Chapter 16

"Just shoot me, Dad"

     Science has pretty well wrapped up the notion that we each have our own personal set of fingerprints. It hasn’t been proved mathematically, but it’s pretty much a given that the print on your left hand’s pointer finger is not identical to the middle-finger on the right hand of some lady from Saskatchewan.

    So, until I’m arrested for something someone with my identical prints did, I don’t really care enough to question science. Same thing with DNA. I don’t need to know what it is, but I’m somewhat sure that mine is exclusive to me. Hate to think there were two of me.

    I say that to say this: no two people share the same personalities. I pluralized “personality” because I’m fairly sure that we each have more than one, and that one of mine could conceivably match one of yours. But no way can they all match.

Truth is most people’s personality changes – if only minutely – depending on who we’re with at a given time. I’m more like “me” with my wife than with anyone else. I’m actually kinder than “me” when I’m around strangers.  It makes no sense, but that’s the way I am.

I am more patient with mean people than I am with anyone else. That’s ‘cause I would rather take a kick in the but rather than get into a confrontation with someone. I’ve got three brothers, and, when I’m alone with any one of ‘em, my personality is different than when I’m with one of the others. I’ll bet you are, too. Unless you don’t know my brothers.

     Need I continue with this? Good. I think I’ve pretty well set the ground work for the main theme of this chapter… that being my Dad had very few personalities. I saw him as always on the edge between angry and almost happy. He generally seemed to lean toward angry. And, let me tell you, the entire family did everything in its power to change his lean. Unfortunately, there was just too much working against us.

    Dad was responsible for the health and wellbeing of seven kids and a wife. He was trapped in a job he hated. The “trapped” part was linked to him being responsible for a large family. I believe I alluded to that. Dad could not shed his job at the refinery anymore than he could get rid of chewing tobacco. It was addiction that made him keep his Mail Pouch brand chewing tobacco, and responsibility that made him continue to return to his job at Crown Refinery.

    Back in The Day, the father was literally the bread-winner. Dad pretty much kept all the financial worries to himself. As much as possible. When times got really tough, though, it was apparent to all that we were in deep doo. Dad was at his lowest during those times. Most understandable. Hard to take, but most understandable.

    Regardless the financial situation, Dad was hard to read. He might be acting somewhat pleasant and all of a sudden something said or seen would set him off. It was just hard for us to figure. That’s why we would generally use Mom as a go between. “Mother, would you ask Dad when we’re going to get our allowance? I think he forgot.” Or “Mother, would you see if Dad would let us make a fort out of his sawhorses?” That kind of stuff.

    Mom knew Dad the best. There would’ve been just a whole lot more verbal spats had she not. Mom was also a person who would walk around the block to avoid a confrontation. It’s so hard to argue with a person who refuses to participate in an argument.

    So, where am I going with all this? First I’m going to a small fenced off lot at the corner of Harris and Shaver. Used to be a grocery store but was a dozed-over parking lot where people occasionally went to sell stuff out of their trucks. Watermelons, puppies, stolen hubcaps… During the summer of my twelfth year, some guy had actually leased the lot to sell pony rides for kids. He had about four or five Shetland ponies tied to… uh, I don’t know. A makeshift pony corral thing.

    Big deal, you say? Well it was one particular summer-Sunday when we were driving home from church. I was decked out in my new suit. First one I ever had. I didn’t get another till I married. The Hayters weren’t big into suits. Don’t remember the occasion that made Mom and Dad buy me my brown and black checked, dork-looking outfit, but it had to be something. They wouldn’t have just up and got me a suit for no reason.  And, were it not germane to the story, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it, so can I get on with story now? Thanks.

    We’re still coming home from church and just before making a right on Harris, Dad, instead, made a right into the Shetland pony lot. I thought that odd. I looked over at Dennis and he gave me his isn’t-that-odd look. Jill and Alan were grinning big guns, but I’m sitting there completely befuddled because Dad was doing something way out of character. Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes, roast beef waiting at home, Shetland ponies…? The old man was tripping out on us.

    I couldn’t make eye contact with Mom to register my look of befuddledness which is said, because I’ve got a decent befuddled look. Had I given the look and Dad seen it instead of Mom, well, he would’ve killed me. – “Mark, hop out of the car and wait for me behind the truck over there. After Jill and Alan have their horse ride, I’m gonna kill you.”

    The fact that I’m writing this thing is testimony to the fact that I kept my bewilderment look to myself. It was hard to stifle, too. Especially when Dad said some of the most bizarre words to ever come out of his mouth. At least while in my presence. He said, “Okay, you kids have been after me to let you ride the horses, so go ride ‘em!”

    For the life of me I could not recall ever hinting to Dad that he should take us horseback riding. Forget about taking us to a cleared lot so we can sit atop Shetland ponies as they trod in a circle. And, on a Sunday!

Not to worry though. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to Jill and li’l Al, both of whom bounded out of the car and ran behind Dad who had gotten out to pay the man.

    Dennis and I staid put in the backseat. I asked Mom if she had any idea what this was all about. She didn’t. Didn’t care to comment, either. After getting Jill and Alan mounted, Dad walked back to the car, stuck his head in the window and said, “Okay, Mark, you’re next.”

    Me next?  No, I don’t need a next. I’m not riding a hairy short pony. I’m 12 blanking years old! I’m wearing a suit for heaven’s sake! There is no way on God’s green earth I’m getting on that little horse and riding in a tight circle! If you want to take me out behind that truck over there and kill me, you have my blessing, ‘cause your number three son is not getting out of this car.

    Those were the words that screamed to be released from my mouth. It didn’t happen. What did come out was, “No, that’s okay, Daddy. I really don’t want to ride.” That may sound like a perfectly harmless thing to say to a dad, or to anybody, for that matter. But, to my dad it registered as back talk.

    “You’ve been whining forever about wanting to ride a horse, now, you get out there and ride!” Again with the wanting to ride a horse? Who the Sam Hill was he talking about? Was there a parallel universe he stepped out of while we were at church? Did he have another family somewhere and just got us mixed up? I just can’t make this too clear – At no time had I ever asked Dad to let me ride a horse. Maybe Jill and Alan did while I was asleep. I don’t know. But, I heard nothing of it.

    In my daydreams I’m always a brave guy. You can point a gun at me, and I won’t flinch. I would never tell the enemy where our troops were. Brave is what I be… in my mind. But when actually looking down the barrel of a gun, or in this case, peering into Dad’s stare, I crumbled. “Yes, sir” is what I told him.

    So, in my new suit and polished old leather shoes, I walked over to Li’l Pokie and let the horse-guy boost me up. How could it possibly get any worse? Easy. After I was positioned in the saddle, the guy’s daughter, a cute girl about my age, grabbed the horse by its bridle and led the animal around in a circle. I was not even allowed to steer the horse. No way was there room for that pony to do anything but walk in a tight circle, yet I was not trusted to steer the thing.

    There I was in a suit, sittin’ on a saddle, on a tiny horse, being led in a circle by a cute girl my age. And, wouldn’t you know it, everyone from San Jacinto Junior High passed by during the lifetime I sat atop that horse. “Oh, my goodness, whatta doofus! Wait a minute! Isn’t that Mark Hayter? Everybody look! It’s Hop-along Dork!”

    After my 1203rd circle of the area, the girl helped me down and led Li’l Pokie back to the makeshift stall. I dragged my buns back to the car, climbed into the backseat and looked over at Dennis. He gave me one of his famous “Whoa!” looks and then turned away. I thought sure he might say something like, “Nice ride, Roy.” But, he didn’t. We were brothers. He could see that I was completely beat down. There is absolutely no humor or gotcha moment in a brother being thoroughly humiliated.

    Crazy thing is, Dad thought Dennis too old to ride the pony. Dennis was 15. I don’t know what Dad considered the cut-off age between too old and old enough to ride a pony, but 12 wasn’t it. If it had been back in 1961 I would’ve been able to approach so many more things with an acceptable level of self-confidence. Yeah, 50 years ago and I still bear the mark.

    It was one of those massive mood changes that Dad often experienced… we all experienced. At one second he’s a proud father for letting his kids ride the ponies… at a time when he knew he couldn’t afford it. And, then all of a sudden the experience is turned into a punishment. I believe that had Xanax been invented back then and made affordable, it would’ve never happened. Dad obviously had some issues that made it very difficult for him to maintain a good mood for long. He hated that about him as much as we did. Probably more. Likely more.