The Deadbeat Dad

By Ken Hultman

Mortimer J. Snow, Ph.D. is a renowned psychologist, author and university professor with a beautiful wife and two healthy children. While in the throes of a mid-life crisis, he makes the drastic choice to follow the advice hes been doling out for years and live as his authentic self. During his journey, he discovers whether pursuing a dream is worth risking everything and how culture shapes our definition of sanity. The Deadbeat Dad provides an intimate glimpse into a man, who by all outside standards is very successful, but inwardly feels empty and has a desperate need to save himself from societys view of how life should be lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491741900

Ken Hultman

Ken Hultman is an executive coach, consultant, and speaker, passionate about helping people identify and remove barriers to personal, interpersonal, organizational, and spiritual growth. He holds a doctorate in counseling psychology from Rutgers University, and is licensed as a clinical professional counselor. Ken is an award-winning author of seven scholarly books, two novels, and numerous professional articles. More information about Ken can be found on his website, www.kenhultman.com

Book preview

THE DEADBEAT DAD

Copyright © 2014 Ken Hultman.

Layout and Cover Design by: Natalie Hultman

Edited by: Patricia Hultman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-4189-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4190-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913116

iUniverse rev. date: 09/22/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

To all the fathers who strive to do their very best

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Chapter 1

Mortimer J. Snow, Ph.D. had finally made it to the beach. Through 10 grueling days of hitchhiking, during which he had been a passenger in 29 cars, 15 pickup trucks, 6 minivans, 4 tractor trailers, 2 garbage trucks, and one Volkswagen bug, he managed to travel the 2,044 miles from his home in central North Dakota to the park bench just north of some condos on the Atlantic side of south Florida. He had vacationed here with his parents one summer when he was a child, and the experience made a lasting impression on his youthful mind. He vowed to return when he got older, and even had fantasies of one day owning a house in this area, so he could look out over the ocean and listen to the soothing sound of the waves crashing on the beach.

Time went by and Mort grew up. He earned his doctorate in clinical psychology, got married, had two children, and became a world-renown scholar at Brinkster University, publishing 10 books and numerous articles on human behavior and psychotherapeutic techniques. While the desire of his heart had always been to return to the beach, for one reason or another, the demands of family and career inevitably took priority. One day recently, to his dismay, he calculated that his house was as far away from either ocean as it could be, and still be in the continental United States. In his more cynical moments he felt mocked by fate, drawn so strongly to the sun’s warmth and the comfort of the ocean breeze.

At last, here he was just 50 yards from the water. It was a balmy late June night and, as he stood there silently gazing at the surf, with his shoulders drooped and arms hanging limp, the moon’s reflection silhouetted his lanky frame. His disheveled gray locks, which should have graced the floor of a barber shop several weeks previously, still revealed a hint of black, but his ten day old beard was completely white. With his wrinkled Hawaiian shirt tucked half-way into his light orange Bermuda shorts, he had both the appearance and odor of a professional beach bum, but his lily-white calves were a dead giveaway; it was painfully obvious that he was a snowbird from either the East or Midwest.

A pair of old brown moccasin shoes, adorned with coffee stains, completed a motley ensemble. He remained motionless for several minutes, captivated by the light dancing like gems on the water’s surface, with only the sound of a motor boat passing in the distance, and the smell of the salt spray, before unzipping his fly and relieving himself on the light brown sand. Resembling an image out of a Van Gogh painting more than the author of the successful book, The Psychology of Choice, which was a big seller several years back, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. A sweet smile of victory gradually filled his face, as he raised his arms in the air and with clinched fists whispered repeatedly, I made it, I made it.

He had a strong urge to run down the sand and jump in the warm, clear water, but it was 2:00 a.m. and the trip had left him totally exhausted. Deciding to savor the thought of his first plunge until morning, he collapsed on the park bench, closed his eyes, and allowed the sound of the soft, gentle waves to lull him to sleep. Suddenly, at 6:30 a.m., just as the morning sun began to appear on the horizon, Mort was jostled awake unceremoniously by two policemen.

Stand up and put your hands behind your head, the first policeman ordered, while the second policeman started frisking him for weapons and drugs.

Disoriented and bewildered, Mort cried out, What are you doing? I haven’t done anything wrong!

He’s clean, the second policeman announced.

Let me see your identification, the first policeman barked.

I don’t have any identification, Mort replied.

Then what’s your name? the second policeman asked.

I choose to remain anonymous, Mort exclaimed.

Oh, I’m sure you do, replied the first policeman. All troublemakers want to remain anonymous.

I’m not a troublemaker, I’m just a beachcomber, Mort responded.

Beachcomber, troublemaker—what’s the difference? the second policeman said obviously annoyed.

A distraught woman called us several hours ago and reported that a man was exposing himself on the beach, the first policeman said. It was a wild night in town, so we weren’t able to get here until now. From the description she gave, it sure sounds like you.

You don’t understand, officer, Mort explained. I had to go real bad but there weren’t any bathrooms around. It was dark out and I didn’t think anyone would notice.

Well you weren’t careful enough, the first policeman said. People around here are real suspicious of vagrants. I’m arresting you for vagrancy and public lewdness.

Look, I’m sure we can clear this up informally, Mort said, as the second policeman began handcuffing him.

Seeing that the policemen were intent on bringing him in, Mort pleaded, Look, I’ve just traveled 2,000 miles to get here and I haven’t even been in the ocean yet. If you let me jump in the water one time, I promise to contribute to the Fraternal Order of Police next year. In fact, I’ll even attend the policemen’s ball. What do you say?

No, I’m afraid not, the first policeman responded. We try to keep undesirables like you from polluting the water.

Determined to dive in the ocean, Mort struggled to free himself from the second policeman and, with one arm handcuffed, started running toward the beach. Both policemen took off after him. The second policeman lunged toward Mort, grabbed his legs and tackled him from behind. Mort landed on his face in the sand, ten feet from the water’s edge. A wave lapped in front of him, just out of reach.

No, let me go, Mort screamed, as the second policeman finished handcuffing him, and a small group of spectators began congregating.

So, you’re not a troublemaker, the first policeman said in obvious frustration. Now I’m adding attempting to bribe an officer and resisting arrest to your charges.

The crowd began laughing; it was a pathetic scene as the police led Mort toward their car. He kept repeating, I have to get to the water, I have to get to the water, as more laughter and shouts of bum, drug addict, and derelict, came from the increasingly raucous crowd that had gathered to enjoy the show.

After they arrived at the police station and Mort was booked, the first policeman asked him again, Are you sure you won’t tell me your name?

I may have told you my first name if you’d been more polite, but you treated me like a common criminal, Mort responded.

Have it your own way, the first policeman said in frustration. You can use that phone to call your attorney.

I don’t have an attorney, Mort replied. What’s more, I can’t stand attorneys. To me they’re nothing but parasites.

For someone with no name, you sure have a lot of opinions. Then we’ll have to arrange for a public defender to be assigned to your case. I’ll try to get one over here as soon as possible, because you’re scheduled to be arraigned at 2 o’clock this afternoon.

The first policeman then took Mort to his cell, a 10’ by 6’ room with gray walls, no windows, an old rumpled bed and a sink and commode with no seat. As the door was opened, Mort walked in, looked around slowly and, shaking his head, asked, Gee, no whirlpool bath, exercise bike or weights? There isn’t even one of those little chocolates on my pillow, with a card telling me to enjoy my stay.

A wise guy, huh? the first policeman quipped, as he locked Mort in the cell and began walking away.

Peering out of the small opening in the door, Mort raised his voice and asked, Well can I at least have a postcard of the beach, so I don’t forget what it looks like?

No, was the reply which echoed slightly in the now empty hallway.

About two hours later, the second policeman unlocked Mort’s cell and let in a portly man with frizzy, dark-gray hair appearing to be around the same age as Mort. He was dressed in a beige, polyester suit that looked as though it had just been taken out of a clothes hamper. A pot-belly protruded above his belt, his old purple tie he wore clashed with his light blue shirt. The ragged cuffs on his trousers touched the floor behind his brown shoes, because he secured his pants above his pot-belly.

Poor slob. Mort thought glumly. I wonder what he’s in for.

The cell door slid shut, the metal-on-metal clanking loudly. The man walked straight up to Mort and extended his hand. Ralph L. Trudgley, Esq. I’ll be representing you, he said in a friendly tone. Feel free to call me Ralph, he said as he sat down. Mort, caught completely off guard, stared at the man as the realization slowly sunk in. Ralph took a seat opposite Mort.

Now, what’s your name? he continued.

Recovering from his slight shock Mort blurted out I don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t you afraid they’ll get you mixed up with one of the inmates?

Laughing uproariously at Mort’s comment, Ralph’s pot-belly jostled up and down. Disarmed by Ralph’s non-threatening manner, Mort laughed as well.

To be perfectly honest, Ralph added in a more serious tone. I’ve spent more than one night in these cells sleeping it off after closing down the bars in town. My AA sponsor requires me to do this. I was such a frequent visitor here, the state threatened to disbar me if it happened one more time. I’ve been sober for three months now, however, and serving as a public defender is one of the conditions of my probation. Now getting back to you, it doesn’t look like you’re in much of a position to judge me, so why don’t you tell me your name?

Sorry about that, Ralph, said Mort apologetically, glancing down at his Bermuda shorts and shaking his head in disgust. My first name is Mort; I won’t tell anyone my last name. I wouldn’t even tell the police my first name, because they treated me like scum. Then regaining the sense of humor for which he was well-known back home, he said, I was afraid they’d put out an APB, and hundreds of Mort’s from around the country would be rounded up and interrogated. I can hear them all confessing, ‘Yes, yes it’s true, I’m a Mort; please go easy on me.’

I didn’t know all you Mort’s stuck together that way, Ralph said chuckling. We Ralphs have a similar bond. In fact, we even have to take a blood oath.

You’re all right, Mort said still laughing. I think we’re going to get along just fine. Then after pausing for several seconds he continued, I probably shouldn’t be joking around at all, only my predicament seems so absurd.

I must warn you, cautioned Ralph. The judge will be harder on you if you won’t give your full name; he might even hold you in contempt.

I made a vow before coming down here that I wasn’t going to be defined by my name any longer, Mort explained. I wanted to be left alone.

Ralph took a pad and pencil from his briefcase as Mort spoke, and began making some notes. Then he looked up and said, Your first amendment rights. I’ll tell the judge it’s against your religion to reveal your name.

No it’s not against my religion, Mort replied, "but it is against my will. If you tell people your name or where you’re from, you lose control over how they use the information. They can make a lot of false assumptions about you, or use the information against you in some way. The police and the judge will assume I’m a crook or liar if I give them my name. The first thing they’ll do is check to see if I’m a fugitive or if there are any outstanding warrants against me. I want them to have to deal with me on my own terms, instead of making assumptions.

"You see Ralph, I have to trust someone before giving them information about myself, and that trust has to be earned. If someone who hasn’t earned my trust tells me I have to reveal my name and threatens me if I don’t, I would feel manipulated into doing something against my will, reinforcing my initial lack of trust. I would go to prison before telling that person my name.

Now, it isn’t actually that difficult to earn my trust; you’ve done it already in the short time we’ve been talking. I sense that you have my best interests at heart, and I don’t believe you’d try to hurt me if I withheld my name from you. Besides, I realize whatever I tell you is protected by client privilege.

Then why won’t you tell me your last name? Ralph asked.

I feel comfortable telling you my first name, but even you could make some false assumptions about me if you knew my last name, Mort explained. "I want you to relate to me based on how you experience me right now, not on assumptions that could be based on extraneous information. I want being represented by you to be a real experience for me, authentic, without preconceptions, and I want representing me to be a real experience for you.

"This might be hard for you to understand, but individuality has become more important