Death of Dad

June 9, 1980

We used to play this card game called "Spoons". If you're familiar with the game, cool. If not, it doesn't really matter you'll stil be able to follow this story. Any way, we used to play this game for HOURS.

Dad got up to go to the bathroom. We lived in a small 4 bedroom ranch. One of the bedrooms was my dad's office. The bathroom was off the hall which was off the kitchen where we were playing cards. Dad's usually short trip to the shitter would bring forth a chain of events that would change what I could have been and what I could have done with my life.

It's hard to say how long he was gone. Could have been 10 minutes, could have been an hour. Regardless, we didn't notice right away, we just kept playing cards. (I think this is why I always keep track of what and who is around me. I guess I figure if I don't something bad WILL happen--not really paranoia, more like observation)

We all seemed to notice he was gone a little too long at the same time. The search was on for the family bread winner. The father and the husband. Panic was thick. Mom found dad in the bathroom. Slumped over the toilet. Us kids couldn't see--the divider between the toilet and the door blocked the view.

"Nicky! Nicky!" my mom yelled repeatedly. No response. I think my sister called the ambulance. Now remember, this is all being recalled by a then 9 year old mind. But the accuracy isn't important. A neighbor lady came to stay with my sisters and I while my mom accompanied the medics to the hospital. They took him to Brentwood Ambulatory. A place that makes me shudder to this day every time I drive past it.

Dad had these cool "Cross pens" (I still have one) and I decided to make him a "get well" card with my oh so talented 9 year old hands. I found a piece of paper. Meticulously folded it in half and made a grade school "Hallmark". I took special care as to not mispell any words. I signed it and waited for my dad to return. After all, everyone was telling me "It's going to be OK."

Mom came home. Alone. She sat us all down on my sister's bed. In a calm, but teary voice, she told us that our daddy was dead. That's the last thing I can remember clearly. I became a 9 year old kid filled with the rage of a scorned adult. I crumbled up my get well card and threw it at one of the crucifixs' hanging on the wall.

"I HATE YOU!" I screamed at the effigy of my so-called savior. I lost God that night. At nine years old.

Something I've carried with me all my life is the memory of me stealing a piece of gum from the local store. Dad found out, and I got the belt for it. That night, I wished he was dead.

Three days later we were playing "Spoons."