Kenmore 7.0 cubic foot chest freezer in the bed of the truck.  That’s funny, I don’t remember ordering a dead body.  Maybe NukeMom ordered me something special for Father’s Day.

“How are you today?”; the voice startled me.  It was coming from the Unabomber look-a-like who was walking up my driveway.  Not the sketch drawn Unabomber; I always thought the sketch looked like Tom Berenger (Platoon, Major League, The Big Chill), the actor.  Poor guy, no wonder he wasn’t getting any acting jobs then.  No, he looked like the Ted Kaczynski-scruffy hair-livin’ in the Montana wilderness-Unabomber.  He had been across the street talking to my neighbor.  What am I, Park-n-Go?  “I was talking to your neighbor about some fabulous deals I’ve got”.  Oh God, here we go. 

As some of you know, I’ve spent most of my life in and around restaurants, so this guy trying to sell me meat was going to be an exercise in futility for him.  He’d have better luck selling Juan Valdez a case of Folgers Crystals.  I immediately dis-armed him by pointing to the brand new freezer in my garage and showing him my Sam’s Club receipt.  It clearly showed where I had just purchased an entire Ribeye roll for less than $6.00 per pound; so buying his 6 individual 7oz Ribeye’s at $28.62 per pound just wasn’t making me feel all lovey-dovey.  He continued with his sales pitch, throwing out words like; ‘wholesale’, ’case discount’, ‘flash-frozen’ and ‘package deal’.  I think he even said ‘chance of a lifetime’ at one point.  I just kept walking him towards his truck until we got to the driver’s door and he finally took the hint.  He tried one last time with “I don’t know when I’ll be back this way again”.  I thanked him and said ”No” for the 15 ba-zillionth time.  He finally started up his truck and backed out of the driveway.  The bike riders were back, but they were prepared this time.  Two of them headed up-wind while those trapped down-wind dove for cover.  

I know the poor guy was just trying to make a buck, but I have an aversion to buying meat off of a truck from someone who looks like an urban terrorist.  It’s not like he was the Schwann’s guy or something.  I’m sure some of it’s good; some of the things I’ve heard about the filet’s is positive, I’m just not willing to take that chance.  Food poisoning and child rearing should never collide in the same sentence, let alone the same household.  If he comes back next time with some Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, THEN maybe we can do some business.  Keeping my fingers crossed…

I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.  His name is Andy.  We worked together at The State Line Restaurant in El Paso, Texas when we were growing up.  Our group worked hard together and we played hard together. Once, after a fishing trip, I put the head of a catfish on Andy’s pillow and left him a Mafia-esque note from “The Codfather”.  It took him a few days to forgive me, and we all had a good laugh, but even after a week he told me he couldn’t get the fish smell out of his pillow.  He was good natured, and an average golfer.  He’d laugh at your jokes, and tell a few of his own.  He was a friend.  A brother.  A son.  A husband.  A father.  A soldier.  He died doing what he loved.  He died protecting his country’s freedom.  His wife and son’s freedom.  My freedom.  Your freedom.  Please remember Andy and his family in your thoughts and prayers today.

It has been quite the week in our neighborhood.  Our male Beagle puppy; Buddy, thinks that our lawnmower is prey that needs to be hunted and killed, and our neighbor; the Assistant Principal was attacked by a squirrel.  I kid you not.  Attacked is maybe too strong a term; almost maimed is probably more appropriate.  Both of these incidents beg the question: what in tarnation is going on with the animals in our neighborhood?  Could it be that we are about to experience an earthquake?  They say that animals will get spooked and wig out right before an earthquake.  Or is it maybe that the earth is completing it’s Milankovitch cycle, or earth wobble as it is more commonly referred to?  Who knows?  I say it’s an election year and all kinds of crazy unexplainable stuff can happen during one of those.  Take George McGovern for example.

Psychotic animals (or people, for that matter) are great subjects in the hands of a Master like Stephen King; but they tend to disrupt the fabric of normalcy in an otherwise quiet suburban neighborhood.  That fabric was shredded in our neighborhood yesterday.  Buddy, all 8 months and 21 pounds of him, decided that he was going to hunt, track, kill and field dress our Craftsman lawnmower.  This is surprising due to the fact that Buddy can usually be seen dashing, tail between the legs, underneath the deck when he hears a butterfly burp.  Now, all of the sudden he’s Conan the Destroyer?  His sister; Penny, watched from the shaded Utopia that is our deck with mild amusement.  I could tell she was getting a kick out of it.  Buddy can’t beat up his sister (she whips up on him daily), so he’ll just take on the whirly-bladed metal thing instead.  I can’t afford doggie therapy.  We may just have to let him “catch” the lawnmower once, just so he can get a taste of the kill.  If we do that, though, what’s next?  Will he stalk the oven?  Pounce on the computer?  Jump the fence and join a wild pack of Ice Cream Truck hunters?  Maybe we should have gone with hamsters instead.

Our neighbor, the Assistant Principal (heretofore referred to as “AP”), is lucky to be alive.  Truly.  AP was minding his own business when a ruckus erupted in his back yard.  His daughter; APgirl we’ll call her, was yelling frantically at their rat terrier mix Annie to “Let Go! Let Go!”  Seems Annie had been patiently waiting for the right moment to decimate a trio of squirrels who had been taunting her for weeks.  Well, one of them paid the piper yesterday.  The three were casually dining on acorns in the back yard when Annie got within striking range.  Two of them; Smart and Smarter, we’ll call them, made for the fence.  Alvin, the smart-alecky one, had his back turned and never had a chance.  “Hey!  Where you guys goin’?”  Fade to Black. 

I imagine the last seconds looked something like this:  His chipmunk cousin pretty much nailing the facial expression, I think.  By the time AP got to the scene, Annie had already thrashed the squirrel into submission.   He yelled for her to drop it, and she did.  Then she pounced on it again.  He told her to drop it again, and as he was trying to push the “dead” squirrel out of the way with one hand while holding on to Annie with his other hand, the squirrel struck.  Seems it had been taking some cues from the possums in the neighborhood.  It got him on the tip of the finger, so AP did what any normal human would do in that instance: he yelled and snapped his hand away from his body, sending poor Alvin nose over tail all the way to the fence.  Alvin executed a perfect 4 point landing on the fence and held on for dear life.  Little did he know that that would end right about…..now.   He fell from the fence and was dead before he hit the ground.  Annie had been wrangled and put back in the house, and AP had a chance to look at his hand for the first time.  The bite was superficial, but the skin had been broken.  It was bleeding in two locations and the closest clinic was already closed.  He would have to go to the hospital.  Can you say Holiday Weekend Traffic? 

Four hours and 3 doses of anti-biotic later AP was sent home.  Alvin is on his way to the autopsy room and results should be back within 4 or 5 days.  We’re all 99.9% sure that what Alvin suffered from wasn’t rabies; it was cockiness.   Annie is walking with quite the strut today, the ER nurses got a good laugh, and we got a story to tell.  Boy, did we ever.

Strange things have been happening at our house.  Things have been disappearing, only to reappear somewhere else hours or even days later.  Items that once belonged to one person have now become the property of another.  The exchange usually takes place without the original owner even being aware that their property has been pilfered.  One example of this phenomenon appeared just recently in our garage.  Here is the photographic forensic evidence.

I lined up the usual suspects and began my line of questioning.  First up: Nukeboy1.  “Nukeboy1, do you know how this butt pad ended up on Nukegirl’s bike?”  “I don’t know Dad, I just live here”, he said.  The funny thing is; Nukeboy1 had recently acquired the butt pad in question from NukeMom.  It was a “loaner”, an “I swear I’ll give it back”, it was dangerously close to being a “well, you never use it anyway.”  Nukeboy1 was of the opinion that it was a borrow/lien/possession equation: if you don’t ask for it back within the time period that he thinks is sufficient, then ownership defaults to him.  “Possession is 9/10ths of the law, you know.”  Touche, Columbo.

Nukeboy2 was rounded up just so we’d have enough suspects for the line up.  He had an airtight alibi.  He was on a moon of Endor conquering Lego stormtroopers.  I set my sights on Nukegirl.  The little Svengali had a standard M.O.; deny, deny, deny; and then, reason with hypotheticals.  “It wasn’t me Daddy, I was just drawing with my chalk.”  Little did she know that I had already noticed the pale blue and pink traces of chalk dust glaring from the surface of the jet black bike seat.  I would save this for later.  Just when she thought she’d be making bail, I’d drop the bomb shell and we’d move on to the plea-bargaining.  It would be awesome; just like the last 4 1/2 minutes of CSI.  Besides, she was already under suspicion for aiding and abetting in the disappearance of an entire family of chalk people.  You can read my case file here.

“Are you sure you don’t know how the butt pad got on your bike?” I asked her again.  “It was just there, Dada, I’m serious!”  Denial number two; she was playing right into my hands.  “But it couldn’t just get there by itself, honey, someone had to put it there” I good copped.  “Maybe it fell off of Nukeboy1’s bike and landed on my seat” she offered.  Plausible?  Maybe on the Wonder Pets, but not on my beat.  “And it would just land perfectly on your bike seat on the other side of the garage?” I asked.  “Yeah! That’s what happened; and then, it told me to sit on it.”   She was good, but I wouldn’t be taken off task.  “Do you see all of this chalk on the seat?” I asked her.  “Yes” was all she could muster.  The head went down, the lip pouted and she knew she’d been caught.  “I’m sorry Daddy, I just wanted to use it so my hiney would be nice and fluffy.”  I had to give her credit for motive, at least.

She pleaded guilty to larceny and possession of stolen goods.  She was sentenced to 15 to 20 minutes without television, and will be on chalk probation for 3 weeks.  With good behavior, she could be out in 5 minutes. Case Closed.

We had finally made it to the clearing.  After a grueling trek through the space display, and battling 2 busloads of day campers in the “Make Your Own Kind of Music” exhibit, we found ourselves in Dentopia.  Nukeboy2 stood frozen in his tracks, eyes fixated on the wonder of it all.  Before him stood the interactive tooth table (with real drill action!), the “How Braces Work” display and; in the corner, the floor to ceiling mouth.

“Whoa!, Dad! Check it out!”  Nukeboy2 has seen this exhibit at the museum many times before, but it never fails to amaze him.  That’s part of the fun of bringing him back.  Where else can a kid climb inside a mouth without getting plaque all over him?  “I wonder how much the tooth fairy would give me for one of these!” he said, as he held a chair sized molar over his head.  “Buddy” I said, “If we could get 3 or 4 of those to the car without being noticed, we could put all 3 of you through college and fund our retirement.”

We couldn’t hang around, the day campers were hot on our trail.  We broke for the planetarium as the day campers swooped down into “Anatomyland” and began yanking the innards out of Squeaky.  Squeaky is the larger than life stuffed doll with a navel to sternum incision (with real surgery action!).  Poor Squeaky.  As we made the turn I heard a young Surgeon yell; “Hey, look at this!”  It’s ok, though; a museum volunteer will return Squeaky’s pancreas to him once the mob has moved on.  He’ll live to teach another day.

Helen comes to our house every month.  She only stays for a week, or so, but the effects of her visits can usually be felt a few days before she gets here, and for a few days after she leaves.  She grates on NukeMom the most.  It’s no skin off my back, cause I can just leave the room if I don’t want to be around her, but whenever she’s here,  she won’t give NukeMom a moments rest.

I do my best to support NukeMom when Helen visits.  It’s a relationship that started when they were teenagers.  They met in junior high and they’ve been inseparable ever since.  Can’t say that it’s ever been a good relationship, just one of those relationships that you tolerate because you have to.  I mean, it’s not like they’re best friends or anything.  In fact, I think if NukeMom had it her way, she’d just as soon not have to deal with Helen at all anymore. 

Helen is getting ready to leave and we couldn’t be happier.  The kids will get more time with NukeMom, I’ll get more time with NukeMom and most importantly; NukeMom will get more time to herself.  She won’t have to deal with “The Helen Issue” again until next month.  I swear, that woman shows up like clockwork.  Uninvited.  Like she’s on some cycle, or something.

*This post pre-screened, pre-approved and endorsed by NukeMom* (I’m not a total idiot)

The Mother-In-Law arrives tomorrow…

…need I say more?