The Kid in Every Father

         I used to brag to my father that I could get the best of him anytime I wanted. I just knew he had never been a kid. Certainly he hadn’t accomplished any of the spectacular feats I had pulled off. I’d catch lizards and turn them loose in my parent’s bedroom. Mother would scream and my father would complain about mother’s cat dragging them inside. I also thought I was the only one who put firecrackers in anthills, or in mailboxes.

         They finally got rid of the cat. I was glad because I have always hated cats. Dad finally convinced her to rid ourselves of this menace when they found two lizards and a mouse in their bedroom early one Saturday morning. They nearly awoke when I opened their bedroom door to let the creatures go.

         Their bedroom door was typical for parents of the Untrusting Era. It squeaked unmercifully when you opened it, no matter how fast or slow. Believe me, I was an expert on this door. Mother didn’t like the squeak, and she was always on Father’s case to oil it. I think he got some sort of perverse pleasure out of the noise it made. I think he might have had the naïve notion he would catch me opening it. Knowing this gave me no choice but to outsmart him: I oiled the door myself. The genius of it was that Mother thought Father had oiled it and, for fear of him not ever doing so again, neglected to mention how grateful she was that the squeak was gone. Father thought that Mother had oiled the door, and neglected to mention it because deep inside he felt as if he should have oiled it rather than she. I made out like a bandit.

         Anyhow, the cat was gone. Little did I know at that time that my father hated the cat as well. My turn was coming.

         Let me briefly explain about Sunday mornings in our household. My Father was the first person to get hold of the Sunday newspaper. Period. It was a rule that no one disobeyed, not even visiting guests. We all got to read it only after he had entirely devoured its contents. There were no exceptions to this rule. Not even I dared to break this law.

         After retrieving the paper, and succumbing to a bizarre Sunday ritual Mother Nature placed upon him, he would retire speedily to his bathroom, located ideally in the privacy of his bedroom. This always took place between 9:30 and 10:00 every Sunday morning. Whether it was in anticipation of the traditionally large Sunday dinner and the need to clean himself out to make room for it, or merely fate, you could very nearly set your watch by it.

         So it came to be this one particular Sunday, while I was busy sorting my newest baseball cards, when a disaster happened. My father ran out of toilet paper. I was boasting to myself of my card-trading ability when I heard my name in a loud yell. I rushed in to see what was the matter. I presumed that he might have fallen in. such was not the case. In his gruff voice he explained, between cursing, that his darling wife had forgotten to get toilet paper (of all things) during her biweekly sojourn to the supermarket yesterday. Under the normal weekly schedule, he would have been overjoyed to have mother make a special trip to the store to retrieve the toilet paper. Unfortunately, we both knew well that Sunday mornings were not normal. She was indulging herself in religion on the other side of town.

         He very politely asked me if I could handle riding my bicycle up to the store, buying a roll of toilet paper, and bringing it straight back without talking to the old woman on the corner who usually had something disgusting to say anyway. I said that I would be happy to.

         I had the chance to make dad proud and to help him out of a bind.

         He reached into his pants (which were around his knees) and pulled out thirty cents. He cursed again, claiming his wife had taken all his change to place in the offering at church. He told me it was enough to buy at least a roll and I, with grim determination, set out for the store.

         The old woman let me pass without any snide remarks.

         After chaining my bike, I entered the store. Though I knew quite well where the candy and baseball cards were, I was dubious as to the location of the paper. I spotted a stockman (normally called stock boys, but they were much bigger and older than I was) and asked him if he knew where the toilet paper was kept. I must have been comical in my appearance; unkempt hair, grimy Sears Toughskins jeans, not to mention being eleven years old. He shrugged and told me to follow him. When we reached the toilet paper, he pulled down a roll and said, “Let me guess, your old man’s at home on the pot with nothing to wipe on, right?” I looked at him.

         I was instantly embarrassed and awkwardly stunned, to be mild. I could feel the red in my cheeks. I was ashamed to be related to my dear ‘ole dad. And to think I thought of myself as clever.

         He finally handed me the toilet paper. For those of you who havew bought single rolls of toilet paper, you know the only rolls that are sold separately come in single ply sheets of sandpaper. By this time, however, I was not concerned with the texture of the paper. I just wanted to go home and finish looking at my baseball cards. I managed to stagger to the check-out, clutching the roll.

         And then it happened. The girl I had a crush on all year long was standing in line right in front of me with her mother, a red-haired beast who, looking back on it, now reminds me of Shirley Maclaine. We exchanged the usual jargon of the times: Hello, how are you, who was dating whom, and were they going steady. She eyed my package of paper with catlike curiosity.

         By now I felt as if everyone in the store knew what was happening.

         I couldn’t give them the impression that toilet paper was all I needed. I spotted the items lined along the checkout stand, and learned, much to my amazement, that “Scientists On the Verge of Creating Plant People.” I picked up a few pieces of Bazooka Bubble Gum to go along with my roll. Tiffany (that was the girl) continued to watch me with increasing fervor.

         About this time, Ms. Maclaine began checking her items. I looked up from the assortment of tweezers, eye drops, and small packets of Kleenex to notice, much to my chagrin, that the stockman that had helped me find the toilet paper was now the checker who was checking Ms. Maclaine’s groceries. I thought about running, but with Tiffany there and all it was just too stupid to consider. Sigh. Responsibilities.

         Ms. Maclaine now had her bags in her cart and was ready to go. I was hoping Tiffany would follow her. She didn’t. She told her mother she would meet her at the car in five minutes.

         I reluctantly turned towards the clerk, who, upon seeing the situation, decided he had stumbled into the chance of a lifetime. He began ringing me up with a steady smirk on his face. I asked Tiffany if she wanted a piece of gum. She said “Yes” and took a piece, unwrapped it and began chewing. That was OK. I had a dollar from mowing lawns in my front pocket. But when I went to pull it out, I found only empty baseball card wrappers. And then it hit me. I had spent my whole dollar on baseball cards the night before. I had only the thirty cents my father had given me. I looked down at the toilet paper roll and blinked. Twenty eight cents.

         The clerk finished ringing me up. “Forty cents,” he announced rather boldly. I ashamedly took all the bubble gum and put it back. “Thirty two cents, “ he replied, louder than before. I couldn’t very well take the gum out of Tiffany’s mouth. Let’s see, I said to myself, “Twenty eight cents, plus 3 cents tax, plus a penny for the gum. Darn!” The thought vaguely occurred to me that even without counting Tiffany’s gum, I would have been lacking by a penny. And I had to buy the toilet paper.

         This was in the old days, you understand. There wasn’t a penny bin where you could take one if you needed it. A penny could really buy something those days. And nobody had one to spare. I gave him the money. One quarter and a lonely nickel. He looked at my thirty cents as if it were a personal insult. He gave the money back to me and told me to go home and come back when I had enough money to purchase the roll. He also asked what my father would do to me if I didn’t bring home a roll. I begged him. I pleaded. I groveled. All to no avail. I made a complete fool of myself in front of Tiffany. Ms. Maclaine honked the horn then, Tiffany looked at me, started giggling, and ran out the door as she did so.

         The manager of the store, a kindly old man, had been observing my situation from the next isle with growing mirth. He walked over and asked if he could be of some assistance. I couldn’t hold my story any longer. I blurted out everything to him, expecting to see him explode with laughter. He merely nodded his head in understanding and took two pennies from his pocket and gave them to me. His look said, “I have been there before, son.”

         The stockman couldn’t believe his boss had given me the money. He waited for the manager to continue his stroll through the store before taking his last poke at me. He asked me if I wanted the roll in a bag or would I need to use it real soon? The rest of the line laughed hysterically and I stormed, totally humiliated, out of the store.

         My ride home was a nightmare. The old woman on the corner just laughed as I rode by. The trees were whispering secrets and the road was conspiring against me. Despite the conspiracy, however, I managed to make it home. Just barely. I pulled myself up into an erect, dignified position and walked back into the back bathroom. I presented my father with the paper. He examined my reddened face, said thanks, as I turned and walked out. I was too proud to tell him what had happened. I never did tell him, but I will tell you that I have never been as cocky since.

         I am now thirty-four years old. I have the cursed luck to have been blessed with a son exactly like I was. My father cursed me. I know it. I just can’t prove it.

         Mike always plays tricks on our cat. Not that I like cats, but when the cat is upset, my wife is upset. The other day I called my father for some advice on how to deal with the little snotty-nosed urchin. He told me the story I just told you. When he finished telling it, my face began turning red. By the time he had finished, I was purple with rage. Still, I had to hand it to him. I decided to adopt this strategy. He told me that this would take some of the cockiness out of an ornery child.

         Having a malady (perhaps hereditary) similar to my father’s on Sundays, I decided to have a little fun. On Saturday I went to the grocery store and figured out how much a roll of toilet paper would be, including tax.

         On Sunday morning, real early, I emptied my pockets of all change except for the cost of the toilet paper, minus 5 cents (inflation).

         After fetching my paper, I took up my position on the stool. I yelled for my son and explained the dire circumstances that I was under. I pulled the money from my pocket and handed it to him. He left immediately. As soon as I heard the front door slam shut, I jumped up (not really having to go) and opened my (squeaky) bedroom door. I watched him pedal down the street and I smiled with that smile that only fathers understand—not wives or children, just fathers. After calling the grocery store, I walked back into the bathroom and resumed my position on the throne. I folded my paper, leaned over and opened the cabinet underneath the sink, and admired the four sparkling rolls of toilet paper within. I waited.

         The front door opened with a crash and my son came running in with perspiration dripping from his face. I nodded appreciatively when he handed me the roll and he left quickly.

         That afternoon I criticized him for not putting away my tools, and told him, in no uncertain terms, not to use the hinge oil because there wasn’t much left. That would be all it would take.

         This evening my son asked if I could drive him down to his friend’s house four blocks down the road. I told him that when I was a kid, I had to walk, or at the very least, ride a bike. Hell, I used to be able to throw a rock four blocks.

         “Yes,” he replied, “but times have changed since then, Dad.”

         “I guess you’re right son,” I replied.