My Dad Is A Freak

By Thomas Bell

Not since Bill Cosby’s Fatherhood has such an original, brilliant voice captured the chaos, the ecstasy, and the Zeitgeist of the modern dad. A mad mash-up of David Sedaris, P.J. O’Rourke, Dave Barry, and Hunter S. Thompson, Mr. Bell selflessly cracks open his head like a walnut and shines a startling light onto the thinking matter of an older, first-time dad. The silly fears, the poignant observations, and the constant ebb and flow of his manhood make for an irreverent and hilarious first-person examination of all things holy and unholy in the parenthood universe.
Bell is at once acutely hyper-vigilant and maddeningly oblivious to the obligations and rituals that are required of him in his new capacity as husband, role model, playmate, and Bakugan repairman. Although he has had his whole life to prepare for this moment, he didn’t. Luckily, the rest of us get front row seats as he starts and stops, stumbles and staggers, and eventually succeeds in reconciling (almost) everything he thought he knew as a single man with the strange new world of dad-hood.
This is a memoir detailing one man's serendipitous journey from bachelorhood to parenthood. After his latest girlfriend becomes his wife, and his wife becomes pregnant, Bell finds himself a first time father at nearly 50 years old. Over the years, he has shown only a passing interest in his nieces and nephews and has never touched someone else's poo. Now, with an eight month-old baby and two toddlers, he wracks his brain for any useful cross-over skills accumulated from a half-century of single life.
"MY DAD IS A FREAK” is the conclusion that each of his children will inevitably arrive at, in their own good time, despite his best efforts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Bell
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476111940

Thomas Bell

Tom Bell has been writing on and off (mostly off) for thirty years. His first memoir, My Dad Is A Freak, tries to reconcile his life of 50 years as a single man with his new life as an older dad. He lives with his wife and three (young!) kids in a suburb of Cleveland.

Book preview

They say there are no second acts in American lives. Tom Bell has proved them all wrong in his hilarious memoir about middle-aged marriage and fatherhood. A must read for all the men in your life, whatever their age. — Michael Heaton, Cleveland Plain Dealer

Living it up single makes for a fun time, but it doesn't prepare one for fatherhood... My Dad is a Freak is an enticing and much recommended read... — Midwest Book Review

...compassionate and wildly funny account of a long-time bachelor's collision with parenthood. — George Bilgere, award-winning author, poet, and radio host.

Bell's sarcastic humor and detailed stories about parent/teacher conferences...are downright hilarious. This is a great book to pick up this summer and read at the beach... — Seth Leibowitz, NYCDadsGroup.com

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MY DAD IS A FREAK

Thomas Bell

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Published by A.f.F. & Sons Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Thomas K. Bell

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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A.f.F. & Sons

244 Fifth Avenue

Suite 2288

New York, NY 10001

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First E-book Edition: May 2012

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at Library of Congress.

Printed in the United States of America

www.MyDadIsAFreak.com

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For Q

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

1. THE LAST FIRST DATE

2. A MOUTH TO FEED FOREVER

3. THE WORKMANSHIP OF A HEART

4. HIDE AND GO SLEEP

5. LISTENING TO NO ONE

6. IT’S NOT THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS

7. MY SQUARE PEG

8. PET PEEVES

9. THE UNTOUCHABLE

10. A POCKETFUL OF GARBAGE

11. THE LAPSE OF LUXURY

12. LIVING WITH CEREAL KILLERS

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

If you know firsthand, or could at least imagine, the malodorous tang released from a plaster cast that is freshly sawed-off a mending limb, then you have a hint of the repulsion that my initial drafts triggered in those foolish enough to undertake my bidding.

In the beginning there was Mary Ellen Carras, who reminded me of the rules of the road. In the end, it was Jo Gibson who even-handedly pointed out all that was right and all that was wrong with my prose. In between, it was my wife Suzanne who unflinchingly kept my feelings at an arms-length distance, and brutally and lovingly made me make sense.

If I were to open a book and read an author acknowledging his spouse as an editor, I would smugly assume that she probably buys his clothes and cuts his hair as well, and would haughtily toss the tome back on the table. My wife is multi-talented. She does buy my clothes, and she does cut my hair. Please do not hold that against me.

PROLOGUE

On a Friday evening a few summers ago I came home from work and sat down at the dinner table. My wife had everything waiting for me including our three-year-old Tommy, and Elizabeth, who was one. My sister Tish and her five-year-old, Matt, who were our weekly and sometimes bi-weekly dinner guests soon joined us. I sat down with all of the gravity that comes from carrying a weeks’ worth of beastly labor. I was exhausted yet relieved as I surveyed the table, feeling happy with the type of blissful, low-energy glow that is left over when everything else has been wrung from your bones. The kitchen was alive with the carefree chirping, squealing and bustling of my little family.

Out of words, I sat, contented to let the scene wash over me. Eventually Tommy caught my eye and guilted me into a game of Watch THIS! It was my job to stare at them eating a piece of macaroni from a fork or inserting their pinkies into the corner of their mouths and pulling as hard as they can. This was all done with the dramatic flair of a second rate magician. You could almost imagine TA-DAAAAAAA! filling the air after each performance. My role, as the sole member of the audience, was to feign excited anticipation and then furrow my brow in disappointment upon realizing that I’d been hoodwinked: the promise of a spectacular feat once again unfulfilled. They howled with delight at seeing the dejection in my face, which would lead immediately to another presentation.

After the fifth performance I was no longer faking my dissatisfaction; after the tenth I wanted to fill my ear canals with silicone caulk; after the twentieth, tears of laughter were trickling down my face. The humor comes from the absurdity of each performance identical to the last. Fear quickly follows, knowing that this could easily continue for another twenty repetitions, all of which begs the question: Who has time for this nonsense? The answer is: they do.

As dinner wound down, Suzie and Tish began clearing the table while I silently slunk into a food coma. It was calling for me, pulling me into a lethargic ease. My eyes glassed over as Tommy regaled me in a series of non-sequiturs concerning a stick he found in the yard and a plane he saw in the sky. I reflected upon the useless work-related crap that sapped my attention and energy every day from 9 to 5; the bullshit that consumed my most alert waking hours. All that is left to give my kids, let alone my wife, is this worn out shell, burnt to a crisp from the inside out, barely able to keep my eyes open. The mental fatigue is just as grueling as the physical. I

would have given anything, I sat there thinking, anything, to have rolled around in the grass all day with my little guy.

I convinced myself that my life would have been made infinitely more meaningful had I been there when he found his stick, and when he heard a loud noise and

looked up to discover a plane. I listened as he struggled to convey everything that he experienced with the few words in his vocabulary. The feeling was vaguely familiar. In the course of rehabbing properties, I’ve often found myself tongue-tied and out of words, exasperated at the compounded imprudence of my construction crew.

Little Lizi was flitting about the living room, Suzie was loading the dishwasher, and Tish was gathering up her things. The table was cleared and wiped down, and Tommy’s story was trailing off into the warm summer air. I gulped the last of my beer when Tommy took notice of it for the first time all night.

Um, um, um, daddy? What’s that? he asked, pointing to my bottle.

It’s beer.

Oh. Pause. Can I have some?

No, it’s just for daddies.

Oh. Pause. And for mommies?

Yeah, it’s for daddies and mommies.

Oh. And is it yucky?

Yeah it’s yucky, I said, screwing up my face. You wouldn’t like it.

Oh. Cause it’s yucky?

He scurried down from his chair and a few minutes later returned with a stick. It was utterly unremarkable. He showed it to me but didn’t want me to touch it, and then launched into the whole stick story again. I stared into his eyes as they darted about.

He was searching for exactly the right words as if they were mosquitoes flying to and fro and fading into and out of sight. He was oblivious to my hand combing through his beautiful, thick, dark blond hair. His eyes were big gleaming pools of brown chocolate, taking in everything, the mundane alongside the sublime, with equal interest and appreciation. He was fascinated with a jet propelling through the stratosphere as well as a stick that fell off a tree: state of the art aviation technology and a dead piece of wood. One he could only point to, the other he could bring into the house. It was obvious which one he found more captivating.

He picked up, sort of, where he left off earlier:

"And, and then, and then Lizi was crying. And I don’t know why. She didn’t eat her lunch, she just cried… I think… and I saw the, the, the...um...the tree blowed in the wind and then I saw it camed down and I got it. I pickeded it up like...(makes a swooshing sound).

I love you, I interjected in the middle of his story.

I love you too, daddy, he replied without missing a beat.

Don’t grow up too fast Tommy, I implored. Grow up slow.

No! he shot back with a smile, sensing a new game. I’m gonna grow up fast!

No, grow up slow for me, I begged. Pleeeeeease. I need you stay just this size for a while. I love you this size.

No daddy! I’m gonna grow up FAST! he shouted louder, a big grin taking over his face.

Could I interest you in some cigarettes? They’ll slow you down a little, I offered with mock sincerity.

No daddy! He was giggling now. I’m going to grow up fast!

Not knowing or caring what cigarettes were, his new game was on. Tish was heading out the door when she stopped suddenly.

Did you just offer your 3-year old cigarettes?

I just want him to stay small. He’s growing up too fast, I offered.

She turned her horrified face towards Tommy, kissing him on the head.

Goodbye little peanut. Poor thing…I’m sorry your Daddy’s such a freak.

I was kidding, I declared, indignant at her indignation. He doesn’t even know what one is.

Real funny, she uttered, rolling her eyes on her way out.

Daddy? asked Tommy.

Yes?

Um, um, um, um, um, Aunt Momo says, um what’s a freak? He twiddled the stick between his fingers and then looked at me after a few seconds. I took his head in both hands and buried my nose into the thick bush of hair on top of his head, kissing him over and over.

You smell like an old suitcase. Time for a bath, I responded, picking him up with both hands.

Is Lizi getting a bath too?

Yes she is.

Can I take my stick in the bathtub?

Sure, why not? I replied, scooping up Lizi on my way through the living room.

*

I put them both in the bathtub. Tommy’s brain had locked on to something and now he couldn’t let go.

Daaaad! he whined.

What, dude? I answered. What do you want?

Aunt Momo says…what’s a freak? he persisted.

I’m not sure, I lied, distracting him with some bubble bath goop. Like beauty, it’s all in the eye of the beholder, I reminded myself.

He’ll find out in due time.

1. THE LAST FIRST DATE

My bar had been open for six months and was paying off handsomely. From a financial standpoint, the verdict was still out. But from a social perspective, the dividends were bountiful. My hours were spent either at my bar or somebody else’s, always with company. No doubt it was fun, but it was also an attempt to distance myself from a five-year relationship that blew apart in spectacular fashion just weeks before my grand opening. It was the second time I had been engaged and the second time it didn’t come off as planned.

This most recent one imploded when she decided to bail on me. The twelve month struggle of transforming a dilapidated building into a high-end pub had been too much for her to take. I had become accustomed to the uncertainty: the permits that were turned down, the financing that fell through, my unreliable workforce, the seven-day a week slog which seemed to progress by inches at a time. It was brutal, grisly work, beginning at 7:00 or 8:00 am and ending at 10:00 or 11:00 pm, my days lolling back and forth like a teeter-totter with caffeine on one end of the plank and alcohol on the other, gently rolling to and fro, morning and night, night and morning. During the day my phone was cradled between my ear and shoulder, allowing my hands to remain busy. I took two days off all year, one on 9/11/2001 when my crew listened to the day’s events unfold on the radio and fled home. That day, I arrived back from the lumber yard to find their tools plugged in, the radio and lights on, and a lit cigarette perched on a stack of 2 x12’s, as though they had been vaporized on the spot.

The other day-off came by way of a building inspector, who showed up and posted a STOP WORK order on the front door, prompting the crew to head to the bar across the street. A few hours later, after a period of reflection, I disposed of the sign and the next day we picked up where we left off. It all came out in the wash, just as I figured. After countless hearings, zoning variances, permits, fines, and stern admonishments, followed by shameless groveling, we opened the doors on November 14, 2001.

Six months later, exhausted from my new lifestyle, I sat down on my back steps and methodically pulled out staples and drywall screws from the soles of my running shoes with a pair of pliers. My brain was still trying to rewire itself from the previous night’s damage and I was suffering a critical case of slack-jawed hangover-face. However, I resolved then and there to begin running again as an effort to shake the poundage accumulated from my liquid diet of micro-brews. On most days, my

USDA recommended intake of 2000 calories was surpassed prior to the start of happy hour, which was just the beginning of the night. I had porked up to 235 pounds, 40 pounds above my norm. My 6’ 3" frame carried it well but my gut was getting in the way at the most inconvenient times. It provided constant friction against the steering wheel in my truck, making sharp turns difficult, but also allowed for miles of unencumbered, hands-free interstate driving all the way to the state line. My drill came in handy when it became necessary to bore new holes closer to the tip of my belt. Lying on my back in bed it felt as though someone was sleeping on top of me, even when there wasn’t anybody sleeping on top of me. My pants were fitting tighter, my shirts I wore looser, and during my first run in years, it felt like I was carrying a litter of unruly puppies in my belly. After keeping with it day after day, begrudgingly the flab lost its sweaty grip and I no longer felt the need to drink for two.

By the end of the sixth month, my pub had become the it bar; the place to see and be scene. The tiny Tremont neighborhood in Cleveland was the home of an eclectic assortment of people, pets, bars, nut-cases, artists, shops, award-winning restaurants, and now The Flying Monkey Pub was finally on the map. Rave reviews were coming in while I spent my days and nights in a drunken reverie, occasionally bedding down upon on a row of empty kegs in the basement of the bar and scavenging through the lost-and-found bin for pillow material. In short order I had traded in my days of pounding nails for nights of pounding shots.

My house was a block away from the pub, which turned out to be a great convenience and a horrific curse. It was only staggering distance away and most of the yards had chain link fencing along the sidewalk, lending unexpected but frequently needed assistance. It was the closest watering hole with the added bonus that the drinks were free and everyone laughed at my jokes.

On a Sunday afternoon in early May, after my run, I stopped by the bar. Sunday was our slowest day of the week and I was in the mood for a glass of wine before heading for home. I also wanted to check out the entertainment, since we had started booking musicians for Sunday night. Sitting in my truck, parked at the curb, I was finishing up a phone call. Some friends were standing on the sidewalk when I got out of my truck and joined them. A few minutes later, a car pulled up and parked directly in front of me. I watched as the girl tilted her rearview mirror to check her makeup.

Check this one out, said Donny, with a nod.

I already was.

"Wonder