A Search for a Loving God Part Xl

My dad had tried to visit me once during my years at the boy’s ranch, but was turned away. When in custody of my grandparents he had told them I didn’t deserve to live and he should kill me. I acted brave, but one night when my grandfather was grappling for the string in the kitchen to turn on the light I started screaming. He realized I was more scared than I wanted to admit, and until I was put in the boy’s ranch he made a pallet on the floor beside his bed & had me sleep there. Now at 17 years of age my dad comes by and wants me to accompany him on a trip from Dallas to Austin to visit a friend.

The trip from Dallas to Austin was uneventful and was actually quiet. The friend we were to visit was in a mental institution, and I was never able to understand their relationship. They allowed her a pass, and we took her to eat at a Mexican restaurant. She and my dad chatted while I mentally escaped into the sights outside the restaurant window. She was not a pretty lady. She was sloppily dressed, overweight, and didn’t look to be too clean. She also had a large mole on her face with long hairs growing from it, and I couldn’t look at her and stomach my food. I felt bad that I felt that way, but I couldn’t escape or change it.

The time dragged by and after an agonizing three hours we dropped his friend off and started out trip home. The trip back to Dallas would be a complete contrast to the quiet ride to Austin. Dad had to stop for a couple of beers before we headed out, and we took a different return route than the one we had come down on. Dad said it was the scenic route, but he should have called it a drunkard’s route. We must have stopped at every lounge, tavern, and bar there was between Austin and Dallas. I have never seen the drinker’s route on any map, but it seems my dad knew it well.

We stopped just outside Temple at what is known as the crossroads. The crossroads is the county line and the only place for thirty miles that alcohol is sold. There are several dives to choose from and my dad chose a fine establishment where the lights didn’t need to be dimmed, the smoke that lay heavy around the room would accomplish that very well.

Dad found himself a seat at the bar, and was soon embellishing himself with the nectar of his God. There were two empty pool tables and to pass the time I inserted my quarter racked them up and shot some balls. Two soldiers entered the bar and one walked over to the table and says, “Shoot a game for a beer” I shook my head no, and informed him I was too young to drink. He says, “Shoot a game for a dollar” I said no it’s my table, you win you can have the table, but my dad turns on his barstool and says, “I’ll cover his dollar. The guy inserted his quarter and racked them up.

I broke, and nothing fell. He dropped three or four balls before I was given another opportunity to shoot. I made another well intentioned attempt, but again nothing dropped. The soldier them ran all his balls and called the eight in the side pocket. He shot and the eight dropped in the called pocket, but the cue ball rolled into the corner pocket. The soldier looks at me with a smile and says, “Ok where is my dollar?” I looked at him and said, “I not a dummy, you may have run the table but a scratch on the eight ball is a loss.” He says, I want my dollar and he starts walking my way. I raised my cue stick and would have stood my ground, but my dad spun in his barstool, pitched the guy a dollar, and yells at me, “Come on, we’re leaving”

I had driven once or twice and was not proficient, but dad pitched me the keys and says, you’re driving. I eased across the graveled parking lot and onto the two lane black top. Dad started growling at me calling me a punk, and a trouble maker. I sat silent and concentrated on driving. I was doing the speed limit, and he called me a mama’s boy, and a sissy, and instructed me to drive like a man. He hollered for me to drive faster, and I eased on the accelerator, but it wasn’t fast enough to appease him. I recalled times when I was very young when he would drive a hundred miles per hour screaming “Are you afraid?” I eased on the gas some more, but again not to his satisfaction. He continued to berate me yelling how I was raised by a woman making snide remarks about my manhood. I sped up more and the last I looked the odometer revealed I was driving ninety five miles per hour. He yells, “Scared boy?” I said no. He then again called me a punk and said I didn’t deserve to live, and says, “I’m gonna kill you.”

Dad attacked me hitting me on the side of the head, but all could think about was getting the car stopped and pulled over safely. I kept him at bay with one hand while guiding the car with the other. I’m not sure how I did it, but I managed to get the car pulled to the side of the road, and stopped. I then gave dad my undivided attention. I may have yelled, “:we’ll see who kills who. “ I overpowered him and had him draped over the front seat holding him with my left hand while pounding away with my right. Everything happened so fast I couldn’t keep up with details, but somehow he managed to get out the passengers door and start running down the highway.

I eased out of the car and watched as he ran stumbling, falling, getting up and falling again. He was crying like a baby and screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to help him, Yelling, “Please help me, he is gonna kill me” Earlier, years of anger kicked down the walls and rushed forth in a flurry of fury. Now, I walked slowly watching my dad, and all I saw was an angry little kid that had never grown up. All my hatred and anger was washed away and a feeling of peace wrapped me like a blanket. I walked up to dad, and he looks at me his eyes filled with tears and fears, and flinches like he thinks I’m going to hit him. I reached down, lifted him up and just held him close. I said, come on lets go, and I walked him to the car and helped him in.

The time was late and per my dads request we drove to his mothers to spend the night. The next day I’m awakened by he and my grandmother talking over their morning coffee, and he was telling her he had fallen down some stairs. I got up and walked into the dining room, and couldn’t believe when I saw my dads face how badly I had beaten him. I was saddened looking at him, and the pain of hitting him was more than all the pain his hands had ever caused me. I still bear the scars his hands carved in me, and a blind right eye from a backhand, but I would add a couple of more if it took away my fist from hitting him. On the other hand I may never have been given the picture of him I saw that night, and may to this day carry around anger and hatred.