Growing up I loved the way my dad smelled in the morning before he left for work. I didn't quite know what the smell was then, but for a small child it was security and warmth all wrapped up in a hug.
I was fortunate, still am, that my dad always believed in showing his emotions. There's nothing wrong with a hug and a kiss where my dad is concerned. On the same token, there's nothing quite like a good knock-down, drag out argument.
My dad never believed in pulling his punches. I guess that's what almost cost him his life one day.
I remember coming home from elementary school on this ordinary day. I watched a few cartoons, and maybe a "Gilligan's Island" re-run. A few friends and I tried to get a pick-up game of football going, but every time we'd get started someone's mother would call them in to eat dinner. After a few futile attempts and a quick game of catch I decided to head in for the night.
I relished those few hours after school before our fathers would get home from work. The street' belonged to the kids of Dilido Boulevard from the time school let out until the familiar call that dinner was ready. We played football or kickball on the street and used light poles and man holes as goal lines or bases. There were always one or two parents who would yell at us for playing in front of their homes. They argued that we were ruining their yard, or hitting their car with the football. One guy even put cactuses in his front yard to try to deter us.
Most of the "old farts", as we would call them, had kids who were too young to be playing football with the older kids. At first we tried to explain to them that we were only playing in the street, and couldn't care less about running in their yards. After all, it wasn't like we were only playing in front of just their house. We played in front of everyone's house.
We soon learned that it wasn't worth arguing about, because we realized we could never win. We just moved on and waited for the next time to be told to move on.
The cactuses put in by an angry neighbor never stopped us either. Since they were close to the light post - our goal line - the team defending the goal knew that the offense had to either throw left or into the end zone. Any pass to the right could mean a deflated football and the end of the game. Sometimes though you'd risk it and throw right anyway.
On this ordinary day we would not upset any parents. We just couldn't get a game going. Back in the house my mom seemed to be in a grouchy mood, so I decided to sit down in front of the television until dinner was ready. It was definitely an uneventful day.
Then dad came home. He seemed almost unrecognizable. He looked like dad, he walked like dad, but something was definitely up. He'd come home tired before but this was different. It was like he was in his own world. He went straight into the kitchen where my mom was getting dinner ready.
"Get me a cup of tea," my dad said quietly.
"I had a terrible day," said mom.
And so the conversation went, mom telling my dad about the miserable day she had and dad asking for a cup of hot tea. Odd since dad is a coffee drinker.
After a few minutes mom realized that dad was not quite himself. After all, not only was it a hot day for a hot cup of tea, but he just didn't seem right.
All this time my brother and I stayed in front of the TV, trying not to pay attention to what was going on in the kitchen.
We had no idea what my father had gone through that day, we just knew that we were getting hungry. My mom on the other hand began making his cup of tea. She knew something had happened.
It would be a while before my brother and I would know the whole story. But we soon found out the basic details. Our first reaction was to see if dad would be on the news that night. He said that reporters were there, but that the police told him to get away from the door when they saw the television cameras. It was for his own protection.
My dad had a hard day of work. He's been a salesman most of his life, and still is today. He's good at his job and the stores he calls on know it. My brother and I enjoyed when our father would take us to work with him. Those days remain some of my most cherished childhood memories. We would mostly go to drug stores and sometimes department stores or card shops. We liked being able to go into the store before it opened. We enjoyed walking into the storerooms, a place we had never been before. I especially enjoyed driving with dad all over parts of Miami that were much different from the Broward suburbs that we called home. It was in my father's company car that I first learned where Opa Locka and Hialeah are located. It was also with my dad that I first experienced Flagler Street, downtown Miami and Iron Beer and a Cuban sandwich.
Sometimes the pharmacists in the drug stores we called on would give my brother and me candy or lollipops. Other times we would meet other salesman for breakfast or lunch at diners or small blue-collar luncheonettes where your silverware didn't always match and you always got a glass of water – places I still enjoy today.
I remember one red haired salesman liked to joke around and would crack chewing gum on the side of his mouth when he laughed. Another had a wonderful British accent and would tell fascinating stories about the Royal Air Force during “The War”, as if there had been only one war.
I remember all these things, but most of all. I remember how hard my dad worked. He told us that his father worked hard all his life so he and my uncle and aunt wouldn't have to work so hard in their lives.
But I couldn't imagine that my dad was working any less harder than his father had worked. The way he figures it is that just because he's a greeting card salesman doesn't mean he can't do the best job possible and take pride in his work. Dad always told us that if he worked hard, my brother and I would have it a little better than my mom and dad did, just as they were a little better off than my grandparents were.
This was just an ordinary day though, and we didn't go to work with our dad. It was a school day.
After I knew what occurred that day, I laid awake nights wondering what may have happened if we had gone to work with him. I wondered if all that hard work would have meant nothing. I wonder today if my brother and I would ever have gone to college and gotten a degree -- something my dad was never able to do.
What happened that day was this. After a long day's work, dad decided to return to one of the drug stores he called on. He was just passing by and had to cash a check. I am sure he'd rather gone straight home, but he needed the money and he knew the pharmacist would take his check.
In a split second the ordinary day was about to change. At the very moment I was upset about not being able to play football, it was happening. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.
As my dad was walking back towards the pharmacy, a teenager approached him and told him to get down on the floor.
"Go out and play in the streets," was my father’s reaction. It had been a hard day and he wasn't in the mood for games. But this was no game.
As my father was pushed to the floor he realized that there were several men with guns. It was a robbery. My father’s belly kissed the tile floor, as his eyes tried to take in a description of the bandits. My dad noticed his pharmacist friend looking straight towards him with eyes that cried of fear.
Suddenly, the pharmacist scurried behind the counter as quickly as he could.
"Damn," my dad thought, "they're gonna shoot Joe."
Then one of the robbers yelled out, "What are you crazy? Let's go!"
He was talking to the teenager who first confronted my father.
In a few minutes it was all over. Everyone got up and the police were called. No one was hurt.
My dad went to his pharmacist friend and asked if he was alright. The pharmacist looked at my dad kind of strangely and asked, "Don't you know what happened?"
"Sure, he was going to shoot you," said dad.
"Me?" said the pharmacist. "That asshole had his gun pointed at your head from the minute you hit the floor. After the others got the money he cocked the gun. I ducked because I expected pieces of your brain to be splattered all over this place."
The only thing that saved my dad's life that day was the fact that one of the robbers saw what the other was about to do and pulled him off. My dad's life was spared because one jerk didn't want more trouble than he already had. Some asshole with a handgun played God. How dare he? He was Caesar, and for nothing more than a whim and a quick get-away he gave my father a thumbs up. I guess I should be thankful.
We knew from then on that whenever my dad asked for a hot cup of tea something must really be wrong. My dad likes to tell this story to his many friends. When someone gets a second chance in the movies it usually means a dramatic lifestyle change, a revelation of all things bright and beautiful. My father thought long and hard that night in the kitchen with his cup of tea.
His priorities never changed. Maybe he appreciates what he has more because of it. Maybe he tries harder to help others. But my brother and I are the ones whose lifestyle has changed.
I know now that the smell I relate to my father's hugs is a combination of a fresh shower and cheap aftershave. But I am thankful that I can still hug my dad. I know others who are thankful as well, but that smell is all mine. He's my dad.
You may say this is no hero, but to me he is.
© 1982 Philip M. DiComo
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| 50th Anniversary |
A FINAL WORD, TODAY: This was written almost 20 years ago now, and my dad has been retired for some time. Today, like others his age, he struggles with old age and its effects, and just like when I was in elementary school, my mom is right beside him supporting him in every way. Throughout my life, there have been certain constants about my dad. His big personality, his work-ethic, his seeing the best in others who many of us don't even see, his loudness, and his desire to do the right thing. He's human, not perfect, but yet I think he strives to be so. Today, he has good days and bad days, and on the good days I see the dad that I knew as a young boy, and then a young man. The dad that had no interest in most sports but when his son wanted to play baseball he bought every book he could find on coaching (I only discovered this many years later), the dad that worked extremely hard, and then got a night job as a security guard so his boys could go to college when he could not himself, the dad that picked up the slack when mom was sick (he became very good at doing the laundry but fast food was easier than cooking!). I am grateful that I grew up with a mom and dad that cared enough, loved enough and were stern enough (yes, even being grounded and missing my playoff football game when I was 11)--but mostly that they were never afraid to show it.
The greatest currency to a child is never money, but love.
UPDATE. June 28, 2024. Tonight
my dad succumbed to dementia and joined his parents in heaven. We
celebrate the life of a man who always loved outwardly, always was grinn’n, and above all else, was always cool in the motor pool, and never, ever gave a damn if no one like him. But everyone did.
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| Mom & Dad's Anniversary 2008 |
