By Tom ‘William’ Waters
Dec 1, 2007
Butch had a personal sense of fatalism that permeated most of his
life. If I wanted to watch a movie with him on week nights, we’d
watch a half hour and he’d say ‘This is a piece of shit. I’m going to
bed.’ If I spent my allowance and requested further funds, he’d say
‘You’re just going to piss it up anyway.’ If he had a particularly
tough day, he’d say ‘Piss on it.’, meaning ‘The futility of the world
and the dance of life in general is a joke played on us by our Creator.’ |
With a frightening degree of clarity, I realized the other day (while I
was scowling for no apparent reason) that I’m turning into my
father. For a number of years, I’ve been more akin to my mother:
emotional, caring, supportive and chatty. And now I’ve hit the other
end of the spectrum. I get up at six or seven in the morning, bitch
about bills, swear at the cat, drink beer by the gallon, cook more
food than two people can possibly eat in one household and wear the
same pair of underwear for three to five days. I don’t know when
this happened, and it frightens me. Please don’t misunderstand, as
my father is a lot different in his retirement than he was when he
was an intermediate family man. I’m beginning to take on the
personality traits that he had in his late ‘30s and early ‘40s. I guess
you just can’t escape genetics.
My dad (with few exceptions) was completely miserable for a good
twenty years of his life. He worked at a job for over thirty years
where he was on call one weekend out of the month, got up at six or
seven in the morning and had to fight through the worst possible
kind of commuter traffic known to man. He was a well paid union
elevator mechanic, servicing colleges, businesses, churches, schools
and other organizations. Most of the time he couldn’t stand his job,
his boss or the traffic. When I was young, he took a fall down an
elevator shaft and shattered a number of bones. This made him
angrier.
I, on the other hand, have been at a job for five years that I’m no
longer terribly fond of. I’m a well paid retail video game store
manager who receives calls at home morning, noon and night with
stupid questions from my staff that they could usually answer if they
thought before they opened their mouths or dialed the phone. I
have to get up at six or seven in the morning, fight through the
worst possible kind of commuter traffic, and I have to service some
of the more socially and cognitively retarded children in the
community on a daily basis. Most of the time I can’t stand my job,
my boss, my customers, or the traffic. It pays really well, though, so
here I am. When I was young, I took a spill at my summer home
and cracked a rib on my left side. This made me even angrier.
My father drank like a fish for a good thirty years and hit the brakes
after he developed some heart problems a few years back. After
work, he’d often kick back with a gin and tonic (his signature drink)
and a few budget beers and watch Benny Hill, Looney Tunes, The
Dukes Of Hazzard and Hee Haw. He often woke up in the middle of
the night for a snack and a bathroom break and rarely had a good
night’s sleep. After a hard day at work, he didn’t have much
patience for anybody’s bullshit, so if provoked, he would yell, scream,
threaten physical violence (without carrying through on it) and
generally scare the bejesus out of the guilty party.
I’ve been drinking like a fish for a good ten years. I take two to four
day breaks every week because when I get really angry at work I’ve
been getting dizzy for fifteen minute spells which probably isn’t a
good sign. After work, I often like to kick back with a bourbon on
the rocks (my signature drink) and a few imported Canadian beers
watching Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Tick, Seinfield and The Kids
In The Hall. Many times I’ll wake up in the middle of the night for a
bathroom break and end up staying awake to read or check my
email and I frequently wake up two or three hours before I have to
get up in the morning. After a hard day’s work, I don’t have
patience for anybody’s bullshit, so if provoked, I yell, scream, spit
into my telephone, send threatening emails (without carrying
through on it) and generally scare the bejesus out of everyone.
The one thing guaranteed to relax Butch is his summer home at
Rushford Lake. When he was employed, he would spend a few weeks
out of the year sitting on the sun porch in his cabin watching the
birds, drinking coffee, napping and puttering around his palatial
estate. He would often become sociable, inviting friends of the
family down to visit and having bonfires where he would stay up way
past his bed time fascinated with ‘the majestics of the flame’ (his
term). He was fond of using one (or all) of his fifteen chainsaws,
working on docks, fixing boat lifts and mowing lawns when they
didn’t really need to be mowed. In the winter, he’d drive down to
Rushford ‘to check up on things’, which meant that he could get the
hell away from the family, sleep in peace, and eat bad subs from the
corner store while drinking an entire twelve pack in silence.
The one thing guaranteed to relax me is my dad’s summer home at
Rushford Lake. I’ve made it a point to spend at least two weeks in
the spring and fall sitting on the front porch of the A Frame cottage
my dad bought listening to Bob Dylan, drinking coffee, reading
comic books, napping, and perfecting my grilling technique. I often
become sociable down there, inviting an entire rogue’s gallery of
friends down to visit playing cards, chess, having bonfires and
crapping out two hours after we start the fire so I can play cards,
win other people’s money and listen to stand up comedy. I’m fond of
using one (or all) of my fifteen cameras taking pictures and filming
inconvenient footage of my girlfriend, family and friends to use
against them at a later date as well as going out in my aluminum
boat for the day and drinking, eating pounds of curd cheese and
peeing off the back of the boat in a shallow alcove between bouts of
donuts around the lake to show off for the Hilton College women’s
ski team. They ski on Wednesday evenings and I never miss a
performance.
Butch had a personal sense of fatalism that permeated most of his
life. If I wanted to watch a movie with him on week nights, we’d
watch a half hour and he’d say ‘This is a piece of shit. I’m going to
bed.’ If I spent my allowance and requested further funds, he’d say
‘You’re just going to piss it up anyway.’ If he had a particularly
tough day, he’d say ‘Piss on it.’, meaning ‘The futility of the world
and the dance of life in general is a joke played on us by our Creator.’
He was often happiest setting up a cocktail in the kitchen on top of
the cutting board and in front of the liquor cabinet or cooking
dinner. If we ate his food, he’d say ‘Can’t make that anymore, it all
gets eaten up!’ He made noodles five nights a week in addition to
everything else that he cooked. He remains a great cook.
I have a personal sense of fatalism, cynicism and sarcasm that
permeates most of my life. I’ll watch the same ten movies ad
nauseum, watching them from start to finish and laughing at them
more than sanity permits. I’ll often talk a big game about staying up
late and end up going to bed a half an hour before midnight. On a
particularly tough day, I’ll say ‘Fuck everybody’, meaning ‘I don’t
have the energy required to participate in the dance of life anymore
today and I’d rather have nothing more to do with the world or my
Creator.’ I’m often happiest pouring a fat tumbler of bourbon or
Irish whiskey for myself and my friends on the island between our
kitchen and living room or cooking dinner. If Lindsay eats all my
food, I’ll say ‘Where the hell did my sandwich go? I was dreaming
about it all day at work!’ I make a vat of something in the crock pot
on Mondays and hope to make it last throughout the rest of the
week. I’m becoming a great cook.
I love my father to death, and as time goes by, I resemble him more
and more. It used to be just my mannerisms and my mood that
reflected him back in the mirror, and now it’s much more than that,
as you can see. This isn’t a bad thing, it’s just startling to see how
much of your family is embedded into your personality like a time
bomb waiting to go off. I don’t think I’ll ever have a strong
command for heavy machinery, tools, cars, maintenance, sensibility
with money or an affinity for bad country music humor, but as for
the rest, we’re peas in a pod. Once he retired, he transformed into
an infinitely happier person, taking life in stride and joking often.
Twenty three years from now, I hope to switch over to his way of
thinking. Here’s to you, Butch.
