The sixth roommate
(Rated R for profanity and pot)
Over a cuppa joe on a wintery NYC morning, younger bro detailed his new digs to Dad and I. He shared it with 6 others near Coney Island; as a struggler, he couldn't afford a fancy joint in Manhattan or even Hoboken.
It was the 6th roommate that raised dad's heckles. The first few roommates were the standard struggling NYC folks: actors, writers, artists. The 6th roommate came out of the blue, literally.
"And the sixth one sells whips, chains, hancuffs. You know, fetish stuff," bro said.
"Who is fetish?" asked Dad with curious eyes. OK, either Dad was being insanely funny or a geezer from ancient India.
"Dad, you don't know fetish?" I asked.
"Know I don't. Who is fetish?" he asked once again. This comes from a university professor, who enjoys talking stock prices.
"Dad, it's sex stuff. She works at a sex store," bro said, forced to answer.
Dad, a simple man, for a second mulled over Ms. Fetish and her consequences.
"Get out," dad said wryly, looking at his cuppa, ashamed. He pointed his finger to the door, indicating he wanted younger bro out of that apartment.
Bro and I broke out into fits of laughter, believing dad hadn't come to terms with younger bro's adulthood.
"Dad, she's not my bride, don't worry!" bro said, cracking up. "She won't hurt me."
It took a while for dad to get the scene, but he joined us with a laugh or two.
But this isn't the biggest life secret dad will keep.
As a university professor in 1970s Boston, some of his students thought he was a drug dealer and landed up at our home seeking pot. Dad had to convince them that "just because he was funny in class didn't mean he was a drug dealer." He would have kept quiet about this -- Mom forced it out of him during a family cocktail hour.
Anyways, thankfully for dad's vanilla values, bro soon moved to Manhattan over a bagel shop, where he got free bagels and coffee everyday. Gone were the crocodile tears of his youngest son living with a fetish store concierge.
posted by Khakra @ 3/29/2006
4 Comments:
You have an interesting family.
Hehe, my dad always refers to bhang as "tribal juice" when he's telling me stories of the ol' college days...like that one where he drank so much "juice" that he ran across a field with a stick through his foot and he never realized it. Ah yes. The apple doesn't fall far I suppose :-)
haha! mom popped some bhaang into dad's system and he thought he was on a spaceship. atleast your dad's open about his pot habits, me dad barely knows how to say hello, let alone talking about his past
HA!!! I was honestly thinking that even if one of us explained "fetish" to my dad he still wouldn't get it, but then again, I bet my parents had wild secret lives when they were younger. I can totally see my mom getting drunk and dancing on the coffee table with a lampshade on her head at some staid desi gathering.
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