There will come a day when you figure out that something is up with your dad.
You will look around at other kid's dads and see what they do; they get up, they eat breakfast with their family and they go to work. A lot of them work in an office. Some of them drive a truck. Some of them work in movie theaters or bowling alleys. Some of them teach school. Some of them write screenplays. Some of them join The Marines. Some of them are bartenders or waiters, serving food and drinks for all the other ones to eat and drink. Some work in a movie theater or a factory. Some get to work on an ice cream truck - they get to see lots of smiles!
A lot of dad's sell things to make a living. They sell motorcycles or advertising or espresso machines or tickets to see a baseball game or a concert.
I have done all of these things...with varying degrees of success.
The truth is this: I am a little lost in the world. I do not understand exactly how things work. I try my best to do what is in front of me and sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't.
I have no shortage of talent and I am surrounded by wonderful people who want to help me find my way. I get tired sometimes. I get discouraged. But, I will never give up trying to figure this deal out.
When my journey takes me away from you, I miss your more than I thought I could miss anyone. I love our time together and hope that someday soon I find a way to a routine that is not too routine, a way to earn a living that is fulfilling and allows me to be with you more.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
THE GRIND - Part 1
I got no beef with Cadillac Frank. He was in the wrong and, given time, he'll cop to it. "My vic" means "My vic." This is a fact that is not open to interpretation. 'Nuff said on that topic.'
Insofar as his nickname is concerned, there is (as always) no shortage of geniuses claiming to know why this or that scalper is called by such and such name on the street. "Duh, he drives a 'Caddy!" or "He's from Cadillac, Michigan." or, my personal favorite, brought to you by Wrong Allan: "He's the penultimate scalper, you know, the Cadillac of scalpers." Allan really outdid himself, there. I'm not really sure where to begin. An astounding amount of fuckups in one sentence, even for Allan. The best part is that, for emphasis, Allan writes the word Cadillac in the air, like he's writing it in cursive with a pen, just like the actual Cadillac logo. Pretty sure he missed an "L".
Cadillac Frank, who sliced me when I was in the middle of a sale, was born Francis Patrick Leahey. He drives a twenty year old Cutlas which he does not own, but is owned by his partner, Chris Mulrooney, a scalper to be nicknamed later. He grew up in Stoneham and I have no idea exactly where his parents are from, but I would lay odds on Dorchester or Roxbury. I base this call on my keen ear for Bostonian accents and the fact that Frank's mom needs a friggin' translator when she leaves the New England area.
Anyway, Frank's dad, Frank Sr., is deceased and the story goes that he, not Frank, drove a Cadillac. An early '70's limited edition El Dorado called the El Deora, favored by mob guys and pimps mostly. When Frank was 3-years-old, his old man missed his birthday party. It wasn't a huge deal to anyone but Frank Sr. who was always looking for an excuse to go on a bender, and go he went. He skipped work and went right to Kelly's. By noon he was legless and by four-thirty he and the driver he hit head on (a guy who actually went to work that day) were both taking their last ambulance ride.
A veteran cop on the scene knew Frank senior and was telling a bright-eyed rookie the sad tale of Frank's now widowed wife and orphaned 3-year-old son. The rookie was pretty shaken up by the scene and wanted to do something for the kid who would not remember his dad when he grew up. He looked at his feet and saw the Caddy's hood ornament on the pavement. It doesn't look like a regular Cadillac ornament and if you didn't know your shit, you'd have no clue that it came from a Cadillac. Anyway, the rookie cop pockets it and when he went to inform the family, he gave the ornament to Frank Junior, who has cherished it ever since. Since then, Frank has been obsessed about all things Cadillac - Cadillac posters on his wall, Cadillac screen-saver, the whole nine yards. He swears he's gonna put enough cash together one day to buy a mint condition 1973 Cadillac El Deora just like his old man had. But Cadillac Frank, like so many in our business, is a degenerate gambler and him ever owning a vehicle of his own, let alone a cherry vintage Caddy...c'mon. Please.
Great story, huh? Only one problem. Frank Senior never owned or even drove a Cadillac.
I know, I know. What I actually said was "...the story goes..." or words to that effect. The Cadillac in question was, in fact, driven by the guy Frank Senior hit. No one wore seat belts in those days and both drivers were ejected from their vehicles which were both barely recognizable as cars - forget about make and model! It was a real friggin' mess, blood, glass and metal. The rookie made an honest mistake and Frank's widow's whole world had just gone to shit so I don't think she knew her own name, let alone what the hell the officer was talking about when he gave Frank Junior a hood ornament from someone else's car. By the time she came to her senses, Mrs. Leahey saw how much little Frank loved the thing; she didn't have the heart to tell him what was what, not that it mattered much in the grand scheme of things. Anyway, I have it on good authority that Frank's old man drove a Buick Riviera, the kind with the bubble-back window. It was a piece of shit that never would have passed inspection if Frank didn't throw his mechanic ten bucks every year. It all worked out. "Riviera Frank" is a bit pretentious for the street; it'd make him sound like a homo.
Insofar as his nickname is concerned, there is (as always) no shortage of geniuses claiming to know why this or that scalper is called by such and such name on the street. "Duh, he drives a 'Caddy!" or "He's from Cadillac, Michigan." or, my personal favorite, brought to you by Wrong Allan: "He's the penultimate scalper, you know, the Cadillac of scalpers." Allan really outdid himself, there. I'm not really sure where to begin. An astounding amount of fuckups in one sentence, even for Allan. The best part is that, for emphasis, Allan writes the word Cadillac in the air, like he's writing it in cursive with a pen, just like the actual Cadillac logo. Pretty sure he missed an "L".
Cadillac Frank, who sliced me when I was in the middle of a sale, was born Francis Patrick Leahey. He drives a twenty year old Cutlas which he does not own, but is owned by his partner, Chris Mulrooney, a scalper to be nicknamed later. He grew up in Stoneham and I have no idea exactly where his parents are from, but I would lay odds on Dorchester or Roxbury. I base this call on my keen ear for Bostonian accents and the fact that Frank's mom needs a friggin' translator when she leaves the New England area.
Anyway, Frank's dad, Frank Sr., is deceased and the story goes that he, not Frank, drove a Cadillac. An early '70's limited edition El Dorado called the El Deora, favored by mob guys and pimps mostly. When Frank was 3-years-old, his old man missed his birthday party. It wasn't a huge deal to anyone but Frank Sr. who was always looking for an excuse to go on a bender, and go he went. He skipped work and went right to Kelly's. By noon he was legless and by four-thirty he and the driver he hit head on (a guy who actually went to work that day) were both taking their last ambulance ride.
A veteran cop on the scene knew Frank senior and was telling a bright-eyed rookie the sad tale of Frank's now widowed wife and orphaned 3-year-old son. The rookie was pretty shaken up by the scene and wanted to do something for the kid who would not remember his dad when he grew up. He looked at his feet and saw the Caddy's hood ornament on the pavement. It doesn't look like a regular Cadillac ornament and if you didn't know your shit, you'd have no clue that it came from a Cadillac. Anyway, the rookie cop pockets it and when he went to inform the family, he gave the ornament to Frank Junior, who has cherished it ever since. Since then, Frank has been obsessed about all things Cadillac - Cadillac posters on his wall, Cadillac screen-saver, the whole nine yards. He swears he's gonna put enough cash together one day to buy a mint condition 1973 Cadillac El Deora just like his old man had. But Cadillac Frank, like so many in our business, is a degenerate gambler and him ever owning a vehicle of his own, let alone a cherry vintage Caddy...c'mon. Please.
Great story, huh? Only one problem. Frank Senior never owned or even drove a Cadillac.
I know, I know. What I actually said was "...the story goes..." or words to that effect. The Cadillac in question was, in fact, driven by the guy Frank Senior hit. No one wore seat belts in those days and both drivers were ejected from their vehicles which were both barely recognizable as cars - forget about make and model! It was a real friggin' mess, blood, glass and metal. The rookie made an honest mistake and Frank's widow's whole world had just gone to shit so I don't think she knew her own name, let alone what the hell the officer was talking about when he gave Frank Junior a hood ornament from someone else's car. By the time she came to her senses, Mrs. Leahey saw how much little Frank loved the thing; she didn't have the heart to tell him what was what, not that it mattered much in the grand scheme of things. Anyway, I have it on good authority that Frank's old man drove a Buick Riviera, the kind with the bubble-back window. It was a piece of shit that never would have passed inspection if Frank didn't throw his mechanic ten bucks every year. It all worked out. "Riviera Frank" is a bit pretentious for the street; it'd make him sound like a homo.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
DEVASTATED
...at the thought of living without you,
Frightened,
Of an uncertain future.
Worried,
That this will hurt you.
Willing,
To do anything to fix this.
Wishing,
We could all stay together and be happy.
Torn,
Between what I want and what is.
Angry,
At the unfairness.
Frustrated,
By my own powerlessness.
Sad,
Just so fucking sad.
Praying,
For hope to emerge from this sorrow.
Frightened,
Of an uncertain future.
Worried,
That this will hurt you.
Willing,
To do anything to fix this.
Wishing,
We could all stay together and be happy.
Torn,
Between what I want and what is.
Angry,
At the unfairness.
Frustrated,
By my own powerlessness.
Sad,
Just so fucking sad.
Praying,
For hope to emerge from this sorrow.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
You Can't Handle The Tooth!
My five-year-old son is losing his first tooth. It was two days before Christmas and he was very excited about Santa. It was just before bed time and we were brushing our teeth. He pouted.
"Daddy, my tooth hurts."
"Which one?" I asked.
He sadly pointed to one of his front teeth on the bottom (#25 for you dental wonks). I furrowed my brow. Could he be losing a tooth, already? I wondered, a little sadly.
"Wiggle it," I suggested, "Maybe, it's loose."
He did and it was.
He lit up like Christmas. I have not seen him that excited since the second time he saw the ice cream man. Santa just went heads-up against The Tooth Fairy and got his butt kicked.
"Daddy, my tooth hurts."
"Which one?" I asked.
He sadly pointed to one of his front teeth on the bottom (#25 for you dental wonks). I furrowed my brow. Could he be losing a tooth, already? I wondered, a little sadly.
"Wiggle it," I suggested, "Maybe, it's loose."
He did and it was.
He lit up like Christmas. I have not seen him that excited since the second time he saw the ice cream man. Santa just went heads-up against The Tooth Fairy and got his butt kicked.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
On Love
There are those who find the phrase "Love is the answer." to be simplistic or trite. I understand this sentiment. When difficult times befall us and we want a solution to our financial problems or our health issues or problems with our family or living situation, "love" just doesn't seem like what we need at that moment. We need money. We need medicine. We need to fix our parents or our kids or ourselves. We need to move out or move in. We need "real solutions" to real problems, not platitudes.
If I took all the emotional pain I have ever felt in my entire life, I know that there are people in this world who have experienced far worse in just a single day. There are experiences so heart-wrenching that I cannot fathom what it must feel like to go through them. So I get it. "Love is the answer" seems to fall short for someone who just lost a child or left part of who they were on some far-away battlefield or languished in prison for something they did not do.
But, what is the alternative?
Someone far wiser than I told me to try this, so I did: The next time you feel like your situation is utterly hopeless, take just a moment and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. In your mind's eye, picture your heart as a locked door. Now picture it opening. Imagine the fresh air and light that enters through it is love. Stay there for a few moments, for a few moments respite may be all you have at first. But it gets better.
Love is not the end; it is the beginning. It is the well from which all healing springs. It is the only place to start and without it, we are lost.
If I took all the emotional pain I have ever felt in my entire life, I know that there are people in this world who have experienced far worse in just a single day. There are experiences so heart-wrenching that I cannot fathom what it must feel like to go through them. So I get it. "Love is the answer" seems to fall short for someone who just lost a child or left part of who they were on some far-away battlefield or languished in prison for something they did not do.
But, what is the alternative?
Someone far wiser than I told me to try this, so I did: The next time you feel like your situation is utterly hopeless, take just a moment and close your eyes. Take three deep breaths. In your mind's eye, picture your heart as a locked door. Now picture it opening. Imagine the fresh air and light that enters through it is love. Stay there for a few moments, for a few moments respite may be all you have at first. But it gets better.
Love is not the end; it is the beginning. It is the well from which all healing springs. It is the only place to start and without it, we are lost.
Monday, December 5, 2011
INSIGNIFICANT
Once, when I was sixteen, I was upset about something...not sure what. Girlfriend? Parents? Maybe just some adolescent existential angst. So I drove. Fast.
That is what I used to do when I did not know what to do. Drive fast. I drove until I reached the shore.
I wish it was just like that, the road ending at the water's edge, forcing us to face our past by bringing us to where we came from. But it isn't like that. The roads bend and turn at right angles just when we have almost arrived.
We are left to take the extra step (or steps). So I did. I parked my mom's 1976 Malibu Classic, took off my shoes and walked to the water's edge. It was Autumn. The air was chilly.
I remember, now (the feelings, not the cause). I was not upset; I was distraught. I remember crying, standing in ankle-deep, bone-chilling cold. I remember the pull of it as the water receded back into the Atlantic , leaving my feet a little deeper in the wet sand. I remember thinking, "It (the sea) wants me back." I wanted to oblige.
After a bit, I turned and walked, aware of the earth beneath my sandy feet. I sat cross-legged in the sand and looked to the stars and asked God for answers to questions I do not remember. I looked out at the dark horizon where deep indigo was met by black and for the first time in my life, truly noticed the curve of the earth.
I also noticed that my tears had dried and the turmoil I was in was replaced with calm. I remember thinking, "I am a tiny creature on a floating, spinning sphere in an unimaginably vast universe. My worries are of little consequence in the grand scheme of things."
I should spend more time at the beach.
That is what I used to do when I did not know what to do. Drive fast. I drove until I reached the shore.
I wish it was just like that, the road ending at the water's edge, forcing us to face our past by bringing us to where we came from. But it isn't like that. The roads bend and turn at right angles just when we have almost arrived.
We are left to take the extra step (or steps). So I did. I parked my mom's 1976 Malibu Classic, took off my shoes and walked to the water's edge. It was Autumn. The air was chilly.
I remember, now (the feelings, not the cause). I was not upset; I was distraught. I remember crying, standing in ankle-deep, bone-chilling cold. I remember the pull of it as the water receded back into the Atlantic , leaving my feet a little deeper in the wet sand. I remember thinking, "It (the sea) wants me back." I wanted to oblige.
After a bit, I turned and walked, aware of the earth beneath my sandy feet. I sat cross-legged in the sand and looked to the stars and asked God for answers to questions I do not remember. I looked out at the dark horizon where deep indigo was met by black and for the first time in my life, truly noticed the curve of the earth.
I also noticed that my tears had dried and the turmoil I was in was replaced with calm. I remember thinking, "I am a tiny creature on a floating, spinning sphere in an unimaginably vast universe. My worries are of little consequence in the grand scheme of things."
I should spend more time at the beach.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Not Real
"Facts" fostering fear,
Worst-case scenarios present themselves as certainties to,
My muddled mind,
So hungry for something to fill it,
Forgoing the "healthy snacks" and,
Opting instead for,
Four cans of Pringles
Anti-butterflies,
Haunt my gut.
None of this is real.
I know this,
Because,
I invented it.
Worst-case scenarios present themselves as certainties to,
My muddled mind,
So hungry for something to fill it,
Forgoing the "healthy snacks" and,
Opting instead for,
Four cans of Pringles
Anti-butterflies,
Haunt my gut.
None of this is real.
I know this,
Because,
I invented it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)