"The Ties that Bind: Daddy"

My father was the classic Willy Loman type. Born into post-depression Oakland, California, he was the youngest of three sons. His father ditched out of the family, shortly after his birth, leaving him a bastard. With a lanky awkwardness, a cream and freckled skin, and red hair, dad blossomed into adolescence without knowing the strength of a man's spine or the gentleness of unconditional love. His attractive mother, whose steady eye pierced each tall gentleman who came along, spent her time in saloons and dance halls. She was sociable with strangers, as well as with her favored middle son. Thus, Dad spent his childhood alone, cruising his bicycle (a gift from his oldest brother) throughout the Oakland hills of numbered avenues and suburban villages. He graduated from the technical high school, immediately enlisting for a year of service. Fortunately, with the time being in between both of the great wars, dad was not called upon to serve in any exotic, foreign locale.
Instead, he returned to the backyard of his upbringing, where he set up a bachelor pad and began his lifelong career as a traveling insurance man. It was also in San Francisco where he and my mother were set up on a blind date. They spent their courtship period in bars, engaging in intoxicated, pedantic communion. Within a few years time, mom was pregnant. They eloped on the balcony of dad's penthouse, on Gary Street.
Early on, dad forthrightly admitted that he had little to no parenting skills, - for he had greatly lacked any role models as a young boy. Initially, he asked mom for help in this terrain. Mom, knowing only the control from which she had come (for she was raised underneath the heavy thumb of a teeming and raging alcoholic), easily took the reigns. She neglected to note that dad was asking for guidance. Rather, she heaped all of the roles and responsibilities of parenthood onto her own two, broad shoulders.
Years elapsed as dad worked, traveled, drank, and returned home to his growing family. Meanwhile, mom raised the children, a daughter was born after the first son, kept the home, and continued to work part time as a registered nurse. Communication between mother and father deteriorated as the

The Happy Hooker (Home, The Series, part V)

I had anticipated spending my high school years chasing varsity letters. As a natural athlete, I sought to continue my forays into the world of love and tennis. Rather, I auditioned for a performing arts marching group simply because this was what my best friend, at the time, wanted to do. I managed to make the team while she, however, did not and, by the end of our freshman year, she was pregnant.
Instead of chasing balls and running laps around the large suburban school, I spent my high school career as a member of the pageantry corps, - an odd mix of a drill team and a dance club. I was taught how to count hash marks on a football field, and how to keep time with the band. I mastered the art of gracefully tossing and catching flags, sabers, and rifles, into the air. I displayed my developing body daily, - in the quad and on the blacktop, during class and after school practices. And I deepened my experience with the ugly spitefulness of competition.
By the end of my fourth and final year, my flair for the dramatic had been sealed. During our last spring season, we flaunted our post-pubescent bodies in full-body, black spandex outfits, that had bell bottom cuffs made of black lace. Around our necks, and dangling from our ears, were strings of fake pearls. Our cunning and expertise on the basketball court had faltered over the years. Our three-song tribute to Pat Benatar played out like a heart-pounding wail interrupted by the consistent clanking of rifles hitting a wooden floor. Had our technical skills produced less drops and fumbles, we might have been able to salvage a diminishing reputation.
Becoming more and more frustrated, and eager to get out, of high school, the small town I had grown up within, and my parent's home, I continually spoke up about our lack of awards and accolades. I blamed our coach, a non-descript man who had spent the past three years creating the concepts and designs of our program.
On one particular Saturday, we performed at two separate venues. One was an early morning show located at a school two and a half hours north. The other was a late afternoon performance in southern San Diego, where we were allowed some down time for rest. During the reprieve, my two closest friends and myself headed over to a play structure on the school grounds where we met and flirted with a group of local boys.
Later that evening, as we took to the court of the gymnasium, Pat's voice began to belt out,
"We Belong
We Belong to the light
We Belong to the thunder
We Belong to the sound of the words
We've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace
For worse or for better
We Belong, We Belong
We Belong together"
and as I was jazz-running to the back line of the court, with a white rifle in my hand, I heard a popping sound. Immediately, I felt a singular, fake pearl gliding effortlessly down my neck. I looked up and into the rafters of the back audience where I found the rapt attention of the young boys whom my friends and I had just become acquainted with an hour before. Noting their riveted glances, I threw my outstretched arm up to my neck and I yanked the cheap necklace off of my body. I flung the broken line of opaque circles. They tumbled out of my hand, and onto the floor with a delicate clatter. They went scrambling underneath those same rafters, and I careened down to the black line, replacing a rifle for a flag. In a mere matter of seconds, I had switched equipment and I was back on the floor, sashaying my way back into another moment.