My father was a police-man. His Slavic arms, the size of middling-to-large libraries, protruded from his massive, operatic chest. His braided, unshorn hair sloped to the mid-shoulder, decorated sporadically with ribbons and tiny bells which tinkled merrily on those brisk autumnal days when the wind blew leaves and small animals to the far reaches of our planet. He was a proud and powerful man.
That towering figure both awed and terrified me, in the same way the Pope would awe and terrify later in life when I came of age and chose a vocation. Memories of Dad slinging me over his shoulder after a hard day at the office and tossing me around a bit before setting me back down in my cage are among the fondest of my early years. Occasionally he would sit on his throne, balancing me atop his knee, and tell of the world outside (which I wasn’t yet allowed to see).
“Women, son,” he told me once, reclining his head back and smiling with large ivory teeth. A chill ventured down my spine. To hear the fairer sex mentioned would always rouse my prepubescent attentions. “You must be careful, my boy. Women, you see, they meet at night, after the men-folk have worked hard for the day and must rest, only to rise again the next morn. They meet in basements in homes all over America, make tea, chatter incessantly, and discuss the best methods for removing a man’s penis,” I gasped. My young-yet member retreated hastily into the cavern of itself, horrified. “…Yes, Stanley. I feel you’re old enough to know the workings of the world. Your mother might not agree with me, but thankfully the slattern knows her place in the world and has gone to change the car battery as I’d bid her do some time ago. But you must be on guard, Stanley. Most women keep collections of penii in shoe boxes beneath their beds, unbeknowest to the man she might be sharing her bed with for that evening. No, those poor fools have no idea what lies in store for them that next morning, to waken bloody with the phantom limb still lingering between their thighs, much like the leprous still feel their discarded skin flaps or ear-bits long after the tide has swept them away. Be wary of that innocent-looking Adidas box, son, be truly wary.”
Much of my father’s words were lost on me, still a boy of five years, but I heeded the central warning quite clearly. Dad twirled a long strand of mustache between his leathery fingers, reflecting on the words he’d uttered, gazing out the window, perhaps longing for escape before he too became a deformity.
Later that evening I sat the kitchen table, gazing uncomprehendingly at a passage in Jet magazine, unable to read about Regina King because I couldn’t stop picturing images of my severed boyhood, alone and shivering, huddling beneath a bridge somewhere near the interstate, perhaps surrounded by inebriates and pedophiles and burning trash barrels.
As I stared through the magazine, my mother’s voice, over near the refrigerator, returned me to immediacy.
“A little piece, Stanley?” She said, with a knife clenched tight in her fist. In my mind she cackled and swooped down on me like a harpy, clawing with her savage blade. I shivered and contemplated escape but I was unable to move from horror. A dribble of urine escape me then, and fearfully wetted my Spiderman underwear. “Stanley!”
The refrigerator door had been opened and in her other hand my mother now held a piece of chocolate cake. “Is that ‘no’, Stanley? Are you tired? Earth to Stanley!”
“Sorry, mum,” I said, the adrenaline still dripping through my anxious chest. “I thought you were gonna chop my little man off.”
My mother scowled and demanded to know what I meant. Surprised that she didn’t know, I told her all about the womanly conspiracy.
Several days later, Dad moved away to an apartment near the big city. I wasn’t allowed to see him anymore but he came up to me after I got out of school one day, wearing his Bobby’s cap and police outfit but looking tired and vacant. Upon his chest still glittered the silver badge that read: “POLICEMAN” but his uniform and person were unkempt. He smelled like old bagels and looked to be the shadow of his former self.
“She did it, son,” he said to me. “She cut off my manhood and threw me out…Don’t need me anymore…I told you, boy, I told you! Be careful…Wear a jockstrap…Become a monk…”
My father began whistling an old bible hymn. His eyes rolled backward into his head so that the purpling veins below were exposed. I saw him stagger off down the road, the poor fool.
Anyway, well done. Here are my general comments/suggestions:
