expression on my dadâs face, the pain in his eyes, left me no
peace. Every time I closed my eyes I was looking right into his eyes, and I saw
disappointment. I imagined that I even saw his attempt to come up with an
excuse, to smooth things over. Most agonizing was seeing how he forced himself
to look away, to leave, because I knew he had done it for my sake. I knew that
in his whole body he wanted to sink down on the square and embrace me and save
me from a life that was unworthy and wasted. But he knew it wasnât possible, and
for my sake he forced himself to pretend as if he hadnât seen, as if he didnât
see.
I lay there the whole night, and the night after
that and again the following night, staring into the darkness. Only when I drank
myself blind drunk could I relax and fall asleep.
M y dad
lost his beloved peacockâand I lost my adored momâwhen I was four. The notorious
Chauffeurs, the ones who pick up stuffed animals who are worn out and used up
and end their lives in Mollisan Town, will always strike me as capricious and
merciless. Why did they take my mother when she was in her prime and had just
gotten her longed-for son? No one can explain it, and I learned early on that
life is cruel.
Dad became a single parent, and I assume that in
the eyes of the world around him he was an improbable one. Six days a week he
had breakfast down at the boxing club Fresco, which was at the far end of the
east strip of mold green Rue dâUzès. On Wednesdays he stayed away, because that
day the clubâs youth sparred against a zebra named Carlos early in the morning.
Carlos was one of the cityâs most promising, a featherweight boxer with a
lightning-fast right hook. A few years earlier he and Dad had ended up in a
conflict that neither of them could sort out, so Dad avoided Carlos.
When I was little, Dad had not boxed professionally
for several decades, but he was far from the only veteran who continued to hang
around the club even though heâd hung up his gloves. The familiar odors of fear,
sweat, arrogance, and leather; and the mute, confident mutual understanding
between the boxers were his survival strategy and a way to chase away the
incomprehensible challenges of existence.
He left me at day care when the sky turned dark,
and then took the bus two stops to Fresco, where he always sat at one of the
small tables by the entrance. He always had before him a glass of orange juice,
a hard cheese sandwich on a chipped plate, and a cup advertising car tiresâthat
were no longer manufacturedâof the steaming strong, bitter coffee that Dad could
not live without. He took a bite of the sandwich and read the sports pages in
the Daily News . At regular intervals he snorted out
loud at the journalistâs stupidity. He read the sports pages every day, so he
knew that the whole lot of them were idiots.
At about the time the Morning Rain ceased Dad
folded up the newspaper, got up from the table, and nodded to the crook-nosed
sloth Charlie in reception. South Sors General Grammar School, where my dad, the
fit and healthy bulldog, worked as a physical education instructor, was no more
than five minutes from Fresco, and the first class started fifteen minutes after
the rain. But he was in no hurry. No preparations were required before the
lesson; he had already been working a long time when I was in day care.
The rector of the school took Harry S. Bulldogâs
situation into account. For that reason Dad could always pick me up at day care
at the same time as the other cubs were picked up. We shopped for groceries on
the way home, and we prepared meals together. Dad was not a painstaking or
pretentious cook. He prepared staples, and it was our togetherness that was
important, not the spices. This continued until I was fifteen. Preparing the
food and then eating across from each other at the kitchen table, where there
were two chairs, was something I thought all families did. We missed
peace. Every time I closed my eyes I was looking right into his eyes, and I saw
disappointment. I imagined that I even saw his attempt to come up with an
excuse, to smooth things over. Most agonizing was seeing how he forced himself
to look away, to leave, because I knew he had done it for my sake. I knew that
in his whole body he wanted to sink down on the square and embrace me and save
me from a life that was unworthy and wasted. But he knew it wasnât possible, and
for my sake he forced himself to pretend as if he hadnât seen, as if he didnât
see.
I lay there the whole night, and the night after
that and again the following night, staring into the darkness. Only when I drank
myself blind drunk could I relax and fall asleep.
M y dad
lost his beloved peacockâand I lost my adored momâwhen I was four. The notorious
Chauffeurs, the ones who pick up stuffed animals who are worn out and used up
and end their lives in Mollisan Town, will always strike me as capricious and
merciless. Why did they take my mother when she was in her prime and had just
gotten her longed-for son? No one can explain it, and I learned early on that
life is cruel.
Dad became a single parent, and I assume that in
the eyes of the world around him he was an improbable one. Six days a week he
had breakfast down at the boxing club Fresco, which was at the far end of the
east strip of mold green Rue dâUzès. On Wednesdays he stayed away, because that
day the clubâs youth sparred against a zebra named Carlos early in the morning.
Carlos was one of the cityâs most promising, a featherweight boxer with a
lightning-fast right hook. A few years earlier he and Dad had ended up in a
conflict that neither of them could sort out, so Dad avoided Carlos.
When I was little, Dad had not boxed professionally
for several decades, but he was far from the only veteran who continued to hang
around the club even though heâd hung up his gloves. The familiar odors of fear,
sweat, arrogance, and leather; and the mute, confident mutual understanding
between the boxers were his survival strategy and a way to chase away the
incomprehensible challenges of existence.
He left me at day care when the sky turned dark,
and then took the bus two stops to Fresco, where he always sat at one of the
small tables by the entrance. He always had before him a glass of orange juice,
a hard cheese sandwich on a chipped plate, and a cup advertising car tiresâthat
were no longer manufacturedâof the steaming strong, bitter coffee that Dad could
not live without. He took a bite of the sandwich and read the sports pages in
the Daily News . At regular intervals he snorted out
loud at the journalistâs stupidity. He read the sports pages every day, so he
knew that the whole lot of them were idiots.
At about the time the Morning Rain ceased Dad
folded up the newspaper, got up from the table, and nodded to the crook-nosed
sloth Charlie in reception. South Sors General Grammar School, where my dad, the
fit and healthy bulldog, worked as a physical education instructor, was no more
than five minutes from Fresco, and the first class started fifteen minutes after
the rain. But he was in no hurry. No preparations were required before the
lesson; he had already been working a long time when I was in day care.
The rector of the school took Harry S. Bulldogâs
situation into account. For that reason Dad could always pick me up at day care
at the same time as the other cubs were picked up. We shopped for groceries on
the way home, and we prepared meals together. Dad was not a painstaking or
pretentious cook. He prepared staples, and it was our togetherness that was
important, not the spices. This continued until I was fifteen. Preparing the
food and then eating across from each other at the kitchen table, where there
were two chairs, was something I thought all families did. We missed
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