Who's the Moron Now

Growing up on the eastern end of Long Island mostly occurred without a father figure. I did have a father, and he lived at the same address as our family, but for reasons I didn't understand, he was emotionally, and oftentimes, physically distant. I believed he had never mentally returned from World War II. He often spent his free time at the local VFW with former soldier friends, drinking away the day and on into the night. Yes, Dad had friends, but he never seemed able or willing to make room in his life for who I saw to be an important addition—me.

Long Island Peconic Bay

Long Island South Shore

Dad never took me places or taught me things fathers traditionally teach their sons, like fishing and sports. The only time I went fishing was when he picked me up at my grandparents’ house and stopped at the Chum Inn before heading home. While waiting, often for hours, for him to finish drinking inside, I would pass the time trying to catch sunfish along the Peconic River, using bread balls for bait from a sandwich I had brought along.

Fishing in the Peconic River

Also, I participated in sports all four years of high school without his involvement—well, not entirely. He never attended, but he did give me rides home from games and practices. When he did, he often kept me waiting, sometimes for hours. On days he didn't show up, I would walk the railroad tracks home, giving me time to think and reflect on life.

After school sports - so

Taking the railroad tracks home

Honestly, I was relieved whenever he was late or didn't show. The later he was, the less likely it was that any of my friends would see the rundown car he drove or notice how intoxicated he was. My worst fear was a teammate asking for a ride. Dad’s car was like a tool shed, packed with sawhorses, scrap lumber, extension cords, and tools, leaving little room for anything, or anyone else.

Typical K-12 School on Long Island

Patiently waiting to get picked up after school sports

Oh, but there was always room for a six-pack or two, and for the “dead soldiers” (as he called the empties) piling up on the floorboard. Even when I was careful getting into his car, one or two empties would inevitably clatter out the door onto the street. I would have died of embarrassment if anyone saw, and I prayed no one ever would.

Typical old clunker like my dad would drive

Though it was hardly six miles, those drives home felt like an eternity. I prayed each mile that we might make it alive, cursing myself for not walking the tracks instead. The close calls were nerve-wracking. Also unnerving was the long silence, broken only by the sound of empties when I moved my feet. I tried my best not to.

These rides could have been wonderful father-son bonding times, filled with discussion, laughter, and camaraderie—but they weren't. There never was a time. The silence while we drove was more of an understood calm before the storm. He knew it was coming. I knew it was coming, and yet, each time I tried desperately to change the immediate future, but always to no avail.

When the car stopped, I would quickly jump out and run inside. Waiting there would be a very angry mother about to explode. I would stress that yes, we were late, and yes, he had been drinking, but please just let it go for once—for God’s sake, just let it go! But she could never let it go. Before Dad could get to the door, the angry words were already flying. Immediately following were the pots and pans, pot roast, and mashed potatoes from another dinner long gone cold. She would curse him and pound on him until, without a fight, he retreated to the car and drove off again to the VFW. There, he found solace with his drinking friends, licking his wounds and the remnants of his earlier airborne dinner.

In our house the food often took flight

On one of those less than enjoyable rides home, after wondering what might be flying for dinner that night, I decided to break the usual silence and try to ease the tension with some comic relief. “Hey, Dad,” I said, unsure if it was wise to distract him from his already impaired driving ability. “What?” he snapped back. My instinct was to say never mind, but that’s what I always did when there seemed to be a risk involved. I was almost eighteen. It was time I spoke up.

Moron driving his car off the cliff

“Why did the moron drive his car off the cliff to test his air brakes?” I blurted out too quickly. Hearing my own words, to my shock and horror, I realized I completely blew the punch line. Trying to recover, I nervously laughed and said, “I messed up. I was supposed to just ask why the moron drove his car off the cliff. And then, the answer was: to test his air brakes.” He didn't respond for what seemed like an eternity. Then, while staring straight ahead at the road, and without a hint of humor in his voice, he replied, “So, tell me. Who’s the moron now?”

Neither of us spoke another word the rest of the way home. In the chilling silence, I pondered this last question. Long before it had ever been asked, I had known the answer all too well, though I had never admitted it to myself until that very moment. Lacking the courage to answer him aloud, I found the strength to answer it loudly in my mind.

“We’re both the moron now, Dad: you for never being a dad to me, and me, for still foolishly hoping I could be a son.”