Never forget, I had a father too.

My daughter recently learned to ride a bike. I would say I was proud, but I really have no reason to be. You see I failed at teaching her to ride and I had to pay a stranger to teach her the one thing as a man I should have done myself. No reason to dwell on that though. Yesterday my kid was taking her bike out of the garage and I told her to be careful not to scratch my car. At that very moment I remembered the little tale of my brother scratching my dad's car with his bicycle and for some demented reason I felt my six year had to hear the story. Something about those who don't hear about my childhood are condemned to repeat it.

The story:

Lewis and I went on a bike ride around the neighborhood. Picture me bunny hopping through flames while Lewis exhibits retard strength by being able to ride uphill without needing to stand on his BMX bike. Quads of steel! After ripping it up we had to put our trusty steeds away for the night so they wouldn't get stolen by the local adopted kids (total joke, please don't sue or steal my current bike).  Not shockingly, our two car garage had a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde feel to it. One side housed my father's pristine 1982 Mercedes 240D, the other, mounds of disintegrating cardboard boxes filled with stuff from when my parents moved into the house from the old country (the Bronx). In order for us to get our bikes to the trash side, we had to carefully roll them passed the only thing my father cared about. On this day, Lewis went first. I can still remember the sound of his rusty handlebar scraping the rear corner of that Benz. He turned and looked at me. I smirked and darted for the house.

I ran into the living room to find my father, shirtless, smoking a Moore Green, while watching Sanford and Son. In my most tattle-taling voice, I screamed "Lewis scratched your car with his bike." I might have added in that he did it on purpose. My father always seemed like he was tired and out of shape but at that moment he moved like a gazelle. He leaped from the sofa, grabbed a broom, and darted for the door. Now think about this for a moment. Before he even assessed the damage, he grabbed something to what, beat my brother with? No consideration for the fact that, one, my brother was a child or the fact that it was an accident. My father was on a mission to beat my brother and I LOVED IT! My father chased my brother down the street screaming how he was a terrible kid, swinging that broom, as the neighbors watched in disbelief. Finally Lewis darted for the front door hoping to find shelter hiding behind my mother, who by the way did nothing to stop any of this. My father out of breath had no choice but to throw the broom at my brother like a javelin. He needed to be punished!! As the door slammed behind Lewis, the broom missile sailed right through the glass that made up 50% of that door. Shards flew everywhere. At that moment my father realized justice would not be served that day. He sulked off to the garage where I can remember him using a tiny bottle of touch up paint to fix the 1 cm scratch.

As I finished telling the story, I said to my daughter, "And this is why, when you want to take your bike out, you ask an adult to help." 

 

I wish I had a picture of my daughter's face when I was done telling the story.