Jim Meirose

The Dad Anecdote

Portrait of a Gentleman by Egon Schiele

You may remember being told we decided to move from our cheap condo, just before you were born; Son-Boy. You may have been present during this or that chat with family/friend/acquaintance or like that which I may have been trading anecdotes into but—ah ah but, never directly aimed into you but, the odds are good that you may or may not have received one or more, more or less serious small wounds referred to as flesh woundz/grazez/nipz /tuckz or lesser all of which even though being the to-be-expected collateral damage which is the price we in the western business back here need to pay for the total freedom we enjoy, to do whatever thises or thatses verbal or nonso vocal or silent but my mere knave of a bigboy, I have not yet decided how much to splash your way in either episodic fashion over some agreed-to between us timeframe, uh uh hippo, eh sweet, butt. The nature of the game is that the right way to decide how much you should know of your Daddycat’s seamies can only be derived by a deep, thoroughly drilled down to bedrock, dive for the truth of what over what down what is or isn’t the right thing to hose over you. Mister and Mrs. Knick-Knack [or whatever the brass band passing by out our window calls herself] it matters; no no never none and not at all. Unless we get under the facts of the matter pry back every rock and expose the writhing realities festering below. Et Son-Boy; so, here’s the big sit. Yuh dah her Fradies’ or his Friedas’ non-paiano de pansie-butt’s first recital or the following four suches down to the boresack of empty foreverness et eh we be buttin’ over-bout; eh; the condo board has pressed charges on you for damage to their property and. Ten counts to be exact. And your legal men say you did what you dared do because of mental defect. Is that the truth as you see it?

Wait. Why do you—

Okay/Son-Boy! We’ll hold the button there because haste in the pursuit of this process will indeed make waste what kind of waste mentally fragmented fast spoiling waste of you, and et. If we lived on a metaphorical landfill of waste miles deep below and below that the appropriately set down EPA mandated waste dump eterna-liner—btw how foolish the tickplayers hosed by the impractititians that run the ghoile-meny carves law after law out the deepmud below us to strangle and chafe right at bedtime and till daybreak to weaken, our heads and our heads and our—best to go on how I sense we sense he senses she senses and it always it always—it needs to tag her way into every such decision-making blue ribbon panel charged with mock me charged with and charged oh with How uh did I stop now what I just said mock you, son? Ah, I stopped see see boss dead and dead. Do not impose punishee-mentia just yet. Have pity.

You said the words silly. You said, Oh Yes Does She It?
That is wrong. That is not even close to what I said.
Yes, it is. You said it just a second ago. I heard you.
Okay. Let’s pretend I did say that. Even if that’s right, how does it mock you?
Stop it! Stop it now! You think I am stupid—that you can confuse me. No. Just Stop!
Wait, wait—calm down. Answer the question. How did the question confuse you?
I don’t know—shut up and let me think!

—all right—pull out the tools start changing the tire while I get on the horn—

Son-Boy I know you’d rather I didn’t but again I mash the “not button” 1 here. Gently as I must but within that false crust actually driven by a quite savage instinct instilled by your grandmother forcing me to transcribe into classic black on white composition notebooks word for word the Meaning of Life series of motivational preachies recorded by even earlier ‘cestors and to prepare for eventual but no. This is not my job here I know Son-Boy. My job here is not to reminisce at your expense but to determine if you should get any sliver of this Dadbit at all, which in and of itself is difficult enough, but also piled on is the load of decision ah—how long be the bit. Wide and deep the bit—and how do we get this when we are not dealing with a simple textbook solid of a definitely defined surface all around, simple enough in its definition for us to
touch it with a mere naked finger and know it starts here and then. Pull the finger off it into the apparent nothing of mere invisibly visible air—of sea level pressure which for purposes of this example will be held constant but which state, of course, is wholly unnatural—and, even then, Son-Boy—even then—it would take not seconds minutes days months weeks or years but—uh uh, but—God let us let go the mooring lines from our burned to the bone palms and let the tide take it out the restway all here, to wit; okay Doctor. Listen. You asked me Oh, does she it? Right? Those were the words?

Wrong again son.

—this is an order a direct order—.

That’s not what I said—and it doesn’t even match what you told me ten seconds ago. Yes, it does!

—no, I won’t—

I’m sorry, son—but you said it different both times. Why would I lie? All right. How about this—you said, Oh, does she? Right? That was it, right?

—hate me everything hate me truly but—

I am sorry, but no—and again, it’s different that anything said here today by either of us. Come on, calm down. Stop pretending to be stupid.

Me? How?

—no. I won’t—

Okay, Son-Boy! Again, I must slam the lid-albeit temporarily. See the back and forth the swing and the swang of it the teetering tottery of it and the lickety and the split the yang slid under the ying and there was barely sufficient gas left to even perform a cursory autopsy on the bodilies all solidly liquified whose smells masked by the inevitable super-gaseous. The end of the highway for all lower planets and every one of their supplementary–oids. So I don’t see the use of this exerchunk no mo’ havasta Son-Boy—I barely even wonder no mo’ why I gave birth to you yes but maybe it’s; sure, Doc, it’s true we decide on this mortal plane the grossly simple decision as to whether or not to bareback copulate which mostwise will lead or not to spawning a single young in most cases but that is the only way it goes. It is on the higher planes dear sisters,
that which children sense the gloom of in the night and et al oh in the asylums, no I won’t even go there but. In the next level up and all those accordioning higher to highest from that is where—but here chew on this while I wind up the flywheels, so the round don’t go flat halfway in. Here’s backwards out to ya’, Son-Boy!

You are pretending to be crazy to avoid prison time! Here, hey. Take a tissue. Calm down, get serious, and act like an adult.

Oh? No—you are the one needs to wise up. Here, I got it now. What you asked before was, Does she it? Hear that—does she it. Do you need it spelled out for you, Doctor?

—please send back at last this is torment—

Son, you’re stepping in it deeper every time you open your mouth. Shut up, blow your nose, calm down, and stay quiet a while.

No! I will not! I will not—no will not shut up, until you get it—here—listen God-dammit does it does it does it does it does it does it does it does it does it sinz agin ur on Bank’t D’ Malerica’s very own landypop. With his wings spread above to protect me—

Okay so leap up a notch and pull down a card and then leap up another and now there’s two and again and again and again and again—

—want more, Doc? Do you really need it hammered in more? —

Go on. Do what you want. Be silly as you got energy to be. I’m here all day. —and again and again and again and again and a fine; does does and again does and again
and again and again does does does does does again again again and a does does does does does does does does does does I believe you will at last, and then, Doctor I do not know. Until there are a total of fifty-two planes mounted Son-Boy. Ut. So does there does does that’s does does does wise the mud where I live—which corresponds to the standard number of playing cards in a deck. Oh does oh oh does does oh oh oh does oh oh oh oh hand down on shoulder—so since its been discovered there’s forty-six chromosomes in a human, what’s a shoulder oh open up look

up there—what?

Shaking my shoulder not no to shaking down my shoulder and my shoulder and—
Son! Wake up, son.
What? Eh.
The numerical difference of ten between fifty-two and forty-two has quite the stunning significance, as follows:

again, in the light—

We’ve been arguing about nothing. It’s good you got some rest.

Go easy in the light. Count backwards to ten.

But you said—I—

The right time the first time. No rheum for awry.

Never mind, never mind. Let’s take a few until we go again buddy. I got a bottle in my drawer. Like everybody does.

And there, pull that receipt from the register which will be generated one line a year for the required number of years to.


Of years to of years to of years to of years to:

Most will not admit that though. But, what the hell? Who’s to know? Here—pour yourself one and relax. There’s time.

There you go Son-Boy. That means the Dad anecdote that once seemed so vital for you to know can be—forgotten. Forget We Talked About It Son-Boy.

I said no.

Son-Boy, listen.

Let’s talk about something else.


About the writer:
Jim Meirose‘s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), No and Maybe – Maybe and No (Pski’s Porch), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books).

Image: Portrait of a Gentleman by Egon Schiele (1890-1918). Charcoal and watercolor (on paper?). 39.7 x 29.1 cm. 1910. Reproduction from an art book. Public domain.