Dear Father, Dear Son

  DEAR FATHER, DEAR SON

  TWO LIVES… EIGHT HOURS

  NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING AUTHOR

  L A R RY E L D E R

  DEAR FATHER, DEAR SON

  WND Books

  Washington, D.C.

  Copyright © 2012

  Larry Elder

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

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  First Edition

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-936488-45-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-936488-97-1

  Library of Congress information available

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO RANDOLPH ELDER. THANK YOU.

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE: EN ROUTE

  1 “I Don’t Enjoy It”

  2 Normal Was Hate

  3 On the Receiving End

  4 “I’ll Give You Something to Cry About”

  5 The Temptations

  6 “Don’t Let the Door Hit You In the Ass”

  7 Elder’s Snack Bar

  8 That Friday

  PART TWO: THE TALK

  9 The Beginnin’

  10 A Hard-Ass Life

  11 “Something Made the Man Close Up”

  12 His Life and Times

  13 “You’re a Lot Like Me”

  14 “Would You Do Things Different?”

  15 Shit Happens, So Deal With It

  16 Good Friends

  17 “She’s Something”

  18 “Not As Tough As You Think”

  19 Way Back Home

  20 “Nobody Fucks With My Family”

  21 “You Weren’t Like Your Brother”

  PART THREE: POSTSCRIPT

  22 Détente

  23 Kirk and Dad

  24 Dad Lightens Up

  25 Dad’s New Car

  26 Dad and Friends—Lost and Gained

  27 Dad and Dennis

  28 Dad Never Learned to Hate

  29 Carrying On

  30 “Things Fallin’ Apart”

  31 “Goodnight”

  Acknowledgments

  PART ONE

  EN ROUTE

  1

  “I DON’T ENJOY IT”

  His face was hard. Not just his expression, but his skin. It, too, was hard—sandpaper hard.

  When we were little kids, before the whippings started, we would jump in his lap when he came home from work. I would put my arms around his thick neck and hug him. But when I kissed his cheek, his skin was so rough it hurt my lips. “This must be why,” I thought, “Mom never kisses Dad.”

  I’d never seen them kiss. Not a peck on the cheek. Not a pat on the behind. Not an air kiss. Not an accidental bump—even when they squeezed through the narrow aisles at Dad’s restaurant. Not a smile or a hug or even a shrug from Mom when he walked in from work. They never held hands either.

  When my older brother Kirk started shaving, the razor made his face bleed and break out into ugly pink and white bumps, mostly on his neck and under his chin. It embarrassed him so much that he made excuses to get out of going to school. No matter what kind of shaver he tried, the blade did something hideous to his skin. He finally discovered Magic Shave, a formulated-for-black-men chemical cream depilatory with a God-awful smell. Though it was time-consuming to mix the powder with water in an old coffee cup, carefully spread the paste on his face, and scrape it off with a butter knife, it worked. Kirk’s skin slowly improved. But his face remained scarred for years.

  “I don’t have time for that mess,” Dad said when Mom recommended Magic Shave.

  Dad had had the same problem when he started shaving. His face erupted and scabbed. Still, every day he used the same razor, conquering the bumps by turning them into blisters, and the blisters, over the years, into a scratchy, dry leather. After each shave, he picked up a bottle of green aftershave, poured some in his hand, and splashed his face. Mom told us that the stuff stung like hell and burned his face. Dad never flinched.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are approaching the Los Angeles International Airport. The captain has switched on the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign.”

  I looked down from the plane at the soaring arches of the Theme Building at LAX. I smiled. My two brothers and I used to call it the “Jetsons’s Building” because of the cartoon show about the happy, futuristic Jetson family with its hapless but loveable husband and father.

  I remembered when Mom told us about the “rotating” restaurant at the top.

  “Can we eat there?” we asked. “Please? Can we? Please?”

  “Someday,” she always said. “Someday.” Someday meant never. Someday meant when horses quack. I know now that we simply couldn’t afford to spend money on something so frivolous, but she would never say such a thing. Dad just said, “No. And don’t ask again.”

  In a half-hour, counting the time to pick up luggage, I would be on my way to the diner.

  I hated my father—really, really hated him. I hated working for him and hated being around him. I hated it when he walked through the front door at home. And we feared him from the moment he pulled up in front of the house in his car.

  Back then, cars had “curb feelers,” little coiled wires that stuck out from the wheel well or the bottom of the car on the passenger side, to tell parking drivers their distance from the curb. As soon as we heard the grinding sound of metal against cement, one of us would say, “He’s home.” Immediately everything changed. Everyone, including my mother, got quieter.

  When Dad walked through the front door, he was usually scowling—a massive, dark hulk. He sat in his green lounge chair, “Dad’s chair,” where no one else was allowed to sit. My mother never even sat there. He opened the evening paper and often fell asleep, the paper spread across his chest. I would signal to my brothers, point at our father, and hold my index finger to my mouth.

  “Shu-u-u-u-ush. He’s asleep.”

  Kirk and Dennis nodded, and from three rambunctious kids, we turned into three little kittens tiptoeing around the junkyard dog as though there was a sign that read: “Guard Dog On Duty. Do Not Disturb.”

  One night, my little brother and I took a bath together. I was five. Dennis was fifteen months younger. We started a water fight—throwing, splashing, kicking, and ducking. The floor was soaked. Dirty bath water dripped from the ceiling and the walls. We laughed and started to wipe the water up when Dennis suddenly stopped and stared past me. I slowly turned around.

  There stood Dad.

  This time, he had the telephone cord. He grabbed me, held me dripping wet and naked in the air, and fired away. Dennis shook and waited his turn.

  “Dad, please, no.” He begged. “We were just playing, Dad. Dad, we’ll clean it up! No! No! Please!”

  The louder we hollered, the harder he swung. Our welts were visible for days.

  My father, we always believed, punished us because he was angry, not because we’d done something bad, or at least bad enough to warrant punishment this severe. Dad just stomped around the house pissed off—a six-foot, 220-pound powder keg with a sho
rt and completely unpredictable fuse.

  “I don’t enjoy whippin’ you,” he said, finally putting down the telephone cord, watching us still shaking and whimpering. “No, I don’t enjoy it at all.”

  2

  NORMAL WAS HATE

  “Pico Boulevard near Figueroa,” I told the cab driver.

  The place was Elder’s Snack Bar at 1230 Valencia Street.

  My father somehow managed to start the tiny café sixteen years earlier with savings from the two jobs he worked as a janitor. He’d long talked about “bein’ my own boss.” He did it. He worked even longer hours. The pressure to make the café succeed made him even angrier and made us fear him even more.

  Had it really been ten years? It was time. I needed to say something to him. I didn’t care how he would react or what, if anything, he would say. What could he say? He treated us like shit. And I’d finally grown a pair and intended to tell him what a mean son-of-a-bitch he was.

  My hatred for my father was not the kind where you do something bad, get a spanking, seethe for a bit, and then things go back to normal because, after all, you understand that he punishes you because he loves you. No, normal was intimidation. Normal was tense. Normal was not knowing whether you would say something that would set him off. And that could be anything. Normal was hate.

  “Kirk! Larry! You stop that,” Mom called from the window one evening.

  We were “sword fighting,” using branches off the big bush in the yard next door. We were pretending to be pirates and we weren’t ready to stop. Dad wasn’t home yet so we had a grace period before Mom got really mad.

  “Boys! Put those things down! You’re gonna put somebody’s eye out!”

  We kept playing.

  “You two get in here this minute!” she hollered.

  “When we’re ready,” Kirk said defiantly.

  “Yeah,” I said, raising the ante. “When we’re good and ready.”

  What’s the worst that can happen? We’ll eventually come in. She’ll spank us—she didn’t hit very hard—and if we “cry” hard enough, she won’t even tell Dad.

  “When we’re good and ready,” Kirk repeated. “And don’t ask again.”

  Suddenly that deep, angry voice slashed through the summer evening air.

  “How dare you talk to your mother like that?” he shouted. “Now get your little black asses in here right now. I will … straighten … you … out!”

  Dad! Jesus, how did he sneak home? What happened to the early warning from his curb feelers?

  “I said, get in here right now! And I’m goin’ to take care of you two! You think you’re grown. I’ll show you who’s grown!”

  Kirk looked at me. I looked at Kirk. He took off! I followed. We ran from the house, down the street, and around the corner, pumping as hard as we could.

  “You come back here! You come back here right now!” Dad yelled. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get back here right now!”

  By now, we had gone too far. We were committed. Dad charged out of the house and ran toward us. How could somebody that big and that old run that fast? But our lead was too big.

  Now what? We had run away from home!

  Kirk and I made plans. We would move to Huntsville and live on the farm where Mom grew up and talked about someday returning to live. But we didn’t know where Huntsville was, had never been there before, and our parents wouldn’t even let us cross the street. Wherever Huntsville was, we’d have to cross the street to get there. So Huntsville was out.

  I knocked on a neighbor’s door.

  “Would you cook for me?” I asked the mother of a classmate. She told me she had her hands full taking care of her own family, and that I’d have better luck getting fed if I went back home.

  “Can’t,” I said. “I ran away from home. My father is going to whip me.”

  She told me that running away wasn’t the answer. Oh, no? Let her try getting whipped by my father.

  I never dreamed I’d say the words, “I ran away from home.” That’s something other kids did. No one refused to obey my father. This was uncharted territory. I was afraid to keep running, but I was much more afraid to go home.

  Kirk and I had now been gone for a good half hour. We kept circling the block, making plans for the future.

  “Maybe we can keep walking until Dad goes to sleep, then gets up, and goes to work,” I said. “And he’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “Maybe I can be a lifeguard,” Kirk said.

  “Maybe I can dig for gold,” I said.

  But that seemed like a limited career choice, too. Not being able to cross the street was a huge problem because I had never seen any gold on our side. Nothing seemed workable, and to make matters worse, we were getting hungry. Maybe we should have eaten before we ran away.

  We walked around another corner. Dad!

  He’d leapt from behind a parked car. How did we not see him crouching down there? He ran at us. I ran as fast as I had ever run, but this time he quickly closed the gap. Kirk raced way ahead of me and got farther and farther away. I was alone.

  As Dad’s hand got closer, I had only one hope—I needed to cross the street.

  I ran to the curb. But before I stepped off, he grabbed my t-shirt and jerked me back. Kirk was now a little bug running in the dark.

  “Boy, I know you wasn’t goin’ in the street!”

  I cried and told him I wasn’t.

  “Boy, don’t you lie to me! You were goin’ in the street, and don’t tell me you wasn’t.”

  The indictment had suddenly been amended to include not only running away, but attempted street crossing and perjury. Kirk kept running.

  “Dad,” I said, as he marched me back home. “Please don’t whip me. You’re right. I tried to cross the street.”

  I tried to bargain for a lesser sentence. Technically, I hadn’t actually crossed it since he snatched me before I did.

  “Please don’t whip me.”

  He kept walking.

  “I won’t do it again.”

  Nothing.

  I offered to go back and help with Kirk’s capture.

  Nothing.

  “I know all his hiding places,” I said.

  Then I had an idea. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  “Dad, you know all the money I have in my piggy bank?”

  Home, The Belt, and a massive whipping were just minutes away.

  “If you don’t whip me, I’ll give it to you.”

  He stopped.

  “Boy, you tryin’ to bribe me?”

  I didn’t know what a bribe was, but gave myself a 50/50 shot of correctly answering the question.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m trying to bribe you. And I have enough money to bribe Mom, too.”

  It was the hardest whipping I ever had.

  Dad then got in his car and drove off to find the other fugitive—for Kirk had done the unthinkable. He had crossed the street. And once he crossed one street, he crossed several more. Was he on his way to Huntsville?

  Dad found him several blocks away, and pulled in a driveway to block Kirk. My brother turned and ran the other way. Dad jumped out of the car, slamming the door shut so hard that the window shattered. He stopped, turned around, and looked at the broken glass. How much was that going to cost?

  “Look at what you did!” he yelled at Kirk. “Dammit, look at what you did!”

  “I’m dead,” Kirk thought. No point in surrendering now. He kept running. Dad had never been this mad.

  It was a good two hours before Dad caught him. Kirk was screaming when Dad, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, hauled him into the house.

  “Do you how many times this boy crossed the street?” Dad hollered to Mom.

  He said he caught Kirk hiding behind a bush, but Kirk later told Dennis and me that he decided to turn himself in. “’Else,” Kirk bragged like a defeated boxer who went the distance, “Dad wouldn’t ’a caught me.”

  “This is all your
fault!” I pointed at Kirk as Dad dragged him across the floor to the dresser, where he opened the top drawer and pulled out The Belt.

  “Boy, shut up!” Dad said. “Would you jump off a bridge if your brother told you? Don’t make me have to whip you again.”

  3

  ON THE RECEIVING END

  My father and I had not talked to each other since “That Friday” in the café. He didn’t know I was in town. I didn’t call him. This will be the first meaningful conversation with my father in ten years—unless you count, “How about those Rams?” “How about those Dodgers?” Or, “Is it still raining?” It had been a long, hard, cold war.

  Watching the familiar streets outside the taxicab window, I thought about the night I went to jail. I never once thought about calling him to get me out. I knew that even before hearing my version of what happened, he would side with the cops and say that I got what I deserved for “mouthin’ off.”

  “Why in God’s name does anybody but a fool end up in jail?” I knew he would have said. “I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen and I’ve never been to jail. What’s your excuse?”

  It’s funny now, three years later. But that night, it was as if Dad willed the arrest to humiliate me. Hell, one cop even accused me of the same thing—“mouthing off.” And it didn’t help that I had done just that. I was in Hollywood and I crossed the street against a blinking “don’t walk” sign. Two cops stood on the corner. One used his index finger to tell me to approach him. He accused me of illegally crossing the street—a recurring theme in my life, apparently—and asked for ID.

  “I don’t have any ID,” I said.

  Question asked. Question answered. But did I stop there? No. This is what happens after two years of law school: “I’m a pedestrian,” I told the cop. “I’m not operating a motor vehicle. This isn’t the Soviet Union. I’m not required to have ID. Perhaps you and your partner should be concentrating on doing something about crime.”

  “Smartass, ’eh?” the officer said. “You’re going to jail, motherfucker.”