Joseph - Im sorry you feel that way: the astonishing but true story of a daughter, sister, slut, wife, mother, and friend to man and dog

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Table of Contents

For The Boy
and For Allen

A man is a god in ruins.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Tongue Twister,Tongue Tied

One day my father sat me down and said, See, what happens is sometimes a girl will go with this one, and then shell go with that one, and then she thinks what the hell, that one over there doesnt look so bad, why not go with that one, too.

My father paused to take a long draw on his cigarette. It was 1982, the Just Say No campaign hadnt yet come on full-force, and fathers like mine smoked without guilt or shame or brain-washed children nagging at them to quit. They smoked in front of their children and their childrens friends, they smoked in the station wagon with children bouncing around in the backseat, the baby sitting on somebodys lap and all the windows rolled up. A sixth-grader could walk to the corner convenience store to play the Daily Number and buy a pack of smokes; no one questioned it. My father played 0-2-6, a dollar straight and a dollar boxed. He smoked Lucky Strikes, unfiltered. I walked the eight blocks from my house to the Fast and Friendly to play his number and buy his Luckies just about every day.

My father was talking, he was explaining something. There was something important that I needed to know, and he was telling me about it. I needed to listen. He wanted me to pay attention.

Now, look, my father said, when a girl goes with this one, and then with that one, and then with that one over there, and with who knows how many others, what happens is people start to talk. People will always hear all about what she did, see, and when they do, theyll talk about it. Theyll say that girl is a pig.

The Lucky dangled from my fathers lips and his eyes were squinty from the smoke. He raised his eyebrows. He was jabbing his finger at me. Moving only half his mouth, my father said, Dont be a pig.

That was the first time my father ever talked to me about sex. It would be his final word on the matter. Neither he nor I would speak of it again.

My father has spoken to me about other things. He is a man of firm belief and definite opinion.

For a long time, one of his favorite issues to put on the table was the ratio of how little money I make to how much education I have. He liked to ask how much was I making, so he could say, Thats it? and then taunt me. Im the dummy, hed say, and I made more than that. Youre supposed to have all this education. What was all that schooling for if thats all the money youre going to make?

My father, who dropped out of school in eighth grade, owned and operated a tow truck and auto body shop. When I was a kid, he loomed large, big and tall, powerful and strong, his energy endless, but these days, his health isnt good. Hes given his retirement over to puttering around the house, hes cooking fabulous meals, baking fabulous pieseven rolling out his own crustand he dabbles with day trading online.

Usually, when I call home, my mother answers the phone. Shes the one I chat with, the one I ask hows Dad doing? or whats Dad been up to? If its Fathers Day or his birthday, I call specifically to speak to him, and usually I can get him on the phone to wish him Merry Christmas.

But there have been times, though rare, when Ive called home, and my mother isnt there. My father answers the phone. Thats when he and I talk.

This happens once, maybe twice, a year. During these conversations, my father has spoken with great authority and discussed at great length matters I cant begin to comprehend: investments and annuities, bonds and interest rates, the Fed, the Dow Jones, and the stock market, which I always hear as the stalk market. I imagine a small creepy one-room office across the river and in the questionable part of town. Its where Id go if I wanted to hire someone to keep menacingly close tabs on someone else. Im running through the many possibilities of who Id like to have stalked when I hear my father say how much money do you have in your savings?

The honest answer would be none, I dont have any money in my savings. I dont have a savings account, and if you really want to know, the way I balance my checkbook is by changing banks.

But Im a coward. My answers to the questions my father asks are rarely honest. Because Im all about keeping the old man off my back, Im all about telling him what I think he wants to hear. I also want him to think well of me, which means the truth will not do.

Eighteen hundred, I say every time he asks, because it sounds like a figure thats plausible and realistic, like it could be true, but it also sounds, to me at least, like an impressive amount of money to have just lying around. Almost two thousand dollars saved! I tell my father, who, in turn, always says the same thing. He always says, Not enough.

During these telephone conversations, my father and I also talk about my brothers. My father confides in me his feelings concerning my brothers lives, specifically what theyre doing wrong.

Hes an asshole, my father says.

I dont have to ask which brother hes talking about. I know that if Im patient, at some point, my father will reveal to me that both of my brothers are assholes, but each boy is an asshole in his own special way. I never disagree with my father on this matter. I never take up for my brothers, I dont defend them or argue their cases. I always defer to my fathers opinion, murmuring my agreement that my brother is an asshole indeed, no bones about it. I mean my brothers no harm, but Im happier when my father is displeased with someone other than me.

While I have wandered from Pennsylvania to New York to Colorado to Minnesota, both of my brothers still live near my parents. This makes it easy for my father to keep up with their lives. This is what enables him to point out with such certainty that my one brother is an asshole because his bitch of a girlfriend is leading him around by the balls, while my other brother is an asshole because of the truck he bought, or because of how fast he rides his motorcycle, or because he says its fun to go four-wheeling. One of my brothers is an asshole because of the way he went about digging a hole, or hanging drywall, or building a deer stand, and my other brother is an asshole because he got pulled over for speeding, or because he thinks hes in love with a single mother seven years his senior.

I tried to tell him, my father says, but hes a hardhead. He thinks he knows everything. He doesnt know jack shit. But he wont listen to me. If hed listen to me, hed know.

I know, I say. Its true.

Hes an asshole.

Its true.

My father says he doesnt need me to tell him whats true.

I agree.

If its a rare thing for me to call home and talk to my father, its even rarer when my father calls me. Each time it happens, it catches me off guard, and every time, Im a little flattered, thinking wow, he must really want to talk to me. He mustve been thinking about me. Im charmed by it. I think its cute that my father has taken the time to search for my phone number, then dial it. I think its sweet. It makes me feel singled out, special, privileged, honored, and loved.

One time my father called to reveal that my mother didnt like being a stay-at-home mom, she didnt like being stuck at home with children. Your mother doesnt like kids, he shared. She never has.

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