home      current issue      archives       columns      quotes       submit       staff      links 

Thanks, Dad

By Ace Boggess

___________________
      

Edgar only saw his eight-year-old son every other weekend. He thought that if he didn't make each visit special, young Marshall might believe his dear old dad deserted him. So Edgar tried to help the boy do everything imaginable and imagine everything not quite doable.   

Two weeks ago, they went camping in northern West Virginia. And two weeks before that, it was King's Island in Cincinnati. This week, after visiting the Pittsburgh zoo, Marshall sat on the passenger side of Edgar's beat-up blue Ford Torino station wagon, questioning all the mysteries of life so his dad could explain them with calm logic any great philosopher would bow before. Marshall didn't care about roller coasters and rhinoceri. To him, they were just props, play things to amuse the wise one while he readied himself to speak.

"Dad," Marshall said a bit timidly—the first question always came out that way—"Why are there no traffic lights on the interstate?"

Edgar glanced down at his boy for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. Voice dry and deadpan like narrators on TV history shows, he replied, "It was thirty years ago when the aliens came. You remember the stories I told you about Roswell and Hangar Eighteen?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Well, this was worse. Much worse. A colony of little green men—and some gray men, too, as they were racially harmonious—came to Earth and lived among us. They planned to share our land in exchange for all their wonderful inventions. The aliens promised a cure for cancer, a new super fuel, and a couple guaranteed get-rich-quick schemes and fad diets, all gratis as a show of their good will."

 
"What happened, Dad?"

Edgar flinched like a shutter on a camera set at high speed. "They were on their way to the White House, having landed by mistake in Maryland. But they never made it."

"Why not?"

"Because they crashed on I-70, going down in a huge fireball that ate up an entire mountain range. It was a disaster. The entire area had to be closed for weeks. Radiation caked mud and rock in crazy patterns, and now there are painted mountains in Maryland because of it."

"Wow," said Marshall. "But Dad, WHY did the space men crash?"

"Traffic lights."

"Traffic lights?"

"Traffic lights. Turned out, red lights were hypnotic signals to the aliens. Anything glowing red made them go into a trance. So whenever the pilots saw a stoplight on red, they blacked out and crashed their saucers like drunks out on a Saturday night. Of course, we didn't know this at first, and before long spaceships were crashing left and right. It got to be so as you couldn't walk down to the farmer's market without a fear of being hit by a falling saucer. By the time we did figure it out, it was too late. The aliens were mostly gone: dead or fleeing for their lives. Still, as a gesture of friendship to the survivors, President Nixon promised from that day forward there'd be no more red lights on the interstate. That way, if the aliens ever returned, they'd have a safe passage wherever they wanted to go."

 
"Did they ever come back, Dad?"

 
"Only once. Something about Elvis Presley's funeral, I believe. But otherwise, we never heard from them again. All their technological advancements were lost because of traffic lights."

 
"Wow, Dad," said Marshall with a giddy grin. "Great story. Thanks."

"No problem. You know I'm always glad to help. Is there anything else?"

 
Marshall sat in numb silence for several minutes, memorizing every detail of his father's story as if it were the Pledge of Allegiance or the answers to a World Cultures test. It'd be great fodder to spread around school on Monday. When he was sure he hadn't forgotten anything, he said, "Dad, why did you and Mom get divorced?"

Edgar sighed and grinned a grim death mask as if saying, "I wish you hadn't asked me that." When the words came, they were accompanied by a tired drawl occasionally spitting spiteful fire. "I didn't want to tell you this, Son, but your mother's a demon."

Marshall gasped, almost swallowing his tongue.

"I don't want to say too much right now, but it's true.   You know your Grandpa Joe?"

"Uh huh." Marshall nodded.

"Well, he's a mean old man—a warlock, some would say. He cursed me for stealing his only daughter, and that curse caused an evil demon to come up and possess her."

 
Marshall covered his mouth as if afraid to breathe or make a sound.

 
"Sure, she looks normal enough. Goes to church on Sunday trying to hide the truth. But watch her. You'll see how edgy she gets when the preacher goes off on a rant."

 
"But Mom. . . ."

"No, Mars. That's all I can say. But don't let her catch on that you know. She might slurp your brains out the hole in your ear while you're asleep."

Marshall's pupils turned foggy like two jade eyes on a bamboo god. The atmosphere around him was just as ominous, weighing on him like unexpected prophecies of impending doom.   Edgar and Marshall must have gone twenty miles or more in a brooding silence before Marshall's mind finally relegated the truth to its proper place and moved on. "Dad," he said.

"Yes?"

"Where do babies come from?"

 
Edgar swerved nervously in the road. "Have you asked your mother about that, Mars?"

"Yeah huh."

 
"What did she tell you?"

 
"She said they come from two people getting together like birds."

"Well, that's right, Son. But it's only part of the story. When two people get together, they do something called 'making love.' It's just like the birds who join together, wing in wing, for a dance that could be either fruitful or fatal. They lose all control and go spinning toward the ground in a massive maddening downward spiral, only to break apart at the last instant and fly away, or off to try again."

"What happens if they don't break apart?"

 
"That's the sad part, Mars. If they stop too soon, the lady bird won't be happy, so she won't lay any eggs. But if they wait too long, they crash into the dirt at a frightening speed and lie there broken and battered for some mangy mutt to come along and devour."

"That's horrible, Dad. Why make love at all? Sounds like nothing but trouble."

"Oh God," thought Edgar. "It's getting way too deep." Not knowing any better way to put it, he said, "It's fun. You're flying up and down and round and round, and then you're spiraling straight to earth. It's a thrill, like riding a roller coaster only with no track to keep you safe. But, if you spin too fast, it could change the weather. That's where tornadoes come from, Mars. It's people making love without any control."

"Wow!   That's amazing! But why. . . ?"

Edgar stopped him. "Enough for now. See? Looks like you're home."

Marshall hugged his father and said goodbye. He smiled as if already making those tornadoes in his mind. "Thanks, Dad," he said.

"Any time. You know I'm always here when you have important questions."
      
  
Marshall only came to visit for two weeks every summer. So, Edgar liked to take the boy on extended trips to strange places. They'd gone to Yellowstone and Hilton Head, D.C. and New Orleans, anywhere that looked entertaining. When Marshall was eleven, the two went to Disney World in Florida, where they were attacked by imaginary sharks, sent twenty thousand leagues under the sea, and visited by green, glowing ghosts who popped up just over their shoulders like pets, close enough to lick a cheek with affection. But Marshall had little interest in any of that. To him, Edgar was the best amusement park in the world, and he never hesitated to ride the wildest rides. He fired off questions like space probes searching for intelligent life. In line at Space Mountain, walking by the giant golf ball at Epcott, watching a parade on Main Street, he'd smile and say, "Dad, why do caterpillars change into butterflies?" or "Dad, what's a democrat?"

Edgar would reply with his typical deadpan drawl, "Because they've been infected with super-secret diseases by their communist earthworm enemies, so they'll die if they don't," or "A person who's had the political portion of his brain cut out after years of letting it go to waste."

"Dad, why are goldfish called goldfish when they aren't even gold?"

"Good question, Mars. It goes back to the middle ages when autonomous countries refused to accept coins minted by other autonomous countries. Free trade was almost impossible, and people couldn't leave England, for example, to go and visit relatives in France. So some genius figured out that, while the rate of exchange for money varied from country to country, the rate of exchange of orangefish—they were called 'orangefish' back then—had to be the same from place to place. So, the French, English, Germans and Spanish got together and decided one orangefish would be the equivalent of one ounce of gold not yet minted into a coin. Hence the term 'goldfish.' See? Of course,
it didn't last. Businesses needed huge tanks to contain their profits, and a clumsy child could send a hotel or restaurant into bankruptcy. Besides, bartenders couldn't figure out how to make change for a goldfish when someone asked for a copper's worth of ale."

 
"Wow," said Marshall. "Thanks, Dad."

 
"No problem, Mars."

"Dad, how did the dinosaurs die?"

 
"Drugs, Son."

"The dodo birds?"

 
"Drugs."

"The passenger pigeons?"

 
"Ritual mass suicide. You don't need to hear about THAT."

 
Marshall kept silent for a while. "Dad, is making love like making a hot dog?"

Edgar looked at his son with shock. "Where on earth'd you hear such a thing?"

"Roach told me."

"Who in the world is Roach?"

 
"One of the boys at school. He made fun of me 'cause I didn't know how to make love. Said you put your wiener in the microwave and cover it with coleslaw when it gets hot."

 
Edgar shook his head in disgust. "What stories kids hear these days," he thought. Then, like Heracles in the Augean Stables, he set about cleaning the filth from his young child's head. "No, Mars. Making love's not like making a hot dog. It's more like making a milkshake. Remember once before I told you about the birds spinning out of control?"

Marshall nodded and looked at his dad with wonder.

"It's the same with a milkshake. Round and round the blender with the blade turned on mix, or maybe puree, spinning and spinning down in a whirlpool of delight. But don't forget, if you quit too soon, your shake'll be too lumpy, and if you wait too long, your shake'll come out runny like pure milk. You got to let that blender go as crazy as it can, but at the same time, be patient and careful so your milkshake turns out perfect."

"So, it's not like a hot dog at all, really?"

 "No, Mars. But think about it. I told you before that you make love to make babies, so to encourage you to make babies, making love has to be rich and sweet. What tastes better, a hot dog or a milkshake?"

"I don't know," said Marshall.

"You don't know?"

"I like 'em both."

 
"Hmmm," said Edgar. "Well, let's go get a couple hot dogs and a nice, thick shake. Then you can make up your mind."

"Really? Thanks, Dad. Thanks." As always, Edgar's wisdom inspired young Marshall. The boy couldn't wait to get back so he could tell Roach and all his friends.
      
      
The summer after Marshall turned fourteen, it was his idea to go camping at Smith Mountain Lake in Virginia. It wasn't that he enjoyed camping or fishing—in fact, he found them slightly less entertaining than doing chin-ups or squat-thrusts during soccer practice—but he knew he and his father could engage in such activities without including Edgar's new wife, Arlene. She hated bugs and trees and lakes and just about everything else without a skip button or automatic rewind. Marshall didn't dislike Arlene, but he preferred to spend two weeks with just his dad.

By now, Marshall knew to take everything his father said with a grain of salt, a wink, and a nod. That didn't mean he'd stopped believing Edgar, but he'd learned to be skeptical ever since he found out former President Clinton wasn't a hardcore toothpaste addict while in office. Still, he liked to listen to the old man who had such a remarkable way of explaining things.

"Dad," said Marshall, as the two sat on a soggy bank, scratching their bug bites and poison ivy buboes while watching their bobbers fail to bob like little red Titanics unwilling to sink no matter how large of an iceberg had been rammed.

 
"Yeah, Mars. What is it?"

 
"Have you ever read Shakespeare?"

"Many times, Son."

"We're reading Romeo and Juliet in English class."

 
"Wonderful play. Enjoying it?"

"It's not bad. But I was wondering, do you have any idea why Shakespeare wrote so many tragedies? I mean, so many characters DIE. If you did that in a movie, it'd go direct to video."

"You're right. But there's a perfectly good explanation for it. You see, Shakespeare lived under the reign of a merciless, tyrannical queen." He paused for effect. "Queen JoBeth."

"That's Mom's name," Marshall said.

Edgar shrugged as if to say the connection was entirely coincidental. "So it is. Anyway, Queen JoBeth ruled England with an iron hand and a sharpened axe, never hesitating to sever an arm, a leg, a genital, or even a head if a citizen broke one of her rules."

"What kind of rules?"

"Oh, you know, the basics. Never wear a hat in the presence of a horse. Don't feed the peasants. No loud rap or rock n' roll music after eight in the evening. Common stuff."

 
"So, what's it got to do with Shakespeare?"

 
"Well, old Will never broke any rules. He was a coward at heart and he preferred to keep his head attached. Even so, he'd become quite a success writing romantic comedies. He had money, power, chicks. He was directing videos for MTV, and beer commercials. Big star, you know. Then Queen JoBeth found out she was dying from a well-deserved disease—syphilis, I think. Since she was the heroine of her own boring story, and since she was dying, she decreed that from then on, all main characters in every play had to die at the end as well."

 
"No way."

"It's true, Mars. I wouldn't lie to you. Shakespeare had no choice. He was too much of a pansy to stand up to the queen. For the rest of JoBeth's life, he wrote tragedies, some of which are now classics of literature."

"That's amazing, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem, Son."

The two sat silently on the bank, staring at the sky, staring at the water, staring at their unmoving bobbers. After an hour or two, Marshall caught a turtle, but he let it go because, no matter how much Edgar tried to convince him otherwise, he knew turtles aren't fish.

That night, as they were lying out under the stars like two cowboys in an old western, Marshall finally asked the question: "Dad, when you and Arlene make love, what's it like?"

Edgar didn't even flinch as he replied, "That's kind of personal, Son."

"I know, but. . . ."

"But WHAT?"

"I'm getting older. I'll be making love pretty soon. I need to know what it's like."

'Pretty soon' wasn't exactly the way Edgar preferred to think of it. In his mind, terms 'eventually' or 'someday' seemed more appropriate. Nonetheless, he understood how mixed up kids had become since the so-called sexual revolution, so he figured it was probably best to be straight with Marshall. "It's like a game of croquet," he said. "You got your mallet and you got your balls and you have to be smart as you try to angle shots through the steel portals. Sometimes you got to go slow and steady, lining up and easing on with a delicate tap. Other times, you just pull back and slam your mallet down with a smack. But it's like I always told you, Son, you've got to watch each shot carefully to make sure you get it right--not too much, not too little. Otherwise, you'll mess up the stroke and have a lousy game."

Marshall considered this for some time, staring up at Andromeda and imagining himself playing croquet with the girls of Playboy and Penthouse that he and his friends liked to look at in Roach's father's room when the old man wasn't around. When his games were over, he sighed resignedly and whispered, "Thanks, Dad," to Edgar, who'd already drifted off to sleep.
      
           
Marshall was seventeen before he had his first intimate encounter with a girl. Actually, it was a woman. His lady friend, Cindy, was nineteen and a sophomore at Youngstown State University. He met her after crashing a frat party, pretending to be one of the brothers of Omega Omega Phi in order to get free beer. He saw Cindy dancing on a landing between flights of stairs. She had short blonde hair and eyebrows like sunbeams through a heavy cloud cover. Her lips were small and pink as pink lemonade, even without lip gloss. She smelled of spilled beer and cigarette smoke, but also another flavor like caramel from perfume coating her neck.

Cindy took him back to her dorm room under cover of darkness as if he were a mad bomber or a secret agent. "You're adorable, Hal," she said to him over and over. He was going by Hal these days, instead of the more traditional Marshall or even Mars. "I want you to make love to me." And yes, she actually used the words 'make love' rather than more colloquial phrases that might have distracted Edgar's inexperienced son.

Having heard the right phrase, like a password or a key installed under hypnotic suggestion, Marshall went to work, applying all the methods his father taught him: bird on a crash dive, tornado wreaking havoc, rich and creamy milkshake swirling round the blender like a black hole, and finally a game of croquet. Gentle at times, explosive at others, he kept at it until he and Cindy had no energy left to breathe, let alone continue making love.
As they lay there spent in each other's arms, basking in the warm afterglow of intercourse, Cindy turned to Marshall and kissed him on the cheek. "That's the most incredible sex I've ever had," she told him. "Where'd you learn to do all that?"

 
Smiling, Marshall kissed her back. "My father taught me everything I know."

 
"Oh," Cindy replied, closing her eyes and remembering how she'd felt with every spin and whack. She whispered a brief prayer to the night. "Thanks, Dad," she said, and lay there in Marshall's arms imagining a world where all fathers were so candid and considerate when it came to teaching their children about something as important as making love.

 ____________________

When accepted into this month’s Defenestration, Ace said: “Usually acceptance letters aren't that creative, but I've had some great rejection letters. In the early 90s (as a young, scarcely-published writer), the editor of one magazine wrote of my poem ‘Gay Vampires Spread AIDS’ (which was based on a headline from the Weekly World News): ‘This poem is an egregious insult to taste and decency, but that would be ok if not for the corny rhymes.’ And recently, atop a form rejection letter from another magazine, the words ‘Up Yours’ appeared. That, of course, was the title of the story submitted. However, you can see how fun it was to show that rejection letter to friends.”