Dad Lights Up

Being with my parents together meant entering a war zone. The space was negotiated rather than shared. Rory and I played an assortment of survival games. One essential game was “Mum.” We’d try and see who could go the longest without saying a word. Whoever lost got a punch in the arm. Dad invented “Mum” as an antidote for his frequent hangovers. He liked it quiet when he wasn’t speaking. His hangover cocktail of choice, TV and a long game of “Mum.”

Once, in 1960, it was the TV that was caught in one of my parents’ many crossfires.

It wasn’t working and time was of the essence. Game seven of the Yankees-Pirates World Series was less than two hours away. Dad had pulled the set away from the wall and had taken the rear panel off with a screwdriver.

“You know nothing about TVs,” my mother said. “Call Dominick.” 

“It’s a loose wire or a blown tube, I know it.”

“Thick as a brick…” Mom said and left the room. Dad stuck his tongue out. I was betting on Dad in this match. Whatever broke, he fixed it…my toys, bike, everything. 

While Dad operated on the TV, I paced back and forth with my hands behind my back, so I didn’t whack anything. I was nervous about whether we would fix the TV in time. It was Thursday, a school day, but Dad had let me play half a day of hooky from first grade so I could see the game.

Dad and I watched all the games together. Dad got excited when the Yankees won. He did the same thing when the football Giants won. I wanted to bottle that excitement and keep it around for the bad days. I learned to root when he rooted. I learned how and when to yell at the TV when the teams played poorly.

Concentrating on my hands, I nearly took a header when I walked into his toolbox. I danced myself back straight up.

“Tommy, go sit down.”

“Can’t I help?”

“No, when I’m done, you can help me push it back and plug it in.”

“OK,” I said, kicking one of my feet into the other.

Finally, Dad said, “That should do it.” 

I began to help. I knew he told me I could help him with two things. I didn’t remember which thing came first. When I thought Dad was done, but his head was still inside the TV, I stuck the plug back into the wall socket. 

Dad lit up. The Christmas tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center came to mind. 

“I killed him,” I whispered. I had heard the story of Mom staging her death for Dad before I was born, but this wasn’t an act.

I stared down at my father. His eyes were glazed over, but open. This was good, because I didn’t think you could be dead with your eyes open. My brain switched positions. 

“If he’s not dead, he’s going to kill me.”

Looking him over, I saw he was dribbling and his belly was moving swiftly in and out. My heart was racing in time with his belly. I touched my chest.

“I’m so dead.”

Rory popped his head into the doorway. His eyes were wide open like Eddie Cantor singing “Making Whoopee.” Once Rory saw that Dad was alive, and that I was probably going to get into trouble, he slipped backed to his normal alert signal, crying. Only then did my mother come into the room from the kitchen. She lifted Rory out of the way and looked down at Dad.

“I told you to call Dominick,” she said with a headshake.

After Dad pulled himself together, we called Dominick. Mom grinned and Dad fumed. After a long game of Mum, Dad said, “Tommy, let’s go downstairs and wait for Dominick on the stoop.”

On the stoop, we didn’t talk. Dad was sore at me, but not in the mood to yell or lecture. He didn’t look well. His hair stuck straight up in places it usually was lying down. I stared at the top of his head for a long time looking for any sign of smoke. My nerves were shot. When I’m nervous, I do lots of talking. Each time I felt my mouth start to open, I’d put both my hands over it. As my worry grew, I began to eat my fist. Dad looked at me like I was nuts, but I just kept chewing away on my hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

I tried to answer through my fingers. “Nothing, everything’s fine.”

“I can’t understand a word. Get your hand out of your mouth and tell me what you’re saying.”

Freed to talk, I let ‘er go.

“I want the Yankees to win by 15 runs. I want Mickey Mantle to hit four homers. I want a Yankee parade. I want Dominick.”

I slumped against Dad’s side. He put his arm around me. I pressed my head against his chest to hear his heart. He squeezed me twice. I squeezed him twice.

“Dad, I’m sorry I almost killed you.”

He started to laugh. He pulled my head up to see my eyes. He stopped laughing when he saw I was crying. His look changed. His face was so full of love it scared me. He started to cry a little and put my head back on his chest. He kissed the top of my head. I liked when he kissed me. After a couple of minutes, we started to talk. He asked me whether I had learned a lesson.

“Yes, always push the TV back to its right spot before I plug it back in.”

He laughed and said, “Yeah, something like that.”

We got itchy waiting for Dominick. Our heads craned over the stoop railing to see all the way up the street. Dad stood to stretch. I stretched too. I saw Dominick’s swinging right arm before I saw the rest of him. He rounded the corner with his magic bag – the black leather one with the secret parts to make our sick TV well.

Mom met the three of us at the apartment door. Rory was standing between her legs peeking out from under her housedress. He looked like a little Samson ready to knock Mom’s legs down and collapse the temple.

Mom spoke to Dominick while looking directly at Dad. “Dominick, it’s so good to see you. Your ears must be burning. Bob and I were talking about you earlier today.”

My father’s lips moved noiselessly. I was a certified Mom & Dad Lip Reader.

“I will get you,” he said.

Dominick knelt behind the TV. Mom stayed in the kitchen with Rory. Dad and I stood behind Dominick. Dave Seville and the Chipmunks were on the radio singing, “I told the Witch Doctor, I was in love with you, boom, boom, boom, boom.”

It was 40 minutes to game time. Dad studied Dominick carefully for two reasons. One, to avoid further eye contact with Mom, and two, to collect important information so he could make the repair next time.

Dominick finished in 20 minutes. We’d see the pregame show!

After Dominick drank some iced tea, I carried his bag with two hands to the front door. I stood at the top of the hallway stairs, watching him go down and around each flight, saying good-bye and thank you to the top of his head several times. I stayed there until I heard his last “So long” fade as the lobby door shut behind him.

I ran back into the living room as the Gillette razor commercial music signaled the start of the World Series broadcast.

I dove onto the couch, swinging my legs crisscross over Dad’s lap. Looking back over my shoulder, I spied Mom’s head in the kitchen’s doorway. She made a funny face and wiggled her nose. I made a face back acknowledging she had won the battle.

If you like my work check out my memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store, 15 75 York Avenue or online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 135 Amazon five star reviews out of 135 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.