7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

    I screamed in horror and disbelief, my twig and giggleberries were suddenly zipped securely in my footed one-piece pajamas. What had I done! At approximately two or three in the morning, my crazy and wild evening had ended in pain and agony. The year was 1976, and I was eight years old. My father and his friend; Cecil, decided to get together and have a few drinks. Cecil, a retired police officer, always had great stories to tell and acted much like my uncle. It wasn’t often I enjoyed the company of both while my mother was out of the house, so I made sure to be present with both ears tuned into their conversations, which may have been a grave mistake, considering the evening to come.

    As my father and Cecil sat on the plaid, yellow, black, and orange recliner and couch that Pixie soiled several years earlier, I sat quietly listening and watching them drink ice cold glasses of “7 UP.” I gazed at the bubbles and dew running down the sides of their glasses, and every time they took a drink, my ears perked to the sound of ice clattering back and forth against the glass. I sat there salivating, but I knew how my dad felt about soda and the sugar that inspired a hyper and uncontrollable me, so I attempted to appear sad, deprived, and weak. I loved 7 UP, and seldom as it may seem, it happened to be a hot summer day in Olympia, Washington, which made it that more enticing to the eyes, ears, and taste buds.

    “Roberto, are you thirsty?” Whenever my father called me Roberto, I knew he was feeling good and most likely, pleased with me. Although at this time, I wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling good; extremely good, other than his best friend was visiting and it was the weekend. The “Roberto” thing, that was a French name that I acquired over the years because he and his family spoke fluent French, and spent many years in France while my grandfather served in the United States Army during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. “Yes, I would love to have a glass!” Finally, I was going to get a cold glass of 7 UP. By this time, the drool from my mouth could have filled a small glass. I was thirsty and especially thirsty for my favorite soda. This was an extraordinary occasion, and I was going to savor every minute of it. I watched my dad get a glass from the bar, add some ice, and fill my glass with 7 UP, and something else from the bar; hmmm. Cecil, was quick to say, “do you think that is too much Dan?” “No, I’ll tell him to sip it.” Again, they had my attention. What were they saying? Why do I need to sip my soda? Is it because I won’t get any more and I need to make it last? I was perplexed, but I didn’t care! I just wanted my 7 UP.

    “Ah…,” that was the best glass of 7 UP ever! “Can I have some more Dad?” “What,” he replied! “I thought I told you to sip it!” Frozen and eyes as big as silver dollars, I didn’t know what to say. I’m not sure what I feared most, getting in trouble or missing out on another glass of 7 UP. “I’m sorry, but it was really good!” Both Cecil and my dad chuckled and proceeded to pour me another. “Now Bob, sip this one because this is your last one!” When my father said Bob, I knew I better listen because he was serious, and it took me about ten minutes to find out how serious he was! Remember that “something else,” my father added to the 7 UP, that was “Seagram’s Seven Crown,” and mixed with 7 UP; equals, 7 and 7. In other words, I had a little 80 proof whiskey added to my 7 UP. So, you can guess what happened next.

    Spinning, spinning, spinning, the room continued to spin, and Cecil and my dad became four. I can remember my father staring at me with concern and asking, “are you ok, you’re awfully quiet over there?” Before I could answer, I suddenly remember opening my eyes and looking at my father’s feet. I had fallen, flat on my face, and narrowly missing the coffee table. For some strange reason, my body went limp, and I had no control over my faculties. My dad and Cecil attempted to pick me up and put me back in my chair just as I turned my head and vomited down the front of my clothes. The vomit matched nicely with my paisley and mustard colored pants. As I was trying to regain my senses, all I could hear is Cecil and my dad laughing hysterically, as tears ran down their cheeks. I also heard Cecil say, “Dan, we are in big trouble when Dorothy gets home?” My mother was five feet two inches tall, and a buck twenty-five, if that! But, do not be deceived, her Irish and German temperament put the fear of God in most people that knew her! My dad quickly turned to Cecil and said, “let’s get him cleaned up and in bed before she gets here. He should sleep like a baby.” Yeah, right! 

    There I stood, screaming and crying, trying to figure out how to undo what I had done. I couldn’t touch it, and I couldn’t look at it. All I could do was close my eyes and scream! Suddenly, the door to the bathroom flew open and I damn near jumped right out of those PJs, nearly leaving my valuables behind! “Booper, what’s wrong?” “What did you do?” “OH NO!!” In the blink of an eye, my mother was just as horrified or more to see what I had done. “Dan!” “Dan!” “I need help!” Right then and there, I knew The Eagle Had Landed because my mother did not yell help unless it was someone’s Last Will and Testament. So, if you think it took very long for my dad to enter the room, you’re wrong. For the first time in my early childhood, I realized that my dad was the flash! To this day, I believe he could have been the first man to break four seconds in the 40-yard dash. We lived in a single wide mobile home, approximately 60 to 70 feet long, and I felt every step as he dashed the length of the trailer. Bam! The door flew open again, and this time I know I left some DNA behind. “Dan!” “He has his wee wee stuck in the zipper of his PJs.” At that moment, man to man, I honestly felt my father’s empathy and compassion because he looked at me with complete and utter sorrow. Before my dad could get a word out, my mother had already looked into her crystal ball and revealed the previous evening in great detail. “Dan!” “Why does he smell like alcohol and vomit?” If you think my father had a chance to answer, you’re wrong again. “You and Cecil got him drunk, didn’t you?” “Didn’t you?” There I am, poor little me, frozen like Michelangelo’s David, for the whole world to see, and wondering if my life will ever be the same. Again, before my father could get past the word I, my mother said, “You did this, and you’re going to fix it!” I’m sure you’re familiar with the expression, “Yes dear.” Well, my father was quick to answer, “Yes Dorothy.” My dad knew he was in deep kimchi, so he listened and kept silent. Needless to say, it was a long night. My father managed to help me out of my predicament, and I lived to tell the story. Although I did learn one thing vastly important about those PJs, never go commando! 

        

7 and 7, the Police, Dad, and the Zipper

This is the title to my next short story. I hope it gains your attention and interest.

Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

1973

                                                    Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

     I can still hear my father, "take your dog outside when you get up in the morning. If you don’t, she will poop in the house." Unfortunately, at five years old, the only thing I heard was the noise projecting from his mouth. My dog, Pixie, was supposed to sprout hands, stand upright, and open the door all by herself. This was not only impossible but inconceivable for a dachshund. At 7:00 am in the morning; my ears, eyes, and nose were only interested in the bacon and eggs my mother was cooking in the kitchen. Needless to say, my father’s instructions went in one ear and out the other. And, Pixie’s food went in one end and out the other, just not where intended.

     My first run in with Pixie’s calling card proved to be quite painful on the derrière. I have two words, "new couch." A recliner and sofa made of quality plaid corduroy. The color was even more enticing. Yellow, black, and orange; hmmm, "that’s attractive." Or, should I say that it was attractive for 1973, so people thought. It was a Saturday morning which meant, Scooby Doo, Hanna Bar Bara, and the Three Stooges. Considering the circumstances, I was right up there with Larry, Curly, and Mo.

     As I sat comfortably in my father’s recliner with a bowl of Sugar Puffs watching Scooby Doo, my Scooby (Pixie) was lying next to me. Squeezed between my leg and the arm of the chair, Pixie’s nose was inches away from my bowl, yearning for one tiny morsel. Suddenly, an odor entered my nostrils, my eyes flicked open as wide as silver dollars, and my stomach began to turn. The smell was neither sweet nor fragrant; thus, I feared the worst. With a leap from my side, Pixie majestically held her head and tail high, as though proud of her accomplishment. Unfortunately, the foul odor remained and the sweat on my brow began to build. As I peeked down from the corner of my eyes, I was horrified by the monument that Pixie left to commemorate her parting. "Oh God," my mom is going to beat me and my dad is going to kill me”.

     “What am I going to do?" "How do I keep Mom and Dad from finding out?” I placed my bowl of sugar puffs on the coffee table and scurried off to the bathroom. I quickly mummified my hand with toilet paper and returned to the scene of the crime. Carefully, I slid the odiferous monument off the recliner and onto the carpet. As for the remnants, I gently rubbed them out with the toilet paper and proceeded to pick the monument up off the floor and deposit it in the trash. As for the lovely plaid recliner; the yellow, black, and orange colors camouflaged the monumental trail that was left behind, so I thought.

     A couple hours had passed since I removed the evidence from the crime scene, and I heard the sound of my parents’ bedroom door open. I was quick to start casual conversation in hopes of avoiding Pixies mark on society. “Good morning Mommy, did you sleep well?” “Yes I did booper." My mother was always in a good mood if she called me boop or booper, so I joyously thought I was in the clear, but this was not the case. “Whew, what is that smell?” I quietly sat in my bean bag and acted as though I didn’t hear a word she said. As I sat patiently, I could hear my mother opening and closing cabinets in search of the God awful smell that was emanating from the kitchen. “Robert David, why is there poop in the garbage?” “I don’t know." Of course, this is a familiar phrase to parents who are not naïve to a child’s deceptive ways; thus, raising a red flag. “Robert, the poop didn’t get in the trash by itself." “Did your dog have an accident?” “Yes Mom, just a small one, so I cleaned it up." “Where did she poop?” Now my mind went into a spin and my breathing began to increase. Why did she have to ask, why does she need to know, and what do I say. I knew if she found out that my dog pooped on my dad’s new recliner I wouldn’t see daylight for a week. The truth was the furthest from my mind and I don’t think Pixie was in any position to accept the blame. “On the floor Mom, right next to dad’s recliner, and it’s a good thing Pixie didn’t poop on his chair or she would be in big trouble." This particular statement still puzzles me to this day. If you’re going to lie, why dig the hole any deeper than you have to? It doesn’t make sense. It must be some kind of Jedi mind trick in order to draw the obvious away from our parents’ attention, yeah right. As my mother walked over to the spot next to my father’s chair, I quickly sat down in his chair covering the spot where Pixie pooped and pointed at the floor. “Right there Mom, Right there." “You must have done a good job because I don’t see anything, way to go boop!” Yes, I was safe. I jumped up from the chair and ran off to my room. “Robert! Why are your pants wet?” Oh no!

     Pale as a ghost, I turned around and froze. I didn’t know what to say. “Robert, how did your pants get wet?” Like a record repeating itself, “I…, I…, don’t know." At that moment I realized my mother could read my mind because she looked straight down at my dad’s recliner and back at me. “Pixie pooped in your dad’s chair, didn’t she?” I was horrified; I knew what was going to happen. I lied, I didn’t let my dog outside, and I let my dog poop on my father’s new chair. My life was going to end, and I thought owners were supposed to outlive their animals. It just didn’t seem fair.

     My mother told me to go to my room and she disappeared to the back bedroom. I knew what she was doing and the anticipation of hearing my father’s footsteps coming down the hallway caused me to break into a cold sweat. I could only converse with my dog. She was my companion and faithful friend. I would stare into her eyes and tell her what I did and what was probably going to happen. I know she didn’t understand what I was saying but with a turn of her head and a flick of her ears, she sure made me feel like she did. This was very comforting to a five year old boy who was about to receive his father’s wrath. Like my mother, my father not only called me by a specific name but with a specific tone, which was an indication of his attitude and feelings towards me. I still can hear his voice to this day, “Bob." He would draw out the name Bob and raise his tone a couple of octaves. When this happened, I knew I was in trouble.

     “Bob, what have I told you about letting your dog outside when you get up?” Panic, shear panic! I knew what to say but my mouth wouldn’t say it. All I could do is repeat two of the most famous lines of all, “I don’t know” and “because.” Unfortunately, my answers weren’t a good enough excuse. For the first time, I received a spanking from both my mother and father; thus, I assumed my punishment was over. I was wrong; this wasn’t the highlight of the punishment, which was still to come. “Bob, go to bed!” As I lay in my bed talking to Pixie, my back faced the door to my room. I heard the door open and footsteps behind me. “Bob, maybe this will help you to remember to let your dog outside.” As I turned over in the direction of my father’s voice, I stared into the presence of Pixie’s monument. My father placed Pixie’s poop next to my head; approximately two to three inches from my face. I could see the texture glistening before me and its smell penetrating my nostrils. This had to be the worst punishment of all. It was a nightmare and I was going to awaken at any moment. What parent makes their poor little child sleep next to a turd. Well, my father was that parent. Let’s just say Vietnam had an effect on him, “PTSD.” His eccentric behavior may have not been the most appropriate method of discipline; but to this day, I don’t recall sleeping with Pixie’s monument ever again.