Family Man

By John Burbridge

Fred has a penchant for coming into families' lives just when they need him the most. With his gentle and soothing nature, Fred helps them recover and move on from devastating tragedies while often filling the role of the since-departed patriarch.

But even while adjusting to the new normal with Fred, some of these families still harbor dark secrets. And the intrigue only increases with the inclusion of Fred, who brings to the table some dark secrets himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665554114

John Burbridge

John Burbridge has been a contributing-editor journalist for more than 30 years. He's been the recipient of numerous awards in writing, photography and editing. Family Man is his fifth novel. Others include The Soul Winner (2005), The Blockade (2009), Crimson Wave (2012) and The Good Neighbor (2015).

Book preview

FAMILY

MAN

JOHN BURBRIDGE

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2022 John Burbridge. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/27/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5412-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5411-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904561

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PART 1: GEREMY WITH A G

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

PART 2: PASTOR HIGGS-BOSON

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

PART 3: MASTER GRECO-ROMAN

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

PART ONE

GEREMY WITH A G

ONE

She has never been in his bedroom before. Not in this house. He had always assured the unlikelihood, locking the door even while inside, changing that lock twice in less than a year, and only verbally responding to a knock if not ignoring it.

She can text me; phone isn’t always on though.

But today she came knocking — texting, too — then knocking some more, determined more than ever to get inside.

Now in, she’s tempted to comment on the furry black wallpaper, textured like a labrador’s double coat. Pet it, feel for yourself. She already knew about it having signed in his absence for the long plastic-wrapped tubes delivered to the door by UPS.

The posters are a revelation. Three altogether — two of his favorite goth bands, Sex Gang Children and The Sisters of Mercy; the other of Louise Brooks, a publicity photo blown-up and colorized with the iconic bob in place. Nothing risqué by prohibition standards as the pic doesn’t descend into cleavage range, cropped just short under the wrap pendant.

Dispositions likely wouldn’t be so inconvenient if more women opted for throwback flapper. Or maybe not. Before he considered Louise Brooks sexy. Now she’s just cool … and dead.

As for Geremy with a G’s mother, she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a bob. Instead, she’s topped with an elegant off-centered down-do colored in yellow cake. Doesn’t make her look younger. The resiliency of her figure does those honors. She often receives backhanded compliments that she looks good for her age. Once, a backhanded line provoked forehanded strikes from her husband. He’s gone now, a situation that has led to a windfall of look-good-for-your-age comments. She responds with better tact. Still, they’re deal-breakers. You either look good or you don’t.

Geremy had also received his share of forehands from his father. His mother got hers, too. The beatings for him stopped once he reached Six-foot-Seven at 17. If Geremy doesn’t look good for his age, he’s surely big for it. He never made it past eighth grade in football or ninth grade in basketball even with the varsity coaching staffs salivating for the resident specimen. They demanded too much rote obedience and discipline, though the freshman basketball coach didn’t display much of the latter when issuing a hard correction to cure Geremy’s unbalanced defensive posture. Geremy countered by breaking the coach’s jaw, knocking him unconscious for more than five minutes. Much of the shell-shocked team thought he was dead. Geremy didn’t care. He figured he was going to kill someone sooner or later. He was kicked off the team and nearly bounced out of school, but his father’s associates were and are influential.

Gotta understand, you’ve got these big hands, Mr. DiMajjio said to Geremy after Geremy’s father gloated about the incident while petitioning to null an expulsion. I wish I had big hands like you, being a pretty good scrapper myself. But you … one swing and you can kill a man. A grown man. And you’re just a kid.

You’ll work for me someday Mr. DiMajjio often hinted Just like your old man.

Mr. DiMajjio’s name is pronounced just like Joe DiMaggio’s. But unlike Geremy with a G, it’s DiMajjio without the G or Gs.

Mr. DiMajjio is giving up his daughter, who in turn is giving up her almost famous surname at a wedding this weekend. Geremy and his mother are invited. Not younger brother Gregg nor kid sister Gina. Just oldest son and mom, who finally managed to get into oldest son’s bedroom.

We don’t even know the bitch.

Geremy’s mom straightens up. She was about to sit on the bed next to Geremy, whose crudeness repelled the act. Geremy has a bitchin’ jaguar-patterned comforter nicely complementing the black lab walls. But the bed isn’t made revealing the navy blue fitted sheet that clashes incongruently within the room. The sheet has freed itself from a corner exposing a section of the mattress stained by a mishmash of marinara sauce, mustard and semen. Not only does Geremy masturbate in his room, he often eats there. Several pizza boxes with slits of hardened cheese forming broken spokes onto the cardboard and a Stoneware dinner plate with a petrified slice of lasagna fused to it are in random spots along the otherwise spotless parquet floor.

Beg your pardon?

Mother’s eyes are tilted. Arms akimbo. A stance from the past used to amplify the warning Wait until your father gets home. Effective back then. It gave Geremy time to think about what he had done or said while watching the clock like Gary Cooper in High Noon, except his dad often didn’t come home at noon or 6 or 7 … or even before midnight. Geremy knew back then his dad didn’t work regular hours. He also knew his dad didn’t do regular work. So whenever his father would burst into his bedroom to administer a smackdown, Geremy had already steeled himself not to be surprised no matter what the hour.

The last time Geremy’s father encroached his space in a fit of rage was about a year ago. But he didn’t batter Geremy, then 18 and still standing at Six-foot-Seven with his core hardening like cement poured into a barrel. Instead, Geremy’s father battered Geremy’s equipment.

Geremy’s band, which is called The Band despite being informed of another band that called itself The Band, had played at one of Mr. DiMajjio’s establishments with some of their loyal goth followers in attendance. They were modest in number, maybe too modest in the way it didn’t discourage the more-represented regulars from acting out their hostilities against these interlopers.

That’s what we get! Geremy’s father roared as he tried to seize Geremy’s bass to reduce it to smithereens— Geremy hugged the instrument across his chest like it was a lover. Knowing this could result in a full-contact bout that might not go entirely his way, Geremy’s father gave up on separating his son from his love. But he wasn’t leaving without leaving a mark.

We give you pansies an undeserved shot and you thank us by infiltrating the place with a bunch of faggots! he declared before kicking Geremy’s Peavey amp, tearing the speaker. Geremy fixed it with some good ol’ duct tape. It gave his bass a grittier sound.

Geremy also fixed — or fortified — his bedroom door by installing a deadbolt lock (the first of three). He learned how online and his dad never crossed the threshold again. Yet even sans the intermittent violence, Geremy’s father’s reservations regarding deviant predilections became more ominous as Geremy’s suppressed nature seeped more readily to the surface like a weed never pulled from its roots.

I said we don’t even know the —

Don’t talk that way to me!

Then why did you ask me to repeat myself?

Geremy is wearing mascara, applied more thick as of late. The purple ends of his jet black dutch boy hair are not as easy to detect in the bedroom’s dim light.

I didn’t, mother says, but it’s my right to demand some respect.

Respect you say? Can that be used in a sentence like ‘Respect my choice’?

What about me?

What about you? Geremy says. "It’s not your choice, it’s my choice. Respect my choice of me not wanting to go. Like I said, we don’t even know the … bride … or groom for that matter."

But we know Mr. DiMajjio.

Oh, we know him all right.

And he has graciously invited us —

There’s nothing gracious about him inviting us to his daughter’s goddamn wedding!

Geremy’s sinewy muscles contract as if primed for an explosive exodus, but Geremy stays on the unmade bed. His mother makes a quick study of his black-based T-shirt with white negative art and script. It depicts producer/actor Tommy Wiseau shouting what has become the catchphrase of his classically bad movie The Room — You Are Tearing Me Apart Lisa!

He’s just testing us … or more like fucking with us!

And how is he … testing us?

Stop playing stupid! Geremy springs from the bed and goes to the shutter window blinds which are letting in too much late-morning light for Geremy’s liking. Closing them would make the room dark enough to dampen the garish display flaring from his mother’s spruced-up face. Instead, Geremy peeks through them. A car is pulling into the driveway.

A Corolla for Christ’s sake. Yeah, drive a Corolla if you must, but drive a new one?

I’m sorry, Geremy says, voice dialed down, but you’re in so much denial.

What do you mean I’m in denial?

Just validated my point.

You’re making this worse, Geremy.

And going to this wedding is going to make it better?

Not going will make it worse.

I bet he wouldn’t even notice if we didn’t show.

He would most definitely notice, mother says. Now you’re the one playing stupid.

"Not stupid enough not to acknowledge what this guy did. Did to … US!"

Geremy’s mother sits on the unmade bed and puts her hand to her forehead like she’s suppressing a migraine.

Can we just please move on? she pleads.

Geremy looks out at the Corolla’s driver, now out of the car and removing a pair of grocery bags from the popped trunk.

Going to his wedding is not moving on, Geremy says. It’s staying snared in his web.

We’re not trapped in his web.

If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be going to this wedding and having the nerve to ask me to accompany you.

When was the last time he’s been around here?

"He doesn’t have to be here to be here."

It’s just this one time, then he’ll be gone and out of our lives. You’ll never have to see him again. We’ll never have to see him again if that’s what matters to you.

It should matter to you, too.

Just this one time.

I don’t know. Geremy walks away from the window. I’ll think about it.

Mother perks up. Getting Geremy just to consider is an unexpected victory at this point.

They need to know by the end of the day.

Geremy grimaces.

They’re finalizing arrangements. Would you be bringing a date?

The Corolla’s driver can be heard coming through the door.

And I suppose he’ll be your date?

Of course, Geremy with a G’s mom says.

Geremy shakes his head, turns away. He’ll sure stand out in that crowd.

Trust me, they’ll be no trouble.

Famous last words. But tell me … Geremy faces his mother again while closing the distance. "What do you … nah … forget it."

What do I see in him? That what you’re asking?

Asked it yourself.

She shrugs her shoulders. I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t think about things like that too much as they’re happening. A change of taste. Maybe.

Change of taste, huh? Geremy turns away while adding more softly to himself, Tell me about it.

TWO

He wears a windowpane patterned sports coat in the most inoffensive shade of blue if the color was ever a threat in the first place. His narrow crimson tie goes well with both the narrow shoulders and the Beaufort cheese-colored dress shirt making the man appear delicious but with only half the calories.

Even his height is benign. Five-foot-10 as any non-company physical would prove. Not Five-Nine. You’re almost required to pick a fight with the most rugged guy in the bar when you’re Five-Nine. Danny Bonaduce knows the drill.

Five-11 can sometime pass as Six-O. Five-10 is never mistaken for six foot. Five-10 and a Buck 50, soaking wet.

Never to go bald, his wet sand hair is side-parted. Humble sideburns hint at future shades of grey.

Blue eyes, also inoffensive. Delicate nose that, like his ears, appeared to have stop growing when the rest of the body did, right at 5-10, 150.

Not dimpled on either side but with a heart-shaped face congealed by frequent smiles.

Name is Fred, the same first name of Mr. Rogers. Incidentally, Fred is the same first name of Sacky and Rondo, who both have ditched it in favor of their respective nicknames. They are the middle men within a quartet at one end of the bar who recognize him — or discern his likeness — at the other end even though they have no idea.

"What a beautiful day in the neighborhood, Sacky sing-songs, getting a chuckle out of Rondo. Won’t you be my neighbor?"

Fred looks over and smiles. This is not his first serenade.

You look a little lost, Rondo says. Joey sits taller and glances at Gil from one bookend to the other. They exchange straight faces.

Aren’t we all in some way or another, Fred says.

Rondo leans over to Sacky and whispers though well within bar-length earshot, Sonja is hooking up with that dweeb? What the fuck?

Yeah, Sacky remarks. What the fuck is right.

Rondo continues, "Just look at the mother —

You don’t have a clue! Gil says in another earshot whisper menacingly close to Rondo’s ear while placing a leaden hand on Rondo’s thigh. Gil didn’t want to go here but these assholes leave no choice.

No clue. Gil gives Rondo back his space, then eyes Sacky fiercely. Neither one of you.

Whadaya mean neither one of us? says Sacky, drawn into the fray. What about Joe?

Joey! Joey corrects.

What about Joey?

What about him? Gil says, not even trying to whisper now.

Doesn’t he don’t have no clue, too?

Hey! Joey says to Fred, still standing at a distance from the quartet, none of whom are Five-10, a Buck 50 … more like Six-Four-or-Five-or-Six-plus; 250 or 260 or 270-plus. Looking for someone?

Just the bartender.

Taking a shit, Joey says. Don’t worry, he washes his hands. Most of the time. But hey … Joey waves him over, we can keep you company.

Sacky and Rondo overtly snicker as Gil seethes at the invitation.

Maybe you can keep him company, Gil says to Joey, then suggests to Sacky and Rondo, Let’s take a booth.

"Wah? Sacky protests. Are you going to order something from the kitchen if it’s open which it probably is not? Didn’t think so. I’m staying right here."

Let’s take a booth, Gil suggests again, this time more firmly. Joey wants to make a new friend. That’s on him. Let’s take a booth.

Hey, I want to make a new friend, too, Rondo says before attempting his version of the theme song as Fred approaches, "and won’t you be … please won’t you be … my neighbor."

Gil has had enough. To the booth! His tempered countenance is giving warning signs. Finally persuaded, Sacky and Rondo take their drinks and motion toward the farthest booth already chosen by Gil. Sacky makes a quick return for collection of shot glasses — four finger-gripped in one hand — and uses the other limb to pilfer a choice bottle from behind the bar.

Fred looks at the man left behind and slightly motions his heart-shaped head at the departed trio. Was it something I said?

Funny guy, Joey says, his smile revealing golden molars on both sides.

Fred smiles back. No noticeable dental work. Small teeth, clean and complete. Just came down to get an iced tea.

So you must think this is a lemonade stand?

No. An iced tea is what I had in mind.

Funny guy.

The reception is upstairs. The bar is in the basement of the sprawling reception hall of the adjacent Greek Orthodox church that rents the place out to even non-Greek weddings. There’s champagne upstairs as well as a multitude of eight-ounce plastic cups filled with a Russian imperial stout brewed by the upstart craft brewery founded by the groom. The stout has the color and consistency of used motor oil. Though it tastes slightly better than used motor oil, it’s hard to palate without bottled water for a chaser … or a cleanser. And now even with a whole table top of neatly arranged cups of imperial stout still not touched, the bottled water has been completely consumed leaving a few wedding partiers parched. When informed about the bar below, some descend for a wider variety of refreshments.

I saw someone come up with a Long Island iced tea, so I came down here.

So you want a Long Island iced tea? Joey squints as if he’s trying to solve Fred’s placid exterior in relation to its interior.

No. Just an iced tea.

I don’t get it. Joey shakes his head. I just don’t get it.

Don’t get what?

You, Joey says. I don’t get —

A shot glass shatters on the stone-tiled floor. They had one to spare. Joey didn’t have to see to know it was Gil.

Some people just don’t have any manners, he says nodding his head to nudge Fred to concurrence. Okay. No offense. I don’t get you. Again. No offense. I don’t mean to be a dickhead, but … as they say … it is what it is.

A guffaw belches from the booth. That could have been any of them.

Like I’m the only one who uses that phrase! Joey shouts over his shoulder. Again. I don’t get you. You probably don’t get me. You follow me?

Fred responds, Emerson said that even someone with a hospitable heart will still be a stranger in a thousand particulars.

Joey squints again, befuddled but not for long. Yeah, he says. "That Iverson guy maybe was onto something. And, yeah, why shit yourself over practice? But anyway, I think we’ve gotten off the subject … or rather the reason you came to join us down here. Want some iced tea, you say? Hate to break this to you, but there is no iced tea in a Long Island iced tea."

There isn’t? Fred says. It sure looked like tea in the drink I saw.

No, no, no, Joey says while shaking his head in wide sweeps for over-emphasis. "First of all, if it looked like tea, our bartender has gone twat on us. Or maybe that’s how he serves them to women. Most of the time his Long Islands are burned crystal clear with all the fuckin’ alcohol he drops in them. You see, a Long Island consists of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, and … ah … help me out over there!"

Triple sec, Rondo offers.

Yeah, triple sec. But no iced tea. You see, there are no iced tea buttons on those guns behind the bar. There’s cola … a splash of it gives the drink its iced tea-like color or hue.

Joey smiles golden again. Big like his buddies but not quite as imposing as Fred’s predecessor. A handsome man who does have dimples, Joey is crowned with a semicircle of dark hair that goes well with his trimmed and V-shaped unibrow. Someone was daring enough to dare him to shave all his hair off — save the unibrow — but that wouldn’t have been a good move. Joey’s look and the way he carries himself are still popular with the ladies.

So if you just want iced tea, you’re piss out of luck, Joey says, but if you want a Long Island, Stash will make you a damn good one. He’s, like I said, taking a dump. Been in there for a while. Kinda worried. You know Elvis died taking a shit, and Stash looks a lot like Elvis.

Fred’s eyes stray to the bar top’s fractal river-resin surface. There’s a cola-colored mixed drink — definitely not a Long Island — in a 10-ounce plastic cup with a plastic straw bent over the lip like its use is just for stirring, not sipping. There’s another drink, an iceless clear one in a tall glass with a trio of lanced olives suspended in the center. Maybe an outgrown martini. Likely one of these drinks is Joey’s and the other abandoned by someone in the booth.

So … Joey says while letting it hang. See how Fred reacts. See if he retreats back upstairs after an awkward adieu. But when Fred grants Joey eye contact again, it’s Joey who’s afflicted with a ping of awkwardness.

So … he starts again, how did you hook up with Sonja?

Maintaining eye contact, Fred doesn’t immediately answer.

Don’t stamp my ass as rude, Joey says, but you know ‘hook up’ is a common term. Kids are not the only ones saying or doing it.

Fred replies, "I imagine the same way many people hook up. Through being introduced."

So who introduced you two?

Now another intemperate sound from the booth — the pilfered bottle’s bottom striking the table repeatedly like a judge wielding a gavel.

God damn! Some people! Joey exclaims. OK. I won’t play dumb anymore if can stop people from growing boners. But you know … and screw you back there if you don’t like me asking this … or just stating the obvious … but you, now pointing at Fred, are cut from a different cloth than Jung.

Fred smiles.

"That’s George … George of the Jungle … ‘Jung’. Sonja’s hubby before you."

Fred smiles still.

You knew Jung, didn’t you?

Fred’s lips part, but before a word Joey blurts, Of course you didn’t or wouldn’t. Forgive me, please, Joey turns to the booth as if he’s requesting their forgiveness, too, then back at Fred, Again, no more dumb. But you wouldn’t have. Would you?

"No. I didn’t know George or ‘Jung’. Heard of him. Obviously."

So you’re probably aware that Jung was built like a brick shithouse. Even I wouldn’t mess with him if I didn’t have to. And that’s saying a lot.

Friends I take it?

Used to be.

There’s an obtrusive grumble at the table.

I mean he’s no longer here anymore, Joey says. "I mean, c’est la vie, too bad shit had to happen. Not to go dickhead again, but sometimes you’ve got to know when to take the fall … take one for the team … be a team player. I know. More cliches. But, you know, it is what it is to get one more in."

Joey takes a healthy swig from the cola-colored drink while clasping the outside folded half of the straw to the cup with his hot dog-sized index as he upends it. After the mix clears his throat, Joey continues, But in all tragedies, even self-imposed ones, there are still surviving families. That’s where it gets hard to swallow.

So you’re also friends of the family? Fred asks.

I know Sonja, yes, and his kid … the older boy, Joey says. Probably going to end up bigger than his old man. I’m talking all dimensions. Just needs to lose the mascara.

He’s in a goth band, Fred says.

He wears that shit even when he’s not in Gotham, Joey says. You’ll figure it out.

He’s not wearing it today.

"But I bet he wears it more