Sh*t My Dad Says Read online

  “Now you can get a glimpse into what my life is like every goddamned day,” he told me the night I received my assignment. “I’m going to be on your ass every step of the way. You will have the greatest science experiment that school has ever seen, or you will fucking die trying.”

  “Will you do it with me?” I pleaded.

  “What? No, I already do it all the goddamned day on my own. That’s what I just told you.”

  He took a seat on our living room couch and motioned for me to take a seat next to him.

  “Now, experiments start with a question. What do you want to know?”

  I thought about it for a few seconds.

  “I think the dog is cool,” I said, motioning toward Brownie, our five-year-old chocolate Lab mix.

  “What? What the hell does that mean? That’s not a fucking question.”

  “What if I said: Do people think the dog is cool?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Think of a question like Do larger objects fall faster than smaller ones? Something like that.”

  “Okay. Well, can the question be something about the dog?”

  “It can be about whatever the fuck you want. Okay, you’re stuck on shit with the dog, so how about this: Can dogs recognize shapes? How does that sound?”

  It sounded good. I loved Brownie, so I was glad he could be part of my experiment. My dad helped me outline exactly how the experiment would work. Basically, every day I would hold up in front of the dog three pieces of paper, each of which had a drawing of either a triangle, circle, or square. I would give him a treat every time I held up a circle, tell him to sit every time I held up a square, and do absolutely nothing every time I held up the triangle. After fifteen days of training, I’d perform two days of trials when I’d hold up the drawings of the shapes without giving any of the corresponding rewards. The goal was to see whether or not he’d respond to the shapes in anticipation of the actions that had followed during the lead-up to the trials. I was supposed to record my findings in a journal throughout the entire seventeen days.

  When I did my “research” the first day, it was really boring. The dog didn’t understand what was going on; he just stared at me while I held up the pieces of paper, and occasionally licked himself. He mostly just wanted to play, so I started running around the backyard, having him chase me, until I got tired. My dad worked late every night, so he didn’t know I wasn’t following through with my experiment. He’d check in from time to time, and I’d tell him my research was going fine. I just assumed I had plenty of time. As long as I started seventeen days before we had to turn in our findings at school, I’d be fine. But then I forgot about the experiment altogether.

  One afternoon, the teacher reminded us our experiments were due in three days, and my stomach dropped. My mom picked me up from school that day, and when we got home I ran into my bedroom and shut the door. I took out my journal and began making up fake results from my nonexistent tests, complete with fake corresponding dates. I figured that a sly way of hiding my laziness was to report that the dog had slowly started to recognize the shapes toward the end of the experiment. Then when I did the trials without the rewards, he’d reacted in such a way that I knew he recognized the shapes. I remembered hearing a story about Pavlov’s dogs. Pavlov sounded like a madcap scientist, and this experiment sounded like one he might even have performed himself. This was enough reasoning for me.

  My dad happened to get home early that day, and I heard him barrel through the front door right as I finished writing up the last of my “findings.” I threw my pen across the room to get rid of any evidence of my fraud. Almost as if he knew what I was up to, my dad immediately came into my room.

  “How goes the science life?” he asked on cue.

  Before I could answer, he saw my journal and picked it up.

  “All the data is in there, Dad.”

  He was no longer paying attention to me, just perusing the data. After turning the pages and digesting my results for a minute, he set my journal down on my desk and looked at me.

  “So the dog recognizes shapes, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird,” I said, trying to sound ambiguous.

  “Yeah, that is weird,” he said. “You obviously don’t mind then if I run a little test on the dog, just so I can see for myself,” he added.

  At that moment I went a bit numb. All I could think was that maybe somehow, some way, the dog would know the shapes and react how I had written down that he reacted. My dad grabbed the crumpled pictures of the shapes from the floor of my room and walked outside.

  “Sometimes the dog doesn’t do it, though. It depends on how he’s feeling and stuff,” I said, trying to cover myself for any possible outcome.

  My dad wasn’t listening. He called the dog’s name, and Brownie ran over toward us. My dad proceeded to hold the first shape, a triangle, in front of Brownie’s slobbering face. According to my “data,” Brownie was supposed to do nothing when he saw the triangle. Which he did. Unfortunately that was also his reaction to the circle and the square, which he was supposed to react to by sniffing my hand, in anticipation of a treat, and sitting down, respectively. Brownie ran off, and my dad turned to me. He looked me in the eye with an eerie sense of calm.

  “I’m going to give you a chance right now to tell me anything you want to tell me,” he said.

  I started crying immediately and, between heaving sobs and snorts, confessed that I had forgotten to do the experiment and faked the data. My dad grabbed my notebook, tore it in half, and attempted to hurl it over the fence. But the loose pages fluttered about like a disappointing confetti celebration. He started kicking them around and then, still not satisfied, grabbed one of the dog’s toys and hurled it across the yard like a shot-putter going for the gold. When Brownie retrieved the toy and pranced up for round two of what he thought was their game of fetch, my dad exploded.

  “ALL BULLSHIT! YOU WROTE ALL BULLSHIT!” he screamed.

  “I thought you said you’d give me a chance to tell you!” I yelled back.

  “Yeah, you told me, and then it was all bullshit, goddamn it!”

  My mom hurried out to see what was happening. She calmed my dad down and led him up to their bedroom so they could talk. After about ten minutes, he returned to the backyard, still simmering.

  “You have shamed the entire scientific community. Fucking Einstein, everybody.”

  I told him I knew that, and I was sorry.

  “This is what I do for a living, goddamn it, and I take it very, VERY fucking seriously.”

  “I know you do.”

  “No. You don’t know shit. So here’s what’s gonna happen.”

  He proceeded to tell me that I had to go to my teacher and confess that I didn’t do my experiment and faked the data instead, and ask her if I could deliver an apology for cheating to my classmates.

  “And if she says you don’t need to do that, tell her tough shit, you’re doing it anyway. And I want to see the statement you’re going to read BEFORE you read it. I got final say.”

  The next day before science class I explained to my teacher what had happened, and when the bell rang she turned to my sixth-grade class and told them I had something to say. I got up and read my prepared statement, which opened with something like this: “To my classmates and to the science community, I have committed an act of fraud. I falsified my data, and in doing so, have taken a process that is important to the development of the human race and disgraced it.” After that it went on for a few more lines, but no one, including myself, had any idea what in the hell I was talking about. In between sentences, I glanced out at thirty sixth-graders staring blankly at me. After I was done reading my statement, I sat down. The teacher thanked me, said a few words about cheating, and then we moved on.

  When I got home that night, my dad asked me how it went. I told him I had read the apology and that the teacher had thanked me.

  “I’m sorry I had to be so hard on you, but
I don’t want people thinking you’re a lying sack of shit. You ain’t. You’re a quality human being. Now go to your room, you’re grounded.”

  On Respecting Privacy

  “Get the fuck outta here, I’m doing stuff.”

  On Showing Fear

  “When it’s asshole-tightening time, that’s when you see what people are made of. Or at least what their asshole is made of.”

  On Hypothetical Questions

  “No. There’s no scenario where I’d eat a human being, so you can stop making them up and asking me, understood? Jesus, is this how you spend your day, just coming up with this shit?”

  On Friendliness

  “Listen, I know you hate playing with that chubby kid because his mom’s a loudmouth, but it’s not that kid’s fault his mom’s a bitch. Try to be nice to him.”

  On Fair Play

  “Cheating’s not easy. You probably think it is, but it ain’t. I bet you’d suck more at cheating than whatever it was you were trying to do legitimately.”

  On Leaving My Toys Around the House

  “Goddamn it, I just sat on your goddamned truck guy…. Optimus Prime? I don’t give a shit what it’s called, keep it away from where I like to put my ass.”

  On Child Safety

  “Don’t touch that knife. YOU never need to be holding a knife…. I don’t give a shit, learn how to butter stuff with a spoon.”

  On Slumber Parties

  “There’s chips in the cabinet and ice cream in the freezer. Stay away from knives and fire. Okay, I’ve done my part. I’m going to bed.”

  On Sharing

  “I’m sorry, but if your brother doesn’t want you to play with his shit, then you can’t play with it. It’s his shit. If he wants to be an asshole and not share, then that’s his right. You always have the right to be an asshole—you just shouldn’t use that right very often.”

  It’s Important to Know the Value of a Dollar

  “Let’s just shut the fuck up and eat.”

  Both of my parents grew up poor—my mom, in an underprivileged Italian community on the outskirts of Los Angeles (her mother and father both passed away before she turned fifteen, at which point she and her five siblings were split up between a few different relatives); and my dad, on a farm in Kentucky, where he and his family worked as sharecroppers until he was fourteen and his dad bought the farm.

  “When I had an earache, my mom would piss in my ear to kill the pain,” my dad once told me in an effort to illustrate the depths of his family’s poverty.

  “That just seems weird, Dad. Not something poor people do.”

  “Yeah, maybe that was a bad example,” he said after thinking about it for a moment.

  Regardless, my parents never missed an opportunity to remind me and my brothers that we had it good. “You prance around on your fucking skateboards and bikes like you’re the goddamned Queen of England,” he used to tell us when we spent our weekends goofing off with friends and neglecting our chores.

  Sometimes my parents worried that my brothers and I had it too easy; that we’d grow up not understanding the value of a dollar, or how it feels to struggle. Even before my mom attended law school and began working in poverty law, she spent a lot of her free time volunteering in the poor communities of San Diego. She worked with parents on welfare and with homeless families, organizing after-school programs or helping them become self-sufficient to get off welfare. Anytime I complained about anything, she’d invoke those families.

  “Why aren’t you eating your pasta?” she asked me one night over dinner when I was ten years old.

  “It’s got peas in it,” I replied.

  “So pick out the peas.”

  “Well, you know I don’t like peas, but you put peas in it anyway. Why do you do that?” I whined.

  “Excuse me? You’re treading on thin fucking ice, buddy,” my dad barked, looking up from his plate. “That’s your mother. You and she are not equals. Here’s her,” he said, putting his hand high up above his head, “and here’s you,” he added, putting his other hand well below the table. “If she wants to serve only peas for the rest of fucking eternity you will sit there every goddamned day and eat them and say ‘thank you’ and ask for more.”

  “Why would I ask for more if I hate them?” I said.

  My dad told me to leave the table and go to my room—or at least that’s what I think he said, because he was screaming with a mouth full of peas. About a week later, my mom came home from her law school library a little later than usual to find my brother Evan and me sitting on the couch watching TV a few feet from our dad, who was leaning back in his recliner, half-asleep. She turned off the TV, rousing my dad, and told the three of us that she had an announcement.

  “We’re going to eat what impoverished families eat,” she proclaimed.

  “What does ‘impoverished’ mean?” I whispered to Evan.

  “It means poor people or something,” he said, worry lines spreading over his face like a spiderweb.

  Our mom went on to explain that she had visited the grocery store where some of the poor families she knew through her volunteering shopped with their food stamps. She described the food, how only some of it was expired though all of it looked disgusting, and then capped off her anecdote with, “We’re going to eat for a week only the food I purchase from that store, with the same budget as they do.”

  “Dad?” I said, turning to him in desperation.

  “Dad thinks this is a great idea,” my mom replied, before he could answer.

  A couple days later our fridge and cupboards were stocked with the strangest-looking foods I’d ever seen. I remember thinking to myself, Poor people eat a lot of stuff in cans. Many of the cans’ labels listed some kind of meat, and underneath the name of the meat, “in water.” Ham in water, chicken in water, cubed beef in water. The bread came in a white plastic bag on which there were only four words: WHITE BREAD FRESH BAKED.

  “How is this fresh baked?” I asked Evan, holding a limp, floury slice in my hand.

  “I don’t know. I guess at one point, someone baked it, and then it was fresh.”

  At lunchtime on the first day of our new food regime, I opened up the brown paper bag my mom had packed for me. The first item I pulled out was a foul combination of foodstuffs posing as a turkey sandwich. I held it up in front of me. The bread looked like two pieces of soggy sandpaper, and the turkey looked like it was made out of whatever Larry King is made out of: some kind of pasty white, stringy flesh.

  “That looks fucking nasty,” my friend Aaron said, staring at my sandwich like it was a mangled creature that had washed ashore after a tsunami.

  That afternoon I came home and marched right into Evan’s room. I asked him if his lunch bag was filled with the same inedible stuff as mine. It was. We each had thrown out our sandwich and the strange, carrotlike vegetables that came with it, and eaten only the block of white American cheese that completed the so-called meal. I wanted to revolt, but Evan has never been the revolutionary type, and I wasn’t prepared to stage a unilateral rebellion. The only hope I had was that my dad was feeling similarly disgusted and would put an end to this madness.

  A few hours later, while we boys were hanging out in the living room before dinner, my mom presented us with that evening’s menu. “Turkey soup,” she announced, wearing an apron and holding a large spoon, as strange smells emanated from the kitchen behind her.

  I looked at my dad, who kept his eyes on the evening news, unfazed. I was nervous about my physical ability to consume the meal my mom was about to serve, and as I usually do when I’m nervous, I voiced a positive thought in an effort to will the best possible outcome.

  “I like turkey, right?” I said.

  My dad continued to stare at the television. “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?” he said without so much as glancing my way.

  “I’m telling you, I like turkey.”

  “Okay,” he said, pausing for a moment before adding, “What the fuck do
es that mean for me?”

  I could tell he was in a bad mood, so I ended the conversation. Voicing my affinity for turkey had helped, and I felt more confident about being able to eat the soup.

  A few minutes later, we sat down to dinner and my mom filled all of our bowls with a brown, chunky liquid that resembled what I imagine a grizzly bear’s diarrhea looks like. There were white chunks in it as well as red chunks, and it was the consistency of a watery bowl of oatmeal. All of us looked at one another, even my mom. I stuck my spoon in the bowl and was careful to maneuver around the chunks and ladle up only liquid. I brought it to my lips slowly and purposefully, as if I were a spy ingesting a suicide pellet. Then I took a sip. And spit it out.

  “Jesus H. Christ, we’re trying to have a meal here, goddamn it,” my dad shouted, dropping his spoon on the table.

  “I can’t eat this! I tried!” I said, as Evan laughed.

  “You didn’t try,” my mom replied.

  “I did! I can’t eat it! It’s too gross!”

  “This is how poor kids eat. This is the point of us eating like this, to understand what people less fortunate than us go through,” my mom responded.

  “I understand! I just want to eat something else now!” I said as my eyes welled with tears.

  “Everybody just be quiet. Let’s just shut the fuck up and eat,” my dad said.

  Then he put a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

  “Jesus Christ. This is god-awful. I can’t eat this,” he said after swallowing it.

  “See!” I exclaimed.

  “No, you two are eating this,” he said, looking at me and Evan. “I’m not.”

  “WHAT?!?!” I shouted.

  I got up, stormed out of the dining room, ran into my room, and slammed the door. I assumed that within in a few seconds, my mom would open the door, say something that would make me feel better, and invite me back to the table for a proper dinner, like spaghetti with meatballs or chicken and potatoes. In the meantime, maybe she’d even drive to Jack in the Box and buy me a spicy crispy chicken sandwich, my favorite, to make up for this unjust and traumatic culinary experiment.