I occasionally try to tie my issues to my biographical history. You know, alcoholic father, money, mom orchestrating several endless summers in the big glass house before it was all blown apart. I was young. I have a vague and grainy slideshow of those early years. I know there was some bliss. My sister tells me my dad was fun and amazing and tireless. Also, a little rough.
As my spiel begins I’m living in an upscale two-story house in the heart of old money neighborhood, Tarrytown. I still, tomorrow, in fact, hover over and move through this part of Austin—tennis near the university, where I used to play with the shirtless B Brothers. I guess if you’re long and lean you take your shirt off a lot. I didn’t. Might later.
I recall a moment in eighth grade. I was one of the *in* crowd. I noticed my body in the mirror coming into the locker room after morning football practice. I was handsome and strong. I had a pudgy middle. I sucked in my belly and proceeded to suck at my gut all day every day. It worked, I immediately attracted the cheerleader and twirler and we were a thing. I’d stepped over the threshold of mediocrity into a social star. I was all over eighth grade. Good grades. Troubled family life. And athlete. Then Mary Nell arrived.
The new girl always had that allure. Exotic. Long dark hair. A mysterious past. Massive boobs. An electric smile. And, I would learn later, not much interesting in her head. We all sat up and barked when she arrived mid-spring. She picked me. I was her boyfriend before anyone else had a chance to blink. Not sure it was the prize I was hoping for. More like a popularity contest. The prize was somewhat damaged. I never got into her story. We kissed a lot. Of course I got my hands on those massive mamaries. But without a sassy smart rest-of-the-woman, it was not all that interesting. I learned early, good looks can be a trap.
Ballroom Blitz was one of the hits that we played on the Jukebox in the cafeteria during lunch. I probably told some lies to my football buddies about oral sex and all that jazz. Lies. Kissing and first base. She was a good girl too. A minor Jesus-girl, but for sure, Jesus got there first and kept the rest of my determination at arm’s length. Then it was the end of our middle school run, time for high school. Oh, and I’m leaving for New England. I think she became a realtor here in Austin.
It would be years later, in the mountains near Las Vegas at a men’s retreat when I learned how men use armoring and tensing muscles as a defense. When a pretty woman enters a Starbucks, look around, every guy will suck in their bellies. It’s what guys do.
Unwinding the clinch of my belly was a mindfulness practice I began playing with. The opposite of sucking it in. Letting yourself breathe without anxiety or performance or posture to look attractive to others. It was a lesson in letting go. I was in the initial phases of divorcing my first wife. Today, I’m trying to train my belly to get behind those abs and stay tucked in. I guess I have to actually get rid of more of the excess. As the Beatles said, “It’s getting better all the time.” Or was that Simon and Garfunkle?
In the mountains I cried my eyes out. I learned that I could be loved. I learned that men are not all drunks, high school bullies, or narcissists. A lot of what made men this way was our upbringing, our programming, even our fear and exhilaration with war, with guns, with becoming a soldier and killing the commies. Apocalypse Now almost worked as a recruiting film for me, but I was denied my Warrant Officer program because of an astigmatism in my left eye. The Army would’ve crushed me. Helicopter piloting probably would’ve killed me. First in, first to die. I dodged a bullet courtesy of the Randolf Air Force Base doctor who disqualified me.
I took a gap semester before enrolling in The University of Texas. Worked odd jobs, managed the parking garage for a bank, lived with my mom and sister in New York City, got a job at a famous art gallery, realized how important it was for me to start college ASAP. Menial labor was hard, humiliating, and wasn’t going to provide the lifestyle I was hoping for. Sure, I couldn’t ever replicate my father’s success and money, but that wasn’t really my goal. I didn’t have a goal. I was goalless.
Boredom set in.
I got my act together and enrolled in college in January. About that same time, my father was diagnosed with brain cancer. He’d just had triple bypass heart surgery. His third heart attack. This one packed a different punch. The revived oxygen in his blood gave fuel and transport to the cancer cells still lingering around his body.
“God is not fair! Struck by lightning twice in one year.”
“What’s God doing, trying to kill you?” I did not say. I thought it. He’d not been a great dad. Poetic justice. But listen, I’m not the architect or poet of this massive redirect.
His suffering was massive. His cancer surgery and supplemental meds prevented him from continuing his Cutty Sark romance. That’s the first time I met my father sober. He was freaked out and withering under the cancer. He was spending as much time as possible at the golf resort an hour away from Austin and away from his toxic wife, galavanting around with a younger man and grifter, named Rod.
A boy does not want to see his father destroyed. Even as bad as that father is, there is massive sadness as the black hole implodes and ultimately vanishes. The gravitational waves are still being felt by the remaining two children, me and my other sister. Navigating my life up and out of that disaster was one of my first tests of courage and resilience.
Yes, there was a bit of money. The lawyers lined up on all sides and in the middle to take their share. I did get a nice place to live out of the deal. And for that, for all of it, I thank my father.
“Thanks, Dad! Wish you were here.
“I’ve got all of your certificates and diplomas. I’m proud of you. I’m not writing this to hurt you. I’m trying to get clear of the guilt and shame I was given. Thanks for all the fish.”
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