My father was visiting for the weekend. I remember he was stretched out with his arms behind his back, lying down in my moms bed in the trailer and he said to me “it’s hella hot, bring me some ice cream, will ya, Em”. I was standing at the foot of the bed watching him and he was right, it was hot.
We lived in a tin can. Literally. The aluminum siding of the trailer was so hot in the summertime even the dog walked a wide berth around our home so as not to get burnt. It was sooooo hot, normally we spent all day in the shade at the river. We would know it was time to come home around 10:30 or 11pm when the sand started to cool down just enough that we could cross it to get to the car.
We would drive home, all the windows rolled down, my little brother asleep in the back and me leaning on my mom, smelling her summer sweat. God, that womans’ shoulders smelt like salty heaven to me. I can still call up the scent memory and it hurts a bit to remember how much I adored her back then. I hope my boy loves the smell of my stink as much as I blissed out on hers. Anyway, I digress.
I watch my dad and I feel, for some reason, very angry with him. I am 6 years old, I am staring at him lying on my mom’s bed and I am fucking livid.
I cannot express this obviously. It would make no sense. I’m supposed to be happy he’s visiting. I’m supposed to be jumping on him and starting a tickle war that ends up in tears, but not today. Today I hold onto the brass bed and I look at my dad and I say “okay, well, how about I’ll make you an ice cream sundae! That will cool you down” and I leave the room.
I don’t go into kitchen though. I pick up his flip-flops instead and I head outside, around the trailer, up the path, through the garden to the chicken coop. I crawl into the sweltering hut, wary of that fucking asshole rooster, and I start scooping chicken shit up with one flip-flop and piling it onto the other.
Have you seen chicken shit before? It’s a greasy dark little pile with always a strand of bright white cream running through it. I cannot explain the white streak but I can promise you, it will always be there.
I have a load of shit on the sandal now so I balance it well as I head back into the house. I am moving with care and precision. I don’t know if I always had the thought or I am making it up as I go along but I seem to know exactly what is going to happen and why.
Ice cream out of the freezer.
Ice cream in a bowl.
Chocolate sauce out of the fridge.
Chocolate sauce microwaved to soften.
Chicken shit scraped into chocolate sauce and mixed well so all the white streaks blend in and disappear.
Shit sauce poured onto ice cream. There is too much sauce, so much it fills half the bowl.
A bit of whipping cream sprayed on top and a cherry!
I take the sundae into my dozing dad. I give it to him smiling and he eats it as I watch. He eats like a cave man. He tips the bowl back and drinks the sauce. I am still smiling. He licks the bowl clean with his tongue.
I wait a long time.
“Do you wanna know what was in that sundae?” I ask.
“ I know what was in it, I just ate it and it was good!” he says.
“Nope, you don’t know.” I say “Do you wanna know?”
I want to tell him so bad. I want to hurt him but I don’t know why.
I also want to make him laugh because you have to admit- it’s sheer diabolical genius.
I tell him about the poop sauce “…and it’s still all over your flip-flops too!” I howl. But he doesn’t find it funny at all. In fact he looks sad.
Can you imagine if your kid did that to you?
I made my dad eat shit and it made me feel better.
What kind of person does this?
A cutthroat, heartfelt one.