Stumbling through the indoor pool’s slippery and stained floor of our local YMCA pool, I found my brother and I barging our way to the locker room in a meandering manner, such that we had all the time in the world to get dressed. If only, if only, that were true. Time is compelling, needless to say.

Once gauging ourselves with our supplies conveniently packed into a ragged Wal-Mart grocery bag, we pushed through the double doors of the pool, with anticipation in hand of a coffee from the machine down the hall. It was night, late evening if you will, for it is difficult to assume with daylight savings approaching. In our opposing direction, as we reached the double doors that led outside, our father stomped his anger induced way towards us, filled with rage, contempt, and dare I say, hate. It was fairly sudden. We didn’t see it coming. Not at all.

He tugged at my brother’s ear, or should I say, almost ripped the entire cartilage piece off in such a manner that my brother could’ve been weeping just then. But he’s a strong kid. A mighty soldier, he is. From then on, the ravaged father literally chased us out of the YMCA entrance with quicksteps almost unlike him, since his mannerisms were quite slow themselves.

From the pressured walk through the parking lot to our car, he continued to blast off the words,”FUCK YOU TWO! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING?! WHAT THE FUCK TOOK YOU SO LONG?!! FUCK YOU TWO!” in an almost psychologically damaging, demeaning way, that it could cause scar tissue psychologically and mentally. I continued to sigh, effortlessly, as this has happened all too many times before. My brother simple stared out at the distance of the parking lot, with furrowed eyebrows, as if implying if there’s another world than this kind we’ve been befuddled within. As always, our father, with his impatience, could never take the time to watch the grass grow. Or, anything less than that, actually. I mean, can one at least spare their son’s 10 minutes to get dressed? Honestly.

The world may not know. The world may not even assume, judge, or come to conclusion, that my father, through his sincere attempts at the public, is not the man they may see. For under his $500 sunglasses, under his Levi jeans, under his blank, yet still stern face, is a cold figure. An incompetent statue that his family wishes he would finally break the mold of, since impressing the public with polite mannerisms yet still managing to ridicule his family is all too hypocritical. He’s a hypocrite, blatantly stated.

We loaded into our truck. The ride home had a veil of eerie silence. It was more than eerie, yet welcomed, since anything BUT his cursing, yelling, and immature attempts at cheering us up (honestly, how is saying,”FUCK YOU!” any more positive than a,”Well, things will get better.”). Yet, I wish this was so. All too much.

Once creeping up our community, as my brother and I glanced at him absently, after he dished out the most cold words I have ever come across in my world of MTV trash talking shows and questionable PG-13 movie content.

“Never have children. They make your live miserable. You two, were mistakes.”

How cold that man is. How impatient that man is. And how WRONG that man is.

Cross post from my various other blogging platforms. Reason being: I needed an entry, and this sounded blog-worthy.