Cool Dad by Joan Vorderbruggen

In the next hundred years, scientists will discover a resiliency gene that explains why some of us don't just survive certain hells, we thrive in their aftermaths. They may find it's entirely genetic, though I doubt it. As Jeff VanVonderen said on this week's Intervention, "You never know. Stronger people have endured less, weaker people have endured more"...or something like that.

My friend, Joan, wrote this story—further proof, to me, of her phenomenal resiliency. If you find yourself wandering around the rubble of an empty city after the apocalypse, and you hear...Calypso music? Follow the sound, for there you'll Joan, having rigged up some party lights and a grill, wearing a crazy flowered apron, entertaining what remains of mankind. Her writing has never been published anywhere before.

I was 12 years-old before I realized what everyone meant about crazies coming out during a full moon. My dad had croaked on our family’s couch two years prior from a malignant brain tumor, and my mom, who wasn't incredibly stable on a good day, had run off a year after that to live with a demented Vietnam vet in the slums of Frogtown, leaving me, at 11, alone in a secluded house in southern suburban Maplewood, Minnesota.  She'd stop by with groceries on Sundays and pay all the bills so no one really “knew” what she'd done.  It took me only a few weeks of being stranded in that house with every fearsome demon known to man chasing me down awake or asleep to realize one and one thing only: I needed a job.
 

So I went a few houses down to the neighbor dad who ran a Bridgeman's Restaurant in the local strip mall and employed his three prepubescent kids there. I used to think those kids were mindless idiots—suckers tricked into happily wiping down counters with their candy-smeared hands—but considering my situation, I had begun to admire their determination and drive and I wondered if they might see that I, too, was good with a mop, and could seat a table of four with an gracious smile. I gave him my pitch, and before you knew it, I was the best child labor counter waitress Brideman's had ever known. When the moon was full, without fail, we'd get a steady stream of schizophrenics from local group homes in the area gorging themselves on Lalapahloozah sundaes and screaming at each over who could eat all the way to the bottom and go home wearing an “I ate the whole thing” button.

Somehow I managed to advance from 6th to 7th grade without passing a single class, then from 7th to 8th, maintaining my seat as President of John Glenn Junior High's Student Council while spending over half of my days behind bars in the in-school suspension classroom for truancies, tardies, and unexplained absences.  For some reason my student council advisor, Mr. Rollins, defended my Student Council seat.  He also invited me to his cabin for a weekend.  What a nice man, that Mr. Rollins, when he brushed his mustache down with two cigarette-stained fingers and smiled. I had to decline his offer, however, because I had work to do and patrons to serve at Bridgeman’s. Besides, there weren’t any other kids who could pick up my shift.  

Seizing every opportunity to make a buck, one afternoon I was  busking change with my clarinet at the end of the lunch line, when the wart-faced lunch lady turned to me and said with her hairy lips, “You're a SORRY excuse for a student council president,” to which I replied, “You're a fabulously angry cunt.” She was wrong about me. I threw the most amazing school dance my 8th grade year, one that I’d been promising my fellow jailbait friends since 6th grade. The dance had limo rides, an awesome new wave  DJ, a fog machine, and a huge bottle of Raspberry schnapps that flew out of my Espirit bag and exploded on the dance floor!!!! I knew that wart-faced lunch lady would’ve changed her mind about me had she not been too old and pissy to get her ass on the dance floor. 

My absent mother would get a paranoid streak from time to time and stop in unannounced to make lame attempts at parenting.  “Joan, are you going to school today?” to which I'd reply, “Is it raining?” I never went to school when it rained, and pretty soon I never went to school at all. It was hard to be around kids who had families, whose parents cared if they came home or not, encouraged them to play sports and made sure they were fed. I didn’t feel a part of their world in anyway, and instead took pride in making a lot of money as an awesome waitress. I was the only 12 year-old I knew who had no problem blowing $200 on stickers—every inch of my room was covered.

During one of mom’s lame attempts, she decided to snoop through my things in my room while I was at work.  Like an idiot I had not expected this and didn’t make much attempt to hide any incriminating evidence.  She found a birthday card she had sent to me with a cute brown teddy bear on the front.  I had drawn a knife dripping with blood in one of the teddy bear’s hands and underneath a caption that read “DIE MOMMY DIE” with a red ball point pen.  I tried to explain that this had more to do with discovering The Misfits and the cover of Metallica's Metal Up Your Ass at the time than it did actually wanting her dead, but it’s tough to convince someone who’s really sensitive of that. 

Things went even further south from there. My mom, now fearing for her life, tricked me into “going to out to eat with her” one evening, but instead took me to a nondescript office building in the suburbs crawling with offices instead of restaurants. We pulled up to one of the buildings where a yellow van with a smiling sun image was waiting to take me to a “real nice place called Riverwood.” Riverwood was an adolescent treatment center where I was about to learn more about drugs and make more connections than anyone could shake a heroin needle at. It was to be “so, so wonderful,” mom assured me shortly before I found myself locked in a concrete room painted yellow. I imagine they painted it in an attempt to apply to the theory of plane tree—a movement in healthcare in the early 90’s intended to create more home-like environments in psychiatric facilities.  I had never been in a home that had yellow concrete walls, but I knew it didn’t feel like home. There wasn’t a drop of Schnapps to be found anywhere, for one. In any case, it didn't take long for me to start making pals with the other loony teens in the joint.

One such idiot was a lovely, very fair, timid girl named Tobi. She had thin, greasy strawberry-blond hair and wore thick black eyeliner and quilted flannel jackets paired with skin tight denim mini skirts. If you stepped too close to whisper some conspiratorial plan to her, you would inevitably get a nose-full of Love's Baby Soft. She was always carrying a styrofoam cup. I assumed she was just a real thirsty gal. They didn’t allow us coffee or pop in Riverwood, we were given ice water only between the weird institutional meals that were served.

I snuck into her yellow room one day and found her with her cup seated on the bed. We had talked for a short while when suddenly without warning she shoved her index finger deep into her throat and vomited into the cup. Somewhat startled, I asked her why she was puking into a cup, and she replied that it felt good.  Intrigued, I requested a tutorial. Through this, we bonded. I acquired my own cup and our friendship began.

During visiting hours at the institution, I would stand around awkwardly chewing my nails to the quick while other people’s parents came to visit them. 

Tobi had a regular visitor who would come every other day to secretly supply her with cigarettes and coffee.  I was impressed that she had such a hook-up.  He was a very charismatic 40-something dude with a hydrogen peroxide blond mullet, a black motorcycle jacket, and pockmarked skin.  Looking back, I suspect he whiffed me being visitorless day after day. One afternoon, he leaned into me and asked, “You want a pack of Marlboro Reds?  Drop your hand.”  I dropped my hand and in fell an unopened pack of cigs and a lighter, “total contraband” as the counselor slash guards referred to such items. Total awesome.  He gave me a wink and a big grin.

It wasn’t long before I was included in their visits, and he became known to me as Cool Dad. Cool Dad made all kinds of amazing promises. Both he and Tobi would boast about his insanely awesome sports car and how once we got outta there we were gonna TOTALLY hang out!  Cool Dad promised me he’d let me drive his sports car, and that he’d be sure Tobi and I saw each other often. She lived with her mom in a trailer park 40 miles south of my suburban home, a significant distance, or so it seemed.

Tobi was discharged before me, but it wasn’t long until my mom’s insurance coverage to keep me locked up ran out.  I was set free, and an “aftercare” program was initiated.  Happily reunited in aftercare, we hatched playmate plans with a Cool Dad chaparone! I was over the moon the day Tobi and Cool Dad peeled up my gravel  drive in a stunning white Datsun 280Z.  We weren’t even on the tar before Cool Dad looked at me with a shit grin on his pockmarked mug and said “Wanna drive?”

I drove along the country roads for awhile but this seemed to bore Cool Dad so he told me to get on Highway 494.  He was co-piloting next to me. Tobi sat scrunched up in a ball in the hatch.  I was noticeably horrified approaching the freeway, this being maybe my third time driving in all of my 15 years.  As I approached the clover leaf entrance to the freeway, Tobi hollered, “Daaaaaaad!  Don’t MAKE Joan drive fast!”  This only encouraged Cool Dad. He let out a huge maniacal laugh and yelled, “DRIVE FASTER!”

On the freeway, it was only a half mile before we would hit a very narrow bridge overpass.  With his left hand, Cool Dad pressed down my right leg, causing the little 280 to accelerate quickly to over 80 mph.  Now, weaving in and out of traffic, Cool Dad continued applying pressure as we approached the shoulderless bridge. We hit 100 mph on that bridge, zipping around cars, not knowing what lay ahead, Cool Dad squealing with delight. He let up on my leg once we’d cleared the bridge and, trembling, I got off at the next exit. Tobi asked, "Dad, can I drive?"  As if he hadn't even heard her request, he screamed, “YOU JUST EARNED YOURSELF A CAR, JONIGIRL!”

Tobi drove us to Cool Dad's little run down rambler, which had the look and feel of a double wide, and was shared with a couple from Arkansas, the man a rage-filled, muscled-bound redneck, and the gal about 10 months pregnant.  Looking back I’m pretty certain that pair were on the lam and supplying Cool Dad with some of the twenty dollar bills he passed off to me. He also lived with a borderline IQ fellow named Todd who was the gopher of the compound and would eagerly fetch the pregnant lady a beer or a pillow. Todd was nice.

Tobi and I spent the night in sleeping bags on the floor and the next day Cool Dad woke us up to say “Jonigirl is getting a surprise today!”  We got ourselves together and walked outside where a rusted blue 4-door Dodge Aries sat. 

“TAAAAAADAAAAAAAHH!!” exclaimed Cool Dad. “Your very own CAR!  Now you can come visit us whenever you want!”  I couldn't believe it.  I was the luckiest 15 year-old girl in the world. Tobi pouted, and Cool Dad reassured her, “Don't you worry. You’re getting the 280, darlin’, as soon as you get your license.”  He was her father after all.

That Dodge was insane.  It was an automatic that had been converted to a horribly loose stick. You had to use a screwdriver to start it, which, looking back, one can only assume that jalopy was smoking’ hot, if you know what I mean.  Luckily, one of the cooks at Bridgemans had given me a brief stick shift driving lesson one night while drinking cans of beer together in at the parking lot. And truth be told, I was a bit of a natural.

I drove the Dodge home that day feeling surreal that I had a secret car all to myself, but where on earth would I park it? And what if I got caught?  I couldn't exactly park it in my driveway!!!  I recalled a bit of a break in the wooded area near my home, a flat grassy spot off the side of the road.  As I neared the house, sure enough, there was the clearing, and I was able to pull my secret car into that little area and nestle it behind a patch of trees!   My secret car, safely hidden in the woods.

Many visits to the Cool Dad compound commenced as well as a ton of beer parties.  Cool Dad supplied the beer and weed for the pregnant woman, the 15 year-old girl, and the retarded boy who fell down a flight of stairs at one of the parties and spent the rest of the evening confused with a bloody forehead. After awhile, he stopped inviting Tobi.  Cool Dad and I would go for long drives together and he would pop new tapes in the deck to blow my mind with—I heard Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours for the first time and Sinead O'Connor’s "Nothing Compares 2U" played at full volume.  I had a sense that the situation was wildly inappropriate but Cool Dad never laid a hand on me... until one day.

We had spent the day tailgating cars on the freeway in his 280Z.  The sun had gone down and I asked him to drop me off at home.  When we pulled into my driveway, he leaned over and said, “It’s ok that you're in love with me,” and shoved his 40 year-old tongue down my 15 year-old throat.  I was freaked out and quickly got out of the car and Cool Dad drove away with Sinead O’Connor blaring from the open windows.

The next afternoon, I awoke to my mom standing over my bed. “WHO IN THE HELL IS DONALD PRINCE?”  For a moment, I had no idea who she was talking about. Then, slowly in my mind, the words formed into the image of Cool Dad’s grinning face. It had never occurred to me that he had a name, but the Prince part tipped me off as that was Tobi’s last name.  “A friend?” I answered sheepishly, wondering what the hell was going on, why my mom knew anything, or was even in my fucking bedroom at all. 

“A FRIEND!!! A FRIEND????” she screamed.  “He's a convicted PEDOPHILE for CHRIST'S SAKE!! His parole officer is on his way over right now to question you about the nature of your relationship so get your ass out of bed and get dressed!!!”

His parole officer showed up to my house to describe who Donald Prince was, how he had spent 17 years in prison for raping and tying up a 13 year-old girl and putting her in his trunk AND that he was going back to prison because his relationship with me was a violation of his parole.  His daughter, my friend, had called the parole officer to report her dad.  What an act of friendship that was. 

Much time passed and I had pretty much forgotten about Cool Dad until I received a chicken scratched, barely-legible letter in the mail addressed to me from Stillwater Penitentiary.  Inside was what read like a sixth grade love letter explaining how we would one day ride again when he got out of  the joint. He described how they lit their cigarettes from a flame that shot out of a concrete wall and made toilet wine with fruit they hoarded from their meals. And to this day, I have no idea what happened to the secret car I’d parked in the woods.
 

Joan Vorderbruggen is a writer, designer, and professional nurse. She was host of "Storyhole", a raucous storytelling event in Brooklyn, New York. Lollycopter is her brand of upcycled clothing, textile restoration, and heirloom redesign. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Photo left: Alexa Vachon

Comments

[Tmcmanus]

This is a seriously great short story....

[PD]

Ms. Vorderbruggan will be doing a reading as part of the Riot Act Reading Series---501 Club, 501 Washington Ave, Minneapolis, USA
July13th 8:30 PM

[Stephanie Brown]

This was funny and weird and sad and great. Thanks for posting it.