After Mom died my older brother Jerry and I try to make it a point to dedicate Saturdays mornings to linking up at the folk’s place for coffee and breakfast with Dad. Now, I wouldn’t say our Dad is lonely by any means; rather, his thick skin and raspy disposition paired with is quirky attitude and high-on-life mentality keeps him going. Our stopping by is simply a chance for him to vent about world issues or gas prices, or to offer his opinion on our non-American-made cars or my brother Jerry’s latest ex-girlfriend.
Saturdays are agreeably referred to as “coffee and tall tales time,” we like to say. The “tall tales” bit is merely a kind way of teasing the old man’s assortment of stories, anecdotes, and vignettes, which, for the most part, seem so matter-of-fact that we simply could not accept them for any less than truth. Still, we found it obligatory to ensure that he maintained the impression that we somehow held disbelief in his yarns; however, this was false. We believed them all.
A Friday night text from my brother Jerry: “hey u comn 2 dads tomorrow? He wants 2 talk dating with me & im not doing it alone. U in?”
“u bet I am! LOL” I texted in response. I figured it was going to be good.
“Dad, what in the hell are you talking about? Just when was the last time you flirted with a girl?” My brother Jerry. He’s usually the instigator; I just follow the lead. This Saturday’s instance: Dad finding out through the grapevine that my middle-aged brother Jerry was recently single… again.
“Well… yesterday in fact m’boy!” Dad leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his cup of coffee, turns his head to me, and winks. I wide-eye Jerry who is now leaning half-way over the table in practiced skepticism.
“Yesterday!? Pop, you’re 71 years old… I, uh, I’m at a loss for the visual here man. What exactly does that look like?” Jerry asks, winking at me also when Dad closes his eyes to gather up the facts.
“Yes sir, yesterday! Though firstly Gerald, I’ll have you know that I was swooning an’ crooning the ladies loooooong before you became a snatcher of crumbs in this house!”
My Dad’s 4 decade use of his favored term “Crumb snatcher” forever referenced my brother and I.
“Yesterday I was bored sitting here so I rode to the Legion Hall for a beer. They hired this waitress gal… name’s Donna…. or Denise…. Wait.”
He paused for a rather long time and looked at the ceiling of the kitchen attempting to locate the woman’s name.
“Donna!” He slammed his hand down on the table. “I’m sittin’ next to Darryl Kearny havin’ my beer – and he’ll back this up smart ass! – she walks up to me and says-she-says ‘Are YOU the owner of that old motorcycle our front?’ I said that I sure was. She says ‘That’s just the prettiest thing I ever saw… ‘50?’ she says. ‘Nope’ I told her, ’48, first year Panhead.’ That did it! She sits right on the table, right in front of me, nearly knocks over my glass, and says ‘y’ever take gals for rides on the back sweetie?’ HA! I told her that I’d ridden hundreds of gals on motorbikes, ever since there were backseats for their bottoms!”
“Okay ‘sweetie,’ how old was this ‘Donna’?” Jerry asks dubiously.
“Hell, late forties, early fifties… what does it matter?”
“LATE FORTIES? Dad, that’s like my age man!” We all laugh. “Okay, okay, so you’re tellin’ me that SHE asked to ride on the back of that old Panhead of yours?”
“Sure as hell buddy.”
“What happened next… and mind you Dad, I’m just gonna havta confirm all this with Mr. Kearny!” My brother says, overacting and trying not to smile.
“You… Go... Right... Ahead!” Dad says while squinting his eyes and nodding his head in agreement with himself. “You call that ole’ sunuvabitch right now Gerald and I garentee’ya he’ll tell’ya just what I told ya…. She was in-ter-est-ted in this here delinquent!”
Although 71 years old, nearly 72, my Dad loved to refer to himself as a ‘delinquent’… delinquent in the juvenile sense. He figured that as long as he was capable of riding his old Harley-Davidsons down to the Legion Hall three-times-weekly to drink his beer with his veteran buddies then he was still somehow a bona fide rebel. He loved the notion and we loved to rib him for it.
“So what did you do Dad? You didn’t blush and run away did ya? I gotta hear the flirting part!” Jerry prods.
“Hell no meathead… to the contrary son, to…the... contrary! I pulled my comb from my shirt pocket, real smooth-like, and ran it through my hair like this…” Dad maneuvers his invisible comb through his thinned, gray hair. His hands, spotted and worn, show his age more than any other part of his body. “…then I put it back in my shirt pocket… to demonstrate that this here delinquent aint gonna JUMP at the first spike of interest from a younger gal! Then I says-I-says ‘Ya? How would you like if I just pick ya up tomorrow when you get off and we’ll have us a spin down to the dam?’ See? Now that’s smooth Gerald, none of this profile-matching nonsense, text messaging, and two-face.com trash! All FACE-to-face boys, real smooth.”
“It’s Facebook Dad.” I chuckled
“Facebook!” he mocks, “It all over the news: no good. Listen Jerry – you listen too Dan, you’re no hot-shot either son…” Dad points at me. Jerry and are laughing out loud at this point and it does nothing but fuel Dad on. “…You boys need to be smoooooooooth. Don’t let um’ git to ya! AND ALWAYS, keep a comb in your….”
“Dad!” Jerry interrupts tears from laughter in his eyes. “what did she say man!?!”
“…pocket. ‘What did she say?’ well, WHAT she said is far from the point I’m making wise-guys. WHAT’S important to note here is how I…”
“No no no! Smooth criminal, we’re not gonna let this one slip Pop! What’d she say?”
“Well…” He paused and jut his lips forward in a thinking lull. Then sarcastically: “she sorta twinkled her hand at me like this…” Dad held his left hand out over his coffee cup and flicked his fingers up and down. “… then she said ‘well, now that does sound awfully nice, but I’m afraid my husband might protest.’ Of course the rock on her finger confirmed the husband bullshit. Then she smiled at me and said something about getting us both another glass of beer. Yada, yada, yada...”
“WHAT?!” Jerry howls “You mean to tell me, Mr. Smooth, that you didn’t first look at her left hand to see if she was married!?” We all laughed
“I’m out of practice!” Dad yells laughing. “Hey smartasses, be glad I was able to convince your Ma to marry me way-back-when or you two clowns wouldn’t even be sitting here… I would, you wouldn’t… How’s that eh? I managed to pull that off pretty good AND without having to test messages her either!”
“'Text' message dad” My brother and I both responded in giggling unison.
“Well, same smell son! ..and don’t YOU get wise like this guy here” He points his thumb at Jerry. “This meathead may have trouble finding a gal at 45 years old but at least he drives a Ford! Your Japanese subcompact is repulsive! I’ll tell ya something clown, had I come home to my Pop with a mode of transportation other than Ford I think he would’a…….”
I don’t remember where the car conversation went, but I can recall hundreds of stories that resembled the aforementioned vividly. My Dad always giving someone advise on this-and-that. Most of it was useful some not, but ALL of it was side-splitting hilarious and entertaining.
It’s been eight years since my Dad passed away. My brother and his new family of wife and two step-kids moved onto the folk’s property. I moved out of state a couple of years ago, so “coffee and tall tales time” is limited to Jerry and I Facebooking one another piss-poor jokes and stupid animal videos.
I miss the Legion Hall stories, and I miss those moments with Dad and Jerry.
I make it a point to dedicate Saturdays mornings to riding Dad’s old ’48 Panhead. When I start to miss him and wish he were here I place my hand over my shirt pocket and squeeze the comb resting inside.
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