Soldier up, he’d say. Soldiers don’t cry. They swallow pain.
Keep blubbering, I’ll give you something to bawl about.
He would, too. Afterward always came his idea
of an apology—a piece of gum or a handful of peanuts or, if he felt really bad, he might spring for a Popsicle.
Never a spoken, “I’m sorry.”
Closest he ever came was, I’m raising you the way I was raised. I didn’t turn out so bad, and neither will you.
Then he’d open the dog-eared atlas and we’d choose our next point of interest to explore.
Together. Just the two of us.
That’s all either of us needed.
He always made that crystal clear. Of course, he managed to find plenty of female companionship whenever the desire struck.
It took me years
to understand the reasons for those relationships and how selfish
his motives were.
I’ve read about men
who use their cute dogs to bait women
into hooking up.
Dad used me.
The result was temporary housing, a shot at education, though I changed schools more often than most military kids do. All that moving, though Dad was out of the army.
At least we slept
in actual beds
and used bathrooms
that didn’t have stalls.
But still, I always knew those houses would never be home.
I Might Say
We’ve actually found a real home in a simple rented house only Dad and I share, but I’d have to knock damn hard on wood to eliminate
the jinx factor. We first came here fifteen months ago on one sizzling July day. I don’t know why Dad
picked a California Gold Rush town, but I like Sonora, and actually spent my entire sophomore year, start to finish, at Sonora High School.
Two whole summers, one complete grade, well, that’s a record, and I’m praying I can finish my junior year here, too. It’s only just started, and I’d say I’m probably doomed to finish it elsewhere except for a couple of things. One, Dad has a decent auto mechanic job he likes. And, two, he has an indecent woman he likes even better.
Indecency
Is subjective, I suppose,
and it’s not like I’m listening at Dad’s bedroom door,
trying to figure out exactly what the two of them might
be doing on the far side.
Truthfully, I don’t care
that they have sex, or what variety it might be. Vanilla or kinky, doesn’t matter
at all to me. I’m just glad they’re a couple, and that
they’ve stayed together
this long—six months
and counting. It gives me
hope that we won’t pull up
stakes and hit the road anytime soon. Plus, the regular
rutting seems to help Dad
blow off steam. His violent outbursts are fewer and
further in between. The last was a few weeks ago when
I made the mistake of asking if I could bring a kitten home.
Kitten? he actually bellowed. No!
Kittens turn into cats. Disgusting animals. Shitting in boxes, leaving shitty litter all over the floor.
And the smell! I don’t work my ass off to keep us from living in a nasty, dirty car to come home to cat stink.
I didn’t mention his personal body odor could rival any feline stench. I wouldn’t dare tell him his cigarettes make me gag, even though I finally convinced him to smoke exclusively
outside, so it’s only his nicotine haze that I have to endure.
Instead, I shut my mouth,
resigned myself to the fact I’d not share my bedroom
(complete with cat box)
with a furry companion.
Dad’s never allowed me
to have pets. I assumed
it was due to our transient lifestyle. Now I realize
it’s at least in part because of his impatience with dirt and disorder. Or maybe
he’s afraid to share
my affection. With anything.
It’s Saturday Night
And Dad and Zelda are out
getting trashed. Some local country band Zelda likes
is playing at Dad’s favorite “watering hole,” as he calls it.
Sonora has brought out Dad’s inner Oklahoma hick, and that’s okay except when he’s knocked back a few too many and starts yelling about “them goddamn Muslims”
or, worse, “fucking wetbacks.”
I’ve made a few friends here, and the one I’d call “best” happens to be Latina. Dad probably thinks I’m a traitor, but I don’t care about Monica’s heritage, or if the Torres family is one hundred percent legal.
Starting a new school, knowing exactly no one, rates automatic Freak Club membership. Monica had already been inducted, for reasons I didn’t learn until later. Not that I cared about why. She was the first person at Sonora High to even say hello.
Freak-freak connection’s a powerful thing.
Discovering the Reasons
For Monica’s Freak
Club induction
made me discover
something about myself.
Something disquieting.
Disheartening, even,
at least at first,
because I found a facet I never suspected
and, considering my history, was not prepared for.
Sonora is small-town
conservative, especially by California standards.
Accepting to a point,
but not exactly a mecca for the LGBTQ crowd.