They say my dad was quite the inappropriate character.
He was rude. He was vulgar, and to many (especially his kids), quite embarrassing. And yet, beneath that vulgarity, there was a childish charm and naiveté that somehow made it alright.
Or, at least, mostly alright.
Sure, my mom wanted to kill him for his antics, and some of his friends would refuse to speak to him for months (or years) at a time. But his delivery was so toddler-esque at times, so honest and mischievous, he would eventually win us over.
When we were kids, he knew we lusted after all things adult, particularly grown-up drinks. Coke. Coffee. Beer. So whenever he had a glass of beer at dinner, he would lean close and whisper behind a hand:
“Don’t tell mommy…”
There would be a long pause.
His eyes would dart to the left. Then slide to the right.
Suddenly an exuberant throaty shout would fling his head back:
“Drink beer!”
The excitement he felt at giving his kids something forbidden, something naughty, shattered any feeble attempt at concealment; never mind the fact that when he pulled these sorts of shenanigans, my mom was frequently right beside him.
She would glare as we chugged the beer down. His eyes would sparkle as he reveled in the outright audacity of his corrupting acts. Sometimes my mom would slug him in the shoulder, which of course only encouraged him further.
And when encouraged, my dad lost all perspective and frequently forgot to brake before he smashed into something.
When I was about 9, my sister 6, and my brother perhaps 3, I remember one dinner in particular. It was one of those thick, steamy evenings in August as we lounged around the kitchen table in our somewhat garish orange-upholstered booth. My dad, having just spent the last hour grilling steak and sipping beer, was wearing a white tank-top, stained with grime and smelling of smoke. More than likely, he had just pulled the “Don’t tell mommy…” trick, of which my youngest brother was especially fond. I can still see my brother’s small hands wiping the froth from his lips and grinning like he just swiped a canister of Nutter-butter.
My mom whacked my dad’s shoulder.
Hard.
The beer spilled. And my dad grinned.
“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got a great joke.”
Now we were not a particularly proficient joke-telling family. Our timing was always off. Our punchlines were always a bit confused. We couldn’t remember whether it was oranges or bananas that were knocking at the door. We couldn’t grasp that a chicken would do something other than lay eggs, let alone cross the road.
So, when my dad announced he had a joke, we were all ears. We knew this would be good.
“What do you get when you cross a chipmunk with a moose?”
“A Moose Monk.” My sister shouted before anyone else.
My dad shook his head and looked around the table.
Everyone was stumped and silent.
“A chipmunk with a really big cock!”
Our mouths dropped. Time slowed just like in the scene from a Christmas Story when Ralph blurts…”Fuuuudddge!”
As his kids, we knew he had not just crossed the line, but completely pulverized it. This was wrong in some deep way that we couldn’t quite grasp. Vulgar. Base. Completely inappropriate.
And yet, as I look back now, that joke laid a germ in me, a need to push social convention, an uncontrollable desire to make those around me slightly uncomfortable, an itch to be the gladfly. There was freedom and mischievous joy in that role. I saw it in my dad. And I, too, want to uncover the honesty that is revealed when one is riding that edge.
Thinking back on that joke now, I hold the picture of my daughter in my mind. There have been so many times when I have almost told her that joke and then stopped myself. For in that moment of joke telling, my dad taught me about lines.
We are so similar, she and I and my dad. Much of the time we hide ourselves in shyness, but when we are comfortable or slightly ill at ease, we both can say some truly outlandish, vulgar, and just plain rude things. Just like offering beer to toddlers. Just like chipmunks and moose.
Whenever I think of that joke, Shakespeare’s 94th sonnet comes to mind.
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
“With base infection meet…”
Was that my dad? Was he the sickness that makes the summer flower sour? Or was he the weed that outshone the sickened flower because he never pretended to be something other than what he was?
That joke told when I was nine molded me in some fundamental way. He shaped me, as all fathers do to their sons in subtle and mysterious ways. He taught me about lines to cross. He taught me to be vulgar and warped and crass.
So yes he was inappropriate.
But I too am inappropriate. That is one of his many gifts to me.
Just don’t tell mommy…