Radio Controlled Wake

What a show.

Between the dining room and the kitchen there was enough food to feed fifty or sixty people. Easy. At most during the afternoon maybe twenty people visited my parents’ house. I wandered around with nowhere to go, nobody to talk to. I didn’t have anything to say anyway. Strangers offered their condolences and heartfelt sympathy which I politely accepted. Between infrequent handshakes and quiet conversations I picked lightly at some of the catered dishes that were staged on the dining room table. I wasn’t very hungry.

Autumn made herself busy by being a social butterfly, fluttering around from person to person talking with neighbors I didn’t know and would probably never see again. She at least seemed to be occupying her time well.

Dad was having himself a blast. A grand old time. Smiling ear to ear. I know why, too. Dad was ecstatic that he had outlived Mom and been able to protect his bank accounts from being decimated by her illnesses. That is all that mattered to him. Money. He was free and clear now to do whatever he wished. Something in the back of my mind told me things would turn out very badly for him. What would happen for certain, I couldn’t say. His personality sucks and he’s somewhat of a psychopath. No self-respecting woman of any moral character would have anything to do with Dad. This I knew. He would probably remarry at the first opportunity he got, shacking up with a gold digger or a headcase just like himself. Perhaps his next wife would be both of those things.

After tomorrow morning I wouldn’t have to concern myself with Dad ever again if I wanted. Thinking about that was sweet. Reassuring.

Various hobbies have consumed my father when I was growing up. One of them he has always been heavily into is radio controlled model airplanes. Out in the garage there must be thirty or so complete models. Some have gigantic wingspans, powered by engines large enough to run landscaping equipment. Other models he built are tiny. Maybe about the size of a frisbee. Radio Controlled stuff never interested me much. I don’t share Dad’s obsessive enthusiasm for the shit, much to his frustration.

At Mom’s wake I was doing my best to stay away from Dad so there would not be any confrontations or strife. I exercised a great deal of restraint. Things were going well enough until Dad decided to totally fuck up. I should have known he was going to do something stupid, something unthinkably disrespectful and embarrassing. Dad went into the garage and came back inside the house with a controller unit in one hand and a teeny model airplane in the other. It was bright yellow with a two-bladed red plastic propeller that ran off of a micro-sized electric motor. To my disbelief, Dad happily announced to everyone that he was going to fly the plane off the back porch of his house. He wanted everybody to come outside to watch.

Stepping through the back door into a bright, sunny afternoon Dad walked onto the edge of the 8th hole’s green. With a quick throw of his right arm the little yellow airplane raced upwards in the air and then did a nosedive. It landed on the golf course directly in the path of two players as one of them was preparing to take a swing at his ball. Dad ignored both of them marching angrily out to his crashed model. From the expression on the golfers’ faces it was obvious they were annoyed and confused at what they just saw. Dad launched his little plane again this time having a successful flight. As he performed a number of loops and acrobatic twirls for his captive audience of about a dozen, he called out to me three times to join them outside. I was standing alone in the living room watching this bullshit through a window.

That was when I decided it was black eye and fat lip time for Dad. I snapped. Clinching my fists and grinding my teeth I made up my mind then and there that Dad was going to get the beating of his life. I was going to knock the fuck out of him. Breaking his nose or his jaw at a minimum was most definitely required. As I took a step forward towards the doorway leading outside where I could punch the consciousness out of my father’s body, someone grabbed my right arm. Startled, I twisted to my right to discover uncle Larry. Gripping me by the arm without letting go for a second he looked me in the eye and said, “Let’s go sit down on the couch.”

I nodded in agreement with him and the two of us sat next to each other in the living room. Waving my arm in Dad’s direction out back I said, “That’s FUCKED up.”

Uncle Larry replied, “I know… I know.”


~ by factorypeasant on January 7, 2007.

4 Responses to “Radio Controlled Wake”

  1. fukin’ a

    jacked up shizza

    no class at all


  2. yeah, he’s one of the worst people i met in my whole life.

  3. This is the post that really seals it. Some fragment of a shadow of a doubt may have existed before, but this one clearly demonstrates that your dad was a sociopath.

  4. yeah, he was known in the San Francisco fire department as a psycho. and of course psychiatrist lady Couch Potato told me her diagnosis. in her opinion he was insane.

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