Dad Memories: You Snooze You Lose

I’ve created my own Father’s Day routine since my dad has passed away back in 2005. I listen to The Living Years, watch Big Fish and reread The Heartbreak of Breathing, a short story I wrote about his passing. Yes, I cry. It’s OK. And it’s actually not that uncommon. Lots of things make me cry, including – but not limited to – most Monk episodes, Ron Artest’s psychiatrist-thanking speech, and watching Last Comic Standing episodes. But I consciously make an effort to remember my dad and try to recall things about him that I haven’t thought about in a while. As you may know, I credit him for my sense of humor. Thankfully, I credit mom for my looks [bazinga]. Anyway, I’ve already chronicled in this website many of the things I remember very vividly about my father (note the Father’s Day section on the top right). Well each day this week, I’ll chronicle another memory of him that I haven’t shared with the greater public (Tom – and apparently Nichol. Hi and thanks for reading) on this website yet.

You Snooze You Lose

I believe I can link the fall of the American dollar and the economic depression of the 80s to the invention of the snooze alarm. Instantly, the entire country stopped getting the rest they needed AND no longer showed up to work or the school bus stop on time. It was a downward spiral of unproductivity we knew we were in and yet could not escape, like a spider being flushed down a low to middle class toilet. I was one such victim of the fad. And as our house was quite small, so was my family. The ear-splitting siren would sound and I’d usually be able to get to it before the third deafening beep. Whether I would stay awake or fall back asleep was dictated by a randomly generated Schrodinger-type experiment in my head.

My mother would come in to make sure I was getting ready for school because she was not only a good mother, but also because she didn’t want me to have to ride my bike to school, thus making her feel guilty. But she was too sweet to get me up permanently. And I was a good sleeper. She would come in after about 2 or 3 snoozes. If I ever made it to round 4, that’s when dad would show up. Not as sweet and always a lot angry that he was awoken 4 or 5 times in a row in the morning at seemingly random 9 minute increments. Like Tony Montana-type anger. So I rarely let it get that far.

But one such morning, I was apparently incredibly tired. As stated before, this alarm was so terrifyingly loud, I have nightmares about it still. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Well on this particular morning, I made it to the 4^th snooze. It was Scarface time. But this time, I was completely asleep. My head was inches from this Three Mile Island alarm and people in neighboring counties were putting pillows over their heads. My father came storming in, as the alarm was likely going off for possibly 50 mind-melting beeps in a row. You wanna fuck with me? Okay. You wanna play rough? Okay. Say hello to my little friend!

I was awoken with mixed feelings of confusion, guilt and a terror I wouldn’t feel again until I went skydiving, which hasn’t even happened yet. Realizing the alarm was going off and I had miraculously slept through it, I saw a look of frustrated confusion on Tony’s face. I couldn’t tell you if I thought he expected me to be awake and jamming to the beeps or downstairs and unaware of the alarm. I prefer to think the latter, since he seemed perplexed that I was asleep in the room, which means that his tirade was meant specifically for that alarm clock. It would be a while before I would sleep passed the alarm again, mostly because I couldn’t fall asleep in that house for three months. To this day, when I hear that beep from an alarm clock, part of me expects Tony to come bursting through whatever hotel or guest room door I’m in. I never fucked anybody over in my life didn't have it coming to them. You got that? All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don't break them for no one. Do you understand? Miss you, dad.

Busted Dustin

Busted Dustin

So I went to a storytelling show last night where the theme was “Coming of Age.” People told stories about their weddings and proms, and since I never had a wedding or prom, I thought of what story I would tell. I was tempted to tell the story of the time I lost my virginity, but the current person I’m having sex with was there and I didn’t want to make the evening as painful and awkward as the actual night I lost my virginity. So I prepared a slightly less painful and awkward story. And it was good that I did because they called me to go up on stage to tell it. And so I recalled with as much detail as I could the first time I was caught making out with a girl in a public park after dark by the police. And yes, I said first.

Check out the actual footage from the Speakeasy show where I told this story.

Now I was 17 when this happened and I’ve since lived an entire other 17 years, so this story that I’m about to tell you will be a good mixture of actual events, exaggerated details and completely fabricated lies, some I’ve told myself for years and some I’m intentionally telling you now and I’ll let you sort it out in your head.

When you’re in high school and your girlfriend and you both live with your parents, it’s tough to find a place and time to make out. You either need to wait for them to leave, find a friend whose parents aren’t home, won’t notice or don’t care (and that’s a little weird even for me), or go outside. And so we just got in the car without a real plan. But first I needed to get the car.

“Mom, can I borrow the car?”

“Sure honey, where are you going?”

“Um… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know? Why are you taking your blanket?”

“I love you too.”

And off I went to pick her up. Now here’s where my memory gets a little hazy. It was a nice summer night and we ended up at Bridgeport Park, where I had played many a youth baseball game in my day. And I was about to get to second base once again (hehe). I remember that we were in the beginning stages of making out when we saw a car driving along this dirt path that ran across the park. I remember thinking that it was probably in our best interests to lie down to the ground as flat as we possibly could. Like we were one with the grass. I also remember thinking that maybe we should have done a better job of hiding the car instead of parking it completely alone right near the entrance to the park. Thankfully, it looked like the car was going to pass us and we could resume our activities. It was just then that we saw the car turn 90 degrees right toward us. And there were the two normal headlights and then a third one on the driver’s side by the mirror to signify that this was either a cop or a really dedicated particpant in the middle of a game of flashlight tag.

The gig was up. We were caught. It was time to salvage what dignity we could. She had already taken off her shirt and I believe her bra was partially unbuckled, probably by her out of frustration of my ineptitude to do it myself. I was completely naked. Because we of course all know how much more patience boys have when it comes to matters of this nature. So she was already completely clothed by the time the police got to us. I, however, was shirtless and had put my shorts on backwards. If there’s ever an excuse to put your shorts on backwards gentlemen, this is it. I did of course still have my shoes on, because we of course all know how much more patience boys have when it comes to matters of this nature.

So the cop drives up and the first thing he says is “Maam, are you OK.” This is a great first question to ask for obvious reasons, but a question I was nonetheless unprepared for, having already resolved myself to do all the talking.

“Yes, she’s fine” I heard myself say a little before I thought about the implications of that statement.

“Sir, I’m not speaking to you” he said, obviously agitated.

“Fine then, I’m not speaking to you either.”

Now, the humor implicit in that statement became completely irrelevant very quickly. It’s possible my thought process was distracted by the question of whether or not I should bother zipping up the back of my shorts, because I certainly wasn’t going to walk anywhere like this. Thank the Gods of Calmer Heads that my girlfriend decided to speak up and tell the officer that she was OK and there of her own free will. He then asked for her name, to which she said “Penny.” The amazing part is that her name was Veronica. I have no idea how she pulled that off so fluidly. I was so taken aback that when the officer asked for my name, I completely panicked and told him the truth. 8,000 other boy's names in the world and they all escaped me at the moment I needed access to them more than ever.

The officer then informed us that we were not to be in the park after dark and we should “take it somewhere else.” As previously discussed, our options were limited, though I’m happy the officer still condoned our actions on some level, just asking that they not happen in his jurisdiction. Besides the lack of options, I could tell the mood was killed at this point. For her. I, of course was already scouting out other public parks or patches of soft ground not directly alongside a major road in my head. No need to waste a perfectly good blanket. But the night was over. And more than anything else, that was the night I learned that I could not lie to save my life in pressure situations and I could also never trust Veronica or whatever the hell her name is again .

Parking and parking,

Busted Dustin.

Still Standing Right Here… QOTD credits: Mike DeStefano – (For saying “I’m not speaking to you either” in 7th grade to Mr. Sindaco)