Family Rules

Family Rules

My twelfth birthday was coming up and I'd never had a birthday party.

A half year into my freshman year, I was fence sitting between the fast girls
with the biker boyfriends, teased hair and heavy war paint, and the
artsy Bohemian crowd.
I wanted to invite about 10 kids, see if we can all hit it off. I had
some baby sitting money and hoped
for a supplement and a ride to the market.
My old man was the paragon of rule breakers. After a few Buds and a shot
of Jack Daniel's, he'd balance beer cans to the ceiling and all the
patripsycho rules
would come tumbling down.
One day his dinner isn't hot enough, "Kiss the pan, Ruthie!"
Or he's hollering for quiet while Cronkite's on the tube.
Another day he drives a go cart through the living room.
One day he stalks an offensive driver, sometimes for miles. We'd end
up in Belmont! There were fist fights! Another day,
he'll play the drawing game for hours on the old wooden table, invite
the neighborhood ne'er do well over for a cold one,
eat lit cigarettes and tell dirty jokes, no bed time, and all the free
beer you can sneak. He'd inhale his neglected dinner at 3 AM,
or drag Ruthie out of bed to fix something.
I wait till the old man is engulfed in his smoky cloud of Ella and Satchmo,
about 3 beers in.
We'd haul out stolen pads of drafting paper from his government job as
a layout artist,
before digital put the hand lettered sign trade out of business.
We pulled out the Eberhard and Faber 6325 ebony pencil.
We drew plans for a party stage setting. Caricatures and sketches of
the whole bunch. A list of yummy snacks with letters all decorated
like birthday cakes.
We planned and drew till the morning dinner bell rang.
I caught up with him the next night after Walter, filling in his man
chair. My greedy arms over flow with drawings and plans and lists.
"Hey dad, remember you said we
could go shopping for my birthday party tonight?"
"We're not doing anything for your birthday.” He grunted, as he
turned up the volume.