Our Day with Dad

My father is the single greatest influence on who I am. Growing up he was like John Wayne, Superman, and King Kong all rolled up into one. He was the center of attention in crowded rooms, simultaneously the funniest, smartest and toughest guy wherever he went. I tried so hard to please him. Literally everything that I did, was for his approval. I wanted to be as funny as him, as smart, as tough, I even wanted a belly just like him (something I have accomplished unfortunately).

As time went by I would start to pressure myself so hard to please him that I didn't enjoy anything I did. I quit baseball when it became apparent that I'd never be as good as him, and I'll never forget how disappointed he was. But that one time disappointment was better than an entire season's worth of them, at least in my eyes. What if I did try out for baseball in high school, but only made the freshman team? My father was starting varsity for four years, how could he have been proud of that?

The point is that my father's oppinion of me is to this day one of the driving factors in how I live my life. No one can hurt me the way that he can, and because of that I find myself trying to distance myself from him. A petty disagreement with him can illicit tears to start flowing from my eyes, so I stay away. My father's capacity for causing deep pain within my very soul, from all the times he sided with my brother over me, to all the hurtful things he has said to try to motivate me, has always kept me from completely opening up to him.

But some of the happiest moments of my life came from the times when he and I were on the same page. When we transcended the father/son dynamic and were friends. The days at theme parks when he would cut in line and act like a child, the Eagles games that we shared together, the hiking trips, even the long car rides with just me and dad. Those were the greatest times for me. The following story is of one of those days, when me and dad were just out for some fun. Hope you enjoy.

-Nick

Dad had been on the road working for months, and my brother and I were excited to have the day with him. When he suggested the three of us go to the driving range to hit a couple of buckets of golf balls, the two of us jumped at the chance (despite the contempt we both felt for the game of golf). The drive to the driving range was especially cheerful, the three of us singing along to some Beatles tunes, my father telling us the meanings of the lyrics in between songs. It couldn't get much better.

When we finally got to the driving range, after about a twenty minute drive of singing and laughing, dad set the two of us up with buckets and clubs. After taking some time to instruct us on the proper way to strike the balls, he took his buckets to his range and started launching the balls. I stopped and watched in wonder how effortlessly everything came to my father. A natural athlete, he picked up every athletic endeavor he attempted with ease and grace. My brother and I were lucky to get our balls off the ground, but we were just happy to be there with the old man.

Half-way through his bucket my little brother had started to find his groove, and thankfully so had I. We were really starting to make good contact when I noticed a change come over my father. His skin turned red and his face shiny with sweat. Through pained eyes he yelled at my brother and I, "Get in the car!!!".

I immediately complied, but my brother wasn't so sympathetic, "I still have balls left!"

"Now," my father bellowed in a voice that left no room for argument.

As my brother and I hurried to the car, my father looked odd. He was trying to move as fast as he could, but he looked so stiff, as if he couldn't bend the joints beneath his waist. We got into the car and buckled up, my father hit the gas and was out of the driving range, speeding down the two-lane street that would take us home. When dad got the car into fifth gear and started hovering around the 80 mph mark, I finally had to ask, "D-Dad w-w-wwhats wrong?"

"Oh I gotta shit, please God let me make it home!", my father replied shaking back and forth almost in a trance.

My brother and I were relieved that it wasn't more serious and started to laugh as my father weaved in and out of traffic at break neck speed. All the way home my father continued his mantra, "please God let me make it, please God let me make it....."

As we approached the house, my brother started stating his need to pee, and taunting my father that he would beat him to the bathroom, my father gravely warned him, "Son, I love you, but don't even think about getting in my way!" The warning would have worked on me.

When we finally made it to the driveway my brother quickly lept out of the car and started to strut down the walkway to our house, my father fumbled with the car keys and dived out of the car. One clubbing forearm to my brother's skinny shoulder sent the boy flying out of the way. My father was at the front door to our house before my brother landed. I heard him let out the loudest string of profanities I had ever heard as he fumbled for the right key, finally letting out a triumphant yell when he got the door open. He made it to the bathroom and let out an almost orgasmic moan, I thought that was the end of it.

Ten minutes later as I sat on the couch watching television with my sore little brother, the bathroom door opened, followed by my father's voice, "Nick, come over here, you have to see this."

"No"

"C'mon son, you have to see this"

"I really don't want to dad, please I'll take your word for it."

"Get over here NOW!"

Well that tone convinced me, and I angrilly complied. When I got to the door of the bathroom, at first my mind couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. Why was my father's shirt off? How did shit get on the side of the toilet? How did shit get on the mirror next to the toilet? What was shit doing on the wall facing the toilet? Oh my God, what is shit doing on the ceiling?

My father started laughing as soon as he saw my befuddled reaction to what I was looking at. Then I started laughing. Apparently when my father sat down on the toilet his shirt was still hanging over his ass, when he let out his first wave of explosive diarrhea, he realized that his shirt was in the line of fire, and wondered to himself if had just shit on his shirt. To answer the question he quickly pulled his shirt over his head, the sound of splatters that filled the room answered his question. What he had managed to do, was to spread and splatter his bowel movement to every corner of the bathroom. Once he had explained how he did it, I left the area before vomiting, and excitedly called my brother in to see the devastation my father had left.

Later in the night, after my father had finished cleaning his mess, my mother came home. After recanting the story to her in full detail, my mother was nonplussed. Stonefaced her only reaction was, "You know Nick, I have never heard of anyone who shits themselves more than your father."

Nick Romano