On this Father’s Day 2017, I’ve decided to honor my late father for a couple of valuable lessons that contributed to my general delinquency as an adult and ability to ward off jerks.
I’ve previously written about my father as a WWII hero, but once Japan and Germany surrendered he fought another honorable war for the next 65 years…the glorious struggle against assholes.
In the interest of time and space, I call to your attention two specific lessons passed down to my brother and me that we continue to use a decade after our father’s passing.
The first involves office supply warfare. Having earned the Silver Stars and a Marksmanship medal during the war, my father never lost sight of his targets, nor his dead aim. He was able to combine his shooting skills with his post-war career as an engineer to develop a superior method of shooting rubber bands–a method that vastly increased the speed and accuracy at which a rubber band could reach and sting its intended target. You see, engineers juiced up their afternoon coffee breaks by engaging in brutal rubber band battles, often resulting in shredded pocket protectors and red-stained blueprints.
One day my father walked in on my brother and me as we lamely launched rubber bands at each other, barely raising red marks, let alone the desired welts. He patiently let us in on his secret, as I will now do for you. The trick to faster and more accurate rubber band shooting is to place the rubber band around one of your index fingers. Then, -twist it with your thumb such that one side of the band is loose, and the other is taut. It creates increased tension, resulting in whipass speed and accuracy. Try it. If you do it correctly you can shoot holes in targets, and soft flesh. There is little as satisfying as seeing the result of a properly shot rubber band strike an adversary’s ass. It’s really quite exhilarating and gives you a momentary feeling of invulnerability, although you risk getting the crap beat out of you through conventional street warfare methods.
Now, lesson number two, concern my father’s ability to decisively discourage an asshole from a return visit to our home.
My father played in a long-running Friday night poker game with some other engineers and some guys from other professional fields such as journalism, printing and accounting. An erudite bunch for sure. But over time, one of the engineers became very wealthy after going into business for himself and he became rich and obnoxious, partially, by screwing some former friends and associates. That didn’t play well with the poker guys. Oh, they could have simply told the jerk he was out of the game but what fun is that. He’d just argue and call them names and make a scene. My father had a better idea. They would say nothing. When the creep showed up at our apartment for the Friday night game, the boys were fully armed. Not with rubber bands this time, but with full bottles of ice cold, bubbly New York City seltzer…in the kind of bottles with the lever you push to shoot the stuff out with force.
Knock, knock. Open door. “Hi!,” jerk boy said. BLAM!!! SIX BOTTLES OF SELTZER IN HIS FACE. “Bye!” the poker boys said. Not another word was spoken…or at least I didn’t hear any, over the raucous laughter as the loser ran back to his car, sopping wet, and thoroughly carbonated and humiliated. I attempted to used this valuable lesson shortly thereafter on a loser who kept asking me to go to the movies but my mother didn’t want to clean up the carpet a second time so soon. But I will always have that weapon in my arsenal should it be necessary and I can find New York City-type seltzer bottles in Michigan.
So on this Father’s Day, among the many gifts for which I thank my dear father, I fondly thank him for the gift of creative non-lethal retribution, and the lesson that whether it’s with rubber bands or seltzer, to always be a straight shooter.
Do you know what it’s like being the son of an engineer and being crappy at math? My poor father would slog home to Queens from Manhattan, enduring a 90 minute or more commute by bus and subway after working a 10 or 11 hour day only to be greeted with those heartwarming words from my mother, “Mac! Edward needs help with his math homework!”
Let me put this into perspective. Helping me with my math homework was roughly as pleasant as receiving a massage with a backhoe.
But this is what fathers do. I’d patiently wait for him to eat his dinner at 8 p.m. knowing what was to come. Here was a man who could figure logarithms in his head while watching a ballgame and I couldn’t decipher those ghastly word problems that merely asked when the train and car would collide on the Long Island Railroad tracks.
Dog tired from his endless day, my father, at times, grew impatient with my total lack of quantitative abilities, while my mother apologized that I had apparently inherited her gene for that deficiency.
By the time 10 o’clock rolled around and we were both exhausted out of frustration, and in my case, total shame, my father somehow figured out what small phrase of instruction would light my dim bulb brain and allow me to find the solutions.
Oh sure, sometimes voices were raised, and there were tears, but my father never gave up. He wouldn’t let me hand in an incomplete assignment or one with wrong answers.
I’m sure I never had the chance to properly apologize for putting him through that ordeal, but much later in life, when I started producing newscasts and backtiming required the use of math, he would ask me how I could possibly manage. I’d joke, “math? Oh, that’s easy.!” He knew better. With a broad smile and that knowing look only a dad could have he’d ask, “who you bullshitting?” A dad knows. He deserved a medal.