Father Figure
by Allen Conkle
Day by Day
Day by day, in every way.
The alarm yells. Dad wakes up. Every time I see him morning or night, he is in a white t-shirt, white underwear and black socks. His uniform that he wears to work at the garage is covered with oil so he changes in and out of it on the sun porch. Every single morning he calls out, "Up and Adam, Atom Andy." I get out of bed and go down the stairs to the kitchen. On my way it never fails that I rub against the sandy textured paint on the stairwell that the drunk painter half way finished. I get an abrasion across my arm. I pull out my Smurf bowl that I had since third grade. I have a bowl of half generic wheat flakes and half generic oat circles. Dad drinks a pot of coffee. It makes his breath smell bad. He quit smoking about a month ago after twenty years, but his breath is still covered with this yellow film. The house is still covered in this yellow film. All of his clothes and all of my clothes are covered in this yellow film. The clothes smell the same as they did when he smoked except stale now instead of fresh. He kisses me goodbye. It is gross.
Every day, in every way.
Dad wakes up. He calls out, "Up and Adam, Atom Andy." I get up and go down the stairs to the kitchen. I rub against the texture paint and I get a small scratch on my leg above my knee. It barely bleeds. I have a bowl of half generic corn flakes and half generic rice puffs. I wonder why Dad buys the cereal in white boxes. I thought the one with the tiger tasted better. Or maybe it just looked better. Dad drinks a pot of coffee. It makes his breath smell bad. After twenty years of Marlboros his breath is still covered with this yellow film. I wonder if his breath still stinks or I just think it still stinks? I hold my breath just in case when he kisses me goodbye. I wipe my mouth.
Another day, another way.
Dad wakes up. He calls out, "Up and Adam, Atom Andy." I get up and say I am sick. Dad says Ok stay home. I'm not really sick, just sick of school. I hear the door shut, lock and his car start. Dad leaves. No kiss. I go down the stairs to the kitchen. I rub against the texture paint that my Grandpop, the other drunk painter, finally finished, and I get a brush burn on my shoulder. It bleeds allot. I watch it. The drops are tiny and look kind of pretty. I spray some Bactine on it. I spin the lazy Susan and all the generic cans make this swish of white like a canned food ghost. I open a can of generic vegetable soup and grab a box of generic saltines from the pantry. I spread them carefully with some generic butter. I don't bother to heat it up. I use it like dip right out of the can with my crackers. Mom used to make me saltines with butter. Dad left the Mr. Coffee on again. The pot burnt at the bottom. I go down stairs to the basement. It is starting to smell sour. I look through the chest filled with mom's things. I find my baby book. It has a shiny satin baby blue cover and the binding is falling off. It says that I named my bowel movements. It says I was obsessed with long hair. Then it had some scribbles that I probably wrote after Mom stopped being interested in documenting my progress. I like the smell of her scarves and slips and stuff. I put on her nightgown. It feels soft. It smells like perfume and mothballs. When she used to kiss me goodbye, I could smell her all day.
One way or another day.
Dad wakes up. He calls out, "Up and Adam, Atom Andy." I get up and go down the stairs to the kitchen. I rub against the texture paint that needs to be redone. It looks like two drunk guys painted it. Who would paint a stairway with sand paint? I reopen my cut on my arm. I have a bowl of generic wheat flakes. Dad drinks a pot of coffee. It makes his breath smell bad. I throw up. I go back up stairs. I am sick. I get a scrape on my other arm. Dad comes upstairs and kisses me on the cheek. It is still gross.
One more day, in one more way.
I wake up. Every time I see him morning or night, he is in a white t-shirt, white underwear and black socks. His uniform from the factory is covered with sweat so he changes in and out of it on the back porch. Every single morning I have to force him out of bed. I go down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the coffee. When he smells it, he comes down. I had my dad put slippery fake wood paneling in the stairway before he passed. I pull out two bowls and make some Quaker instant oatmeal with apples and cinnamon for me and maple and brown sugar for him. We drink a pot and a half of coffee. It makes his breath smell bad so I tell him I won't kiss him until he brushes his teeth. We have a no smoking policy except marijuana on the sun porch. After twenty years, we still get stoned and make out. Pot breath doesn't bother me. We painted the exterior of the house recently in this strange pale yellow color. I don't know how I feel about it, but it was his idea so I compromised. All of our clothes covered in this yellow film. He leaves first. I work nights. He kisses me goodbye.
Thank You Jesus
from Faggot Bunny Daddy
I could give a f#ck about my f#cking father. The @ssh*le f#cking hated me all of my f#cking life. He used to call me f@gg*t and sh!t. He never did sh!t for me. @ssh*le. So, the f#cking pr!ck has the nerve to call me after I don't hear from the bastard for eight years, after eight f#cking years, he has the f#cking nerve to call me and f#cking offer to send me cash to go and get f#cking counseling to cure me of my unnatural perversion. F#cking Jesus stupid mother @ss-kissing stupid f#ck sh!ts. A bunch of repressed homos sitting around beating themselves up because they all want to s#ck each others' d!cks. And beating themselves off in the privacy of their rooms and then beating themselves up again for beating off. A wonderful life. Cool! As if you can f#cking cure someone of their sexuality. Dumb motherf#ckers. And as if I would let some f#cking white hetero mother f#cking God, who tells me that I am wrong and am going to burn in hell for wanting d!ck, when he's the mother f#cker who supposedly made me this f#cking way. What the f#ck kind of logic is that? All y'all Christians need to open up your f#cking noodles. Jesus can s#ck my f#cking d!ck!!! No, but for real. I ain't stupid. I know the bible and sh!t. Jesus liked f@gs and whores and lepers and all of us deviants. He hung out with us. He partied with us. I mean I wouldn't doubt it if Jesus s#cked a dick himself or at least had one of those friggin' disciples s#ck on his for a while. I bet Jesus had a pretty nice c*ck too. What? No man you can tell, by his eyes. At least I can. Oh. Get over it. I know that f#cking makes you sick, thinking of Jesus s#cking on a big fat pr!ck, don't it? That's because you people, you're programmed to think that a man having sex with another man is sick and wrong and even you f@ggots out there are f#cking homophobes. You are all a bunch of homophobes! There ain't nothing wrong with Jesus s#cking on a dick, just like there ain't nothing wrong with me s#cking on a d!ck. It's f#cking beautiful. S#cking on d!cks is beautiful. Thank you Jesus for giving me my d!ck, and thank you Jesus for letting me get it s#cked.
Allen Conkle has been playing house in the performance/theatre bowels of Chicago for the last twelve years. The co-founder of Nomenil, he has enjoyed success with twelve original productions including: Faggot Bunny Daddy, Love Pollution and Woman Alive! Lately Allen has been delving into performance sculpture and public installation and is thrilled to be included amongst the swell musings of Swell. He lives in Chicago where he is currently studying at Columbia College in preparation for an MFA.
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