When I was 13, my friend John had a birthday party at the mall. That's what his parents thought anyway, instead John Dave and I spent the entire rainy day at the mall kicking up trouble. All I remember us doing however was walking to a nearby gas station to buy smokes. The rest a blur, I do have a picture of us in one of those booths. My face pimpled long-ish hair combed in a not so greasy DA, Dave curly black hair, and a big black cowboy hat with a hint of a chin showing in the shadow that was John. Such a sinister picture when he died a few years later. It's the only picture I ever had of him, and he had to wear that damn cowboy hat in it.
I'm sure the whole car ride home I reeked of cigarettes, my father gritting his teeth in ominous silence, I could feel the tension building the entire drive. He never looked at me or even slightly turned towards me. The radio shut off, the vents not blowing just sounds from the street and the car and my dads heavy breathing. When we got home he at me to "come here" right after I leapt out of the car, making a run for the bathroom. I yelled sorry I had to go to the bathroom and raced up the stairs.
My dad knew I smoked, and he hated it. He never ever caught me with cigarettes though. He never gave me any cash as soon as he started thinking I was smoking, but I used to shoplift them or get money from other places to buy them. That night I had 3 or four packs of smokes on me, and he thought he had me. I remember being panicked. I was trapped in the bathroom with them, I knew he was standing at the stairs glaring at the door, I'd have no chance to go anywhere else. I wrapped them and my lighter in a thin towel tied it in a knot and lowered it into the heater vent tucking just the corner of the towel under the register cover. It was perfect you couldn't even tell it was blocked. I strolled out all innocent and smiling right smack into my dad who had followed me upstairs and was standing in the doorway.
My legs were all jelly and I was trying very hard not to look terrified. My father had a weird sense of rules. If he couldn't prove you were doing wrong he couldn't punish you, but if he found something he turned insane. Couldn't control his temper, worse if he found out you had lied to him, like I had millions of times about smoking. He pointed at the stairs and growled sit there don't move. and stormed the bathroom. He tore through it for over an hour checking and rechecking, even going outside and checking the yard and the roof before he gave up. The entire time I sat on the step, then when he got done looking he sat down in the living room. I knew what he wanted, he wanted me to leave the step so he'd have a reason to punish me. One creak of that step and he would have charged out yelling. I sat there for hours, through dinner, even past bedtime for my younger siblings. Dad didn't come out in the hallway, if he saw me he'd have to deal with me or I would ask him if it was ok to move, and he'd have to answer. My mother eventually went to bed too, stopping to touch my face and give me a sad look. She knew I would always buck my Dad. My brothers would have gone to dinner breaking the command and just taken the yelling rather than waiting. I never would, I hated how transparent he was at those times with his temper roiling and flaring so close to breaking out. I waited and waited until finally around 10:30 he came up to bed and then he let me go to bed. Questions: Was I a coward for not letting him punish me, and get it over with? Did I build up the tension between us so much I had to be righteously indignant over every suspicion or risk punishment for everything?
Living with my Dad encouraged the lie, his punishments were so severe, that getting "caught" doing anything was terrifying. We had to lie to survive and when he found out our lies we tried to take it. It only taught us next time be more careful, don't get caught, don't slip up. Don't poke the bear.