Daddy Bob and the Dog

Despite its apparent unpleasantness, the only real bad thing about living in poverty was watching my mother’s frustration. My mother was a wonderful woman. Her heart was in the right place about ninety-five percent of the time, she had big dreams and ambitions, and she had high hopes for her children. Well, for her two oldest children. Cindy and Greg, my half-siblings, were my former step-father’s problem. I was seldom remembered, and Richie was hopeless, but loved and adored. Billy and Sherry were the stars; they were going to go far. Sherry was pretty, she had an engaging smile, she was smart, on the track team, and had everything going for her. Billy was charismatic, funny, artistic, and could play the guitar. There was hope for the family.

The frustration came out at night. It was like one of those creepy perverts that peek through the window to see if they can catch you off guard. If you looked at the right time, you could see it, plain as day. But if you look away, even for a second, when you look back it would be gone again. My mother’s frustration was like that and she hid it from us in those early years very well. It was those times when she didn’t know anyone was around that she would drop the façade. I had seen her during one of those rare occasions when she thought she was alone in the house.

I came across my mother in one of her moments of weakness because I had a fascination with caves; actually with mountains and caves, but mainly caves. I lived in Florida and caves and mountains were in short supply, so they intrigued me. I remember when the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad opened in Walt Disney World. I wasn’t a huge fan of roller coasters, but the commercial for that ride had me all wound up. The first time I saw it, I didn’t realize it was for a ride. I had just thought that some miraculous discovery had been made.

I still remember that commercial with the old prospector talking, “Used to be, there were no mountains in Florida. Used to be, until the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad came along”. 

No way! A mountain? In Florida?  I was halfway to the door, ready to jump on my bike and pedal my skinny little butt for a couple hundred miles to see this mountain, until I heard the rest of the commercial.

         “Come ride Walt Disney World’s newest adventure.”

         Ah shit, it’s just a stupid ride.

After my bitter disappointment at discovering that there were no new mountains in Florida, I came to the realization that this fascination with caves would never really be sated while I lived in the wind-swept peaks of Clearwater. I had to make do with sewage pipes, holes in the ground, the space between the back of the couch and the wall, and a lot of imagination. It was during one of these spelunking excursions behind the couch that I heard a strange sound. At this time in my life, I was the ripe old age of about seven and it was another five years before my dreams of being the first to scale the Florida mountain range would be crushed by that asshole prospector. Up until this point in my life, I had never heard an adult cry. Hell, I didn’t even know they did cry, but sure as day, there was my mother crying at the table. I was afraid to crawl out from my cavern and ask her what was wrong, which was probably a good thing, because up until this point—and a couple decades after—I had thought that the proper thing to say to someone that was crying was, “Stop, or I’ll give you something to cry about”. So, there I sat; listening to her cry as she tried in vain to smooth out the bill that she had just crumbled up in her hands. She kept mumbling to herself over and over.

“How in the hell am I going to pay this? Where am I going to get the money?”

As kids do, I forced my mind to think of something else in this awkward moment. No one wants to see their mom cry, especially when there’s a cave to explore.

At some point, my mother had left the room. I didn’t notice that she was gone, but I do remember feeling a vague sense of relief that she was no longer crying. It had nothing to do with me sympathizing with her in her pain, I was seven, had the emotional capacity of a three-year old, and the attention span of a goldfish with A.D.D.. It was more because to a seven year old, whatever it was that could make mom cry was truly a horrifying thing; something far too terrifying to contemplate. After seeing that, I could expect anything, at any minute. A grizzly walking down our street, my dog talking, my brother not eating all of the dinner before the rest of us could get any, or my real dad dropping by, just to see how we’re doing. It was simple fantasy. So of course, I was relieved when it stopped.

What I didn’t know was that my mother had made a resolution while sitting at that table, payment-due notice crumbled in her hand, tears dropping bitterly onto the cracked wood of the dinner table, all hope fading with the realization that she just couldn’t do this alone. That resolution was that she was going to find a man. Again. This time it would work. He would be a good man, with good pay, and he’d be a good father figure for us children. He would bring us hope.

Bob was a cowboy. There’s no other way to describe him. He was tough as nails, had a cowboy mustache, and a cowboy gun. He was the epitome of a badass. Bob was a retired Navy engineer that got out of the service and took a job as an engineer at Honeywell. When I had first learned of what he did, I was confused, and had no idea what an engineer was. When I asked my brother, he said, “He drives a train you dumbass.” So, I had thought this may not be such a bad thing. With luck, he may even get a job at Walt Disney driving the Great Thunder Mountain Railroad train. I was a dumb 7-year-old.

My mom had apparently fallen head-over-heels for Bob. He was handsome, he had a good job, he drove a nice truck, he was a cowboy, it all seemed right. She was unable to see any wrong in him. When he had mentioned that we were a bit out of control, she told him he could get us under control and teach us what it is to have a father. To me he was Bob. He wasn’t a father; he was just some dude that my mother was dating, and later, married to.

The point was driven home to me that Bob was much more than just my mom’s husband when, one day, he had asked me to take out the garbage. I didn’t mind doing chores around the house. I actually enjoyed washing dishes and mowing the lawn, but the one job I hated was taking out the trash. Granted, we lived in a mobile home, so taking out the garbage usually entailed dragging a can no more than fifty to a hundred feet. The problem was that because Bob was a rough and tough cowboy kind of man, he needed to have a rough and tough garbage can. This thing was solid steel. I think to this day that the lid was actually a man-hole cover that he had stolen when he was riding through New York with McCloud.

I pouted and argued, and said, “But Bob, I don’t want to.” There were three problems with me saying that: first, NO ONE says no to Bob. Second, boys shouldn’t whine and pout; only girls and pansies whined and pouted. Third, and this one came with a resounding smack that sent me spinning to the floor; he was to be addressed as either Daddy Bob, or sir. Bob was what his friends called him and he was DAMN sure that I wasn’t his friend. So after learning that traumatic lesson, and still having to carry that tank of a trash can to the front of the trailer, I snuck under the trailer into the crawl space and pretended I had discovered a new cave. I was still an adventure-crazed spelunker, but now I was much wiser in knowing my place in the world.

In the years that followed, I was extended the opportunity to become even more enriched with cowboy wisdom.  It soon became apparent that Daddy Bob’s idea of “getting the kids under control” meant beating the fear of God into us. As I had mentioned before, I was a stupid youth. I didn’t understand that you can’t say what is on your mind, whenever you pleased and not expect consequences. Not learning that lesson well enough with the trash can episode, I was granted a second chance at learning what my lot was in life, and where my exact place was.

Of all places, the second lesson began at church. Part of our indoctrination into becoming “well-controlled” children was in finding God. I had nothing against God. I talked to him all the time and I was respectfully fearful of him. After all, this was still the time of brimstone and fire. God was a lot more pissed off at humanity back then and the church hadn’t discovered the lighter, gentler God that we enjoy today. Despite my deity’s anger issues, my pastor was a really nice man. He insisted we call him Pastor Dave. He was a young guy that liked to sing. Thinking back on it, I believe he thought we were in a musical. At the slightest provocation, he would break out in a song that was both catchy, and taught us a life lesson. Daddy Bob wasn’t going to drive us to church, and mom was working on weekends, so Pastor Dave would drive a small church bus over to our house and pick us up during his rounds picking up all of the other poor kids of White-Trashville.

Over the months that followed, I had developed two things as a direct result of Dave’s influence. The first was an embarrassing love for musicals. I couldn’t get enough of them. Between his songs and his guitar playing, I had found an escape from a world that was quickly cascading from tolerably sucky to overwhelmingly fearful and miserable. When things got bad, all I had to do was watch Fred Astaire in Carefree, or my favorite, You’ll Never Get Rich. The second thing that I developed was a comfort zone when I was around Pastor Dave. We could talk about anything with him, and he would listen with a sympathetic ear.

One day, Pastor Dave was telling us about how much God loved his children. I was a little confused about this because I watch late night television. I know what love is, I’ve seen it on Lassie, Casablanca, The Sound of Music, and about two hundred other late night movies. Love was when you cared for someone and took care of them when they were sad or frightened. I had asked him if it was just God Love, thinking that maybe being God meant he had to love in a different way. Pastor Dave just smiled and explained that God loves his children above all others. He may be stern with his love, but never angry with it. He protects them from harm and keeps them safe. This confused me, but it was Pastor Dave, and I knew there was truth in it; I just had to find out what that truth was. 

The following week was much like the past weeks. Daddy Bob telling us that we lacked discipline and the only way to get it was through hard work and immediate response to orders. After he had learned that I despised taking out the garbage it became my regular job. I had figured out a way to tilt the trash can and roll it so that it wasn’t quite a burden. After doing this, I saw that it left a divot in the grass from the point where I had started, to the point where the grass met the driveway. Daddy Bob loved his grass almost as much as he loved the bull horns that he had hanging in our living room, and he loved those almost as much as he loved his CB radio. Daddy Bob loved that CB radio. I think he believed he was the Bandit, or Kris Kristofferson, and at any moment Sally Fields was going to lead a convoy around the corner to gaze lovingly at his lawn. The very lawn that I just churned up with the three-ton trash can. I had spent the better part of that afternoon smoothing the grass back down where I had left the divot. By the time I was complete, it passed my inspection, and I didn’t believe he would notice that anything was wrong. After all, it was Friday, and Friday was his drunk day. He usually just came home and slept on those days.

Later that evening, my youngest sister and I were watching television. I had forgotten all about the trash can, torn lawns, angry dads and Kris Kristofferson. Gilligan and the Skipper often had that effect on me. It never dawned on me that if the professor could build a phone out of a coconut, why couldn’t he build a raft? And because that never dawned on me, it should be no surprise that it didn’t dawn on me that Daddy Bob was standing behind the chair I was in, face beat red with anger, the metal lined belt in his hand, literally growling.

“I will ask one more time. Who tore up my lawn?”

This time the words did register, but I could tell by the look on his face that this was probably the third or fourth time that he asked. Experience had taught me that Daddy Bob only liked to ask questions once. Requiring him to ask a question more than once was simply disrespectful. I knew that I had to answer him carefully because he had that belt out, and I was certain that he wasn’t afraid to use it. Then something occurred to me. I didn’t have to be afraid.

“I did it Daddy Bob. It was my fault. I tried to move the trash can, and it messed up the yard. You look mad at me, but you can’t hurt me. God protects children.”

Thinking back on that moment, I try to imagine how I would have responded. I know I am not my step-father, but I do try to see this from his perspective. All I can imagine doing, if faced with such a bold statement is laughing, hugging the boy, and telling him he’s absolutely right. I’m not sure what went on in the mind of Daddy Bob. I could tell he was angry, but he wasn’t saying anything. I also noticed that his temples were throbbing. I remembered joking about this with Richie, my other older brother, in our bedroom about a week earlier and he said it looked like worms were in his head humping. That memory came to me so quick that I couldn’t help it. A giggle escaped my lips before I could stop it. To this day I would swear that Daddy Bob’s eyes turned red. I don’t mean that they were bloodshot; I mean that the iris of his eyes turned a red that could only be found in the deepest pits of Hell, and I saw my eternal damnation in that gaze. I’m not exactly sure what hit me, if it was the belt, his fist, or something that he picked up, but I do know that it took a long time for the pain to subside in my head, a longer time for the bruises to go away, and an even longer time for me to trust God, Pastor Dave, and anyone associated with faith to keep me safe from harm.

**********

Not everything that came with Daddy Bob was bad. We were eating three meals a day, our clothes weren’t worn and ragged, and our electricity was no longer turned off more often than on. Mom seemed happy, and I didn’t notice her crying quite so much anymore. Billy and Richie were actually treating me a little bit better because Daddy Bob taught them that you have to look after your little brothers and sisters. And, ironically, make sure no harm comes to them. This, in itself, was a blessing. I don’t know how many beatings I’ve endured at the hands of my brothers and oldest sisters; but even with the gift of subdued violence, the best thing that came as a result of Daddy Bob was Poytash.

When I first met Poytash, he was six months old. I’m not really sure what kind of puppy he was, but Daddy Bob called him a Hungarian Attack Hound, or HAH. With the exception of his fur color and ears, Poytash looked like a German Shepard. His coat was like the color of coffee with cream and his ears were long and flopped over the side of his head. He had a black spot of fur on top of his head and one on the tip of each ear. He was bouncing with energy, never seemed to get tired, loved crawling under the house, and loved playing in the yard. To sum him up, Poytash was just what I needed.

As with everything else in life, Daddy Bob thought that the dog needed discipline and training. Each day he was taken to a trainer for four hours, but when he returned home, Poytash was not lacking for energy. It was my job to take him on walks, and for the first time, it was an order from Daddy Bob that I didn’t mind following. Though I had strict guidelines on how to walk him and where, I deviated from that course and took him out to the dairy farm near our house and let him run the fields. It was a wide-open expanse that seemed to stretch on for miles. I would later learn that it was a one-square mile area, but in the eyes of a 9-year-old boy, it seemed immense.

With Poytash, I was finally able to expand beyond the trailer park and The Woods—a patch of trees about four-hundred feet long and about fifty feet deep—and go as far as The River (a ditch with water). I could truly explore the vast reaches of High Point and find out what is beyond the horizon. One of the first places I visited was an old swamp. As you may have picked up, I was not the imaginative sort when it came to naming places and land marks, so this place was aptly named The Swamp. I had spent many a night listening to tales of The Swamp from Billy. He was older, wiser, and much more travelled than I could ever hope to be. On Fridays, as you may or may not remember, Daddy Bob would drink. He wasn’t a mean drunk. That was actually the one time when he let his guard down and became someone that was moderately likeable, but that isn’t why we looked forward to it so much. When Daddy Bob drank, he slept like a log. Nothing woke him. It was on these nights that we would sit in our room and Billy would tell Richie and I stories. Most of the stories were about middle school, and later, high school. Some were about places he had been, and some were just stories that he made up. I loved them all. He would spin a tale and catch me in it, and I would be lost in it until he was done, had rolled over, and was sound asleep. Then I would lay on my back, sad that there was no more storytelling, but too distracted by reliving those stories in my head to really be too depressed that they were over. One of the made up stories he would tell was that of the Peg-legged Baby.

The Peg-legged Baby was a story of a child that was left in the swamp, and forced to eat one its own legs to survive. I know that makes no sense, but to a small, less than worldly, over imaginative kid, it was horrifically real. Once his limb was consumed, he had to insert a peg into his leg stump to get around. When he walked, Billy would make a sound of a foot stomping, followed by a foot dragging, then say in a gravelly, high pitched whisper, “I am the peg-legged baby.” Thump—scrape. Thump—scrape. “I am the peg-legged baby!” It was terrifying. So there I was, on the border of that swamp, the thump—scrape still fresh in my mind, palms sweating, trying to talk myself into moving forward, when Poytash dashed forward and disappeared into the murkiness and gloom.

”POYTASH!” I yelled his name over and over, but he didn’t come back. I didn’t know what to do. In my mind, rain was lashing down, the wind was howling, and thunder boomed every time lightning flashed across the sky, which appropriately occurred each time I called his name. In all actuality, I think it was pretty sunny out; balmy, but not too hot. The sound of cars passing on Ulmerton Road drowned out most other noises, and the swamp was really just muddy ground from where the ditch (River) overflowed one too many times. But it was still scary, and all I could think about was that damned baby and it’s stupid and terrifying pegged leg. I sat on the edge of the river bank crying and then realized that the only thing that terrified me more than the swamp (other than my mom when she’s mad, my brothers, my neighbor Daryl, dogs other than Poytash, girls, zombies, and clowns) was the idea of telling my step-dad that I had lost Poytash while disobeying one of his rules. I picked myself up and ventured into the swamp.

I didn’t have to go far. Poytash was splashing in the mud, unaware of my panic and turmoil, unaware of the horrible stench coming from the mud--which I realized years later was just run-off from the cow pasture that consisted of brackish water and cow shit--but totally aware that he was off his leash and I wasn’t strong enough to put him back on it. Every time I stepped closer, he would bounce away a few steps, and continue his splashing. It wasn’t until about fifteen minutes into what I thought was an exercise in frustration, and Poytash thought was just plain fun that I realized that I was in the middle of the swamp, couldn’t see the road, The River, the cow pasture, or The Woods beyond. A thrill of excitement coursed through me. I did it! I ventured out on my own (sort of). This morning, a boy left the trailer park and this evening will be the triumphant return of a man. Well, maybe not the evening. After all, I was in the middle of the swamp, and it was pretty damn scary, but at the very least, it would be a late afternoon triumph. 

After getting Poytash out of the swamp, and back on track towards home, it dawned on me that he was covered in mud that smelled like a cow’s butt so I took him the rec hall and hosed him off. I put the leash back on him and took the long way home to give him time to dry. When I got there, I found the house blessedly empty. It was Sunday, mom was working and Daddy Bob was out dove hunting. I took Poytash into the back yard, and we sat while I recounted my bold adventures to him. He looked at me, wagged his tail and listened, every once in a while cocking his head to the side, patiently humoring me while I polished the story for retelling next Friday night.

When I think about it, that foray into The Swamp was one of the best memories of my childhood. There wasn't much that could bring me down when I had Poytash to lean on. He was a turning point in my life, a source of confidence and bravery. Though I was still afraid of my own shadow, and pretty much everything else's shadow, I had a companion that would be at my side and lend me strength. But I think the best gift from Poytash was that it took a scruffy-eared mutt to teach me how to love. It wasn't love that I had to earn through pain or respect, or love that I could only feel after dropping the right tithe into a plate. It was an unconditional love that could only be given by a true friend. My first friend.