Jerry Garcia's Evil Twin

            by Dane Silva

 

            Shants UBZ

            Well, lets talk about my father. My whole life he has had a long grey beard, one that makes him easily mistaken for Santa Claus or possibly Jerry Garcia. I have this theory that his face is covered in hideous war scars or a distorted burn that resembles something phallic, but this hypothesis is based solely on the fact that my Pap is a pretty peculiar guy. Like this one time he bought his pants three sizes too short, but he still wore them anyway. He adored these pants. “I feel liberated. A soothing breeze can really make a man's day when the chafing starts. I mean... There not really pants. Ummm. There more like shants. I mix between pants and shorts. Like the pirates used to wear. Arrrgh,” he would rant while trying to mimic an elderly buccaneer.

            Screw the Blind

            If you know my dad you wouldn’t exactly call him politically correct. He’s the type of person who takes cheap shots at EVERY CATEGORY OF MAN, especially the religous and occasional a blind man or two. When all the conspiracy was coming out of the Catholic Church about priests molesting little children he was cracking jokes left and  right. “ This is complete bull. When I was an alter boy I never wore underwear under my robes, and no priest touched me. Who do these kids think priests are? Michael Jackson! This is the church were talking about. Not Never Land Ranch.” This sort of thing tended to angry him and spiral into to tornado of hatred, “And why the fuck is their handicapped parking spaces in front of ice rinks or why do drive in ATM’s have brail lettering. Who do these blind people think they are? I’m starting to think the blind thing is just an excuse to get the good seats on the bus and carry around that cool white cane.”

            King Carlos

            When I was first born my Pap had it stuck in his head that we shouldn’t call me Dane because he thought it was too Scandinavian.

            “Well what should we name him? I don’t see you coming up with any good ideas,” my Mom would ask.

            “How about Carlos. That is a fine name. Carlos Juan Silva. Doesn’t that just roll off the tongue. Caaaaarrrrllllooooosss. He will be treated like a king with a name so illustrious,” he said. But, my mom always had final say, even if he was completely serious about the name. For the next few years of my life he called me Carlos behind my mothers back. Sneaking in little comments like, “You could have been a King Carlos.”

            Camping Fun

            With King Carlos behind us, my father and I needed to begin our real relationship.

            “How about camping?” my Father asked. A Father-Son camping trip... What could possible go wrong? We packed the basics. A tent, stove, lantern, matches, sleeping bags, knife, a rather large wooden spoon and the essential case of imported beer. At the crack of dawn my father and I clambered into the family truck. It was a 67 Chevy with metallic mint green paint, but the truth is time had weathered away its original beauty. Over the many years of its prolonged life it had withered away into a heap of red rusted sheet metal that was strategically held together by several pieces of duck tape.

            The sun burned strong across the dark asphalt of highway 580 as a lonesome red truck bounced down the road blasting the crackling tunes of Bob Dylan, Lynyrd Skynard, and the occasional Weird Al song. No longer than 5 minutes on the road did we hit a seagull. That bird flew directly into our windshield with a thunderous SPLAT!!! Bird guts and bloody feathers were everywhere.

            “Dad you killed that seagull. That disease infested seagull,” At this point we were off the freeway and in the parking lot of a shady gas station.

            “Now son. I didn’t kill that bird. Ummm. It uhhh... committed suicide. He must have suffered from chronic depression. Its because of a chemical imbalance,” he said as he smeared the remaining bird brains with a slightly broken squeegee.

 

            Fire Starter   

            The tent was pitched, the burgers were grilled and plenty digested, and it was now time for the s’mores, but we needed a fire. Not just any fire... According to my father we needed a “Mans Fire”. 

            “ Go gather some wood son. I’m going to teach you how to make a fire with only one match and a handful of shavings,” my father smiled as I ran into a pitch black forest eagerly searching for small scraps of dry brush. I came back five minutes later with a stack of large green pinecones. “No no no. This wont work at all. We need dry brush like that plant over there,” he pointed at a small three-leafed bush. He proceeded to gather large quantities of this one bush. It had small oak shaped leaves that were speckled with several red dots.

            “Hey dad. I think that’s poison oak. Don’t you know that rhyme? Leaves of three let them be. And look at the leaves, there red and shiny. That’s definitely poison oak. You’re going to get a rash,” I said as my Dad started screaming obscenities.
            My Dad disregarded cleaning his infected hands and began building a small teepee. He set the small home aflame with a rather long match. The fire smoldered, burning slowly and gently, with small jets of smoke but not a single flame arose from the Indian home. Angered at his feeble attempt he briskly walked to his truck and came back with red can of gas. “ God damn it anyway. I wish I was an octopus so I could kick eight peoples asses,” he was mumbling to himself as he unscrewed the gas cap. He poured the amber volatile liquid over the miniscule flames, but before he had a chance the flame was climbing the showering fluid. The flames reached the nozzle erupting in a floury of bright red flames and pitch-black smoke.            

            “ Dad. Are you all right? Your eyebrows are gone,” I asked

            “ I’m all right. Luckily I didn’t get burned and we now have a truly manly fire. How’s the beard? Is it still intact?” he was examining his face in a spoon making sure his pride and joy was alive and not a reeking pile of ashes. Too bad it didn’t burn away. That’s the closest I have every come to seeing my dads face. We left the next morning, my Paps hands swelling the size of watermelons and his face left expressionless due to his lack of eyebrows.

            “If you cant tell, this is my irritated face”

 

 

 

Throw Like a Man

           

            At a very young age I was taught the essential life quality of throwing rocks and being able to hit targets from great distances. All sorts of things like cans, bottles, cats, windows, cars, enemies, but especially birds. Hurling small stones at birds has always been a hobby of mine, but until my father shared his secrets I was not nearly the marksmen I am today.

              There it was, at the bottom of an algae infested creek, the perfect throwing stone. Flat, but not too flat. Perfect weight and shape. Arrow Dynamic qualities, and a nice grip for my thumbs. I thought this to myself as I examined the rock. Of course my dad watch as flung the stone with all my might at small blue jay across the river, but before the stone had lost course and the bird was exhibiting evasive maneuvers.

            “Young Grasshopper. You show great promise but you lack one very important quality. Patience my son. Let the bird hit the rock. Not the rock hit the bird,” my father spoke in his best Mr. Miyagi accent, which was meager at best. He threw the nearest rock and a defenseless birdie. He pelted it right in the head. BLAMO!!! Lights out it was dead.

            “You see that one son. All in the wrist my dear boy. All in the wrist,” he said with an eager grin.

            “I dont think that one commited suicide Pap,” he rised my eyebrow with a look of disregard then walked off humming Hotel California.