The Trouble with Being Born: A Novel

Father

116 “Goddamn kids! Get off my fucking grass!” Day after day they have to play on my lawn. “I should have never moved here Frances, I should have never moved here.” I can’t get any rest. “I never should have married you, Frances, never should have married you. I don’t care; I don’t care who can hear me. Let ’em hear, these fucking neighbors, what do I care?” I never should have married her, look how fat she is. “Look how fat you are. You must weigh three hundred pounds. I’m going to leave you, Frances. Leave you and that weak son of yours.” Where is Jeff? Is he playing next door? Two against one, all the time. Two against one. I’ll put the hose on those kids, that’ll stop them. I have a right to water my own yard. Look at what they’re doing to the grass. “Play in your own yard. I know that’s your yard, but this is my yard. This is my property. I have a right to water my own yard. Play in your own goddamn yard.” Smart-aleck kids. Goddamn punks. No respect. “Listen you smart-ass kids, from the driveway to here is my property, and I don’t want you ruining my lawn. Go to the park to play.” “I’m crazy? I’m a crazy man?!! What are you, you smart-ass punks? Where are your parents? Go home. Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone. And stay off of my grass!” That negro boy, what is his name? I never liked him. I never liked any of them. Father 117 father Especially their fucking parents. The cowboy next door with his dogs, barking barking every time I go outside. I could strap his daughters, though. Especially the older one. Buttanas. Hippies . I got to get off this block. Where’s Jeff? “Frances, where’s Jeff? JEFF. JEFF. Where is he? Frances, answer me. ANSWER ME! Where’s that son of yours?” When my father called, we came quick, or else we got smacked. A weak kid, that Jeff. A dreamer. Always moping around. The moper, that’s what I call him, the moper. “Frances, where’s the moper? What’s he doing downstairs? I need him to drag hoses. Jeff. JEFF. Come up here, I need you to drag hoses. I’ve been working since six o’clock. I can’t do all this work by myself.” I’m tired, I’m tired. Goddamn this door. Open up you son of a bitch, open up. I need to fix this fucking door. You’d think Jeff would fix it, the lazy kid. Always moping around, reading. Or listening to that goddamn music. He’s got no ambition, no initiative. He looks like a goddamn question mark. The question mark I call him. “Move that hose over there, by the ash pit. Not there. There. THERE. Stand up straight. Move this one and the one in the front in fifteen minutes. Whatya mean, you won’t move the one in front? Your friends, your friends. They’re just a bunch of punk kids, your friends. They called me a crazy man. Get out of here, then. Go back inside and help your mother. Mama’s boy. The question mark. The moper.” Fucking punks, still at it with their football. “Ah shut up you fucking dog. SHUT UP.” Everything’s against me, even the dogs. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a spineless child, a dead-end job, can’t sell real estate in Pueblo, everybody’s leaving Pueblo, no money, maybe I can borrow some from Chuck at Texaco, he can put it on my credit card. I should have stayed in law school. I should have stayed back east. Married some nice Italian girl, had a bunch of children, children with respect. I’m going downstairs, where it’s 118 father cool, to rest. Look at this mess. Unfinished basement, concrete walls, naked light bulbs, laundry on the lines, it’s like a prison down here. I’m in exile. But it’s cool and I’m tired. I got up at five this morning. I can’t sleep at night. I’ll lie down for a while. God I’m tired. God, what’s He done for me? No wonder I don’t go to church. I believe...