The Mock Dock

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days each week that my kids spend completely with their mom. It is often a 12-14 hour workday for me followed by a slow drive home, a baker’s dozen ice cold beers and a gentle weeping that ends with sharp in-breaths and spittle as I curl up in the middle of my living room floor holding fast to a teddy bear or pillow or pile of freshly clean clothes that they had worn the weekend prior.

Each of these days, however, my 6-year old son, 4-year old daughter and I share a few stolen moments together thanks to Ma Bell and the amazing telephone wires. Each Tuesday and Thursday, Holmes Jr. and Holmesita recall the exciting times of their mornings. Often I am told of Lego towers built only to be knocked down with marbles. I hear of princess dolls that have been held captive by legions of stuffed animals. I hear of alabaster flesh being trounced by the cold waters pouring from the grommets of the sprinkler. I hear of all the things that make my cold, dead heart try to beat again.

My son likes rules. They make him confident and comfortable in this cockamamie world. They give him, a 6-year-old, a sense of control. They give him power of his angst.

As we chatted on the phone this afternoon, he told me of his trip to a local museum filled with a hundred years of racing memorabilia and actual on-track cars. His spirits soared…his imagination higher. It was then that this conversation took place:

“Daddy, Holmesita, went poop at the museum.”

“In her pants?”

“No, no silly. She told Gramma and they went into the bathroom. Then 10 minutes later, she went pee.”

“In her pants?”

“No, goofy. She went in the bathroom and peed. Because that is how it is for girls. 10 minutes after they poop, they pee.”

This is not a rule of which I have been aware. I was married for 10 years. I have dated women of all ages since my divorce. I have not noticed the practical application of this rule in any of these relationships. However, Holmes Jr. has made this a rule in his world. “That is how it is for girls.”

So ladies, I ask that we at least make every attempt to honor this little boys wishes - nay dreams - of the 10-minute Rule.

Absurdly yours,

Holmes

I love the game of baseball. As an attempt to stave off the pang of loneliness that I feel every Sunday when my kids go back to their mother’s house, I sat at my neighborhood Little League diamond watching boys grasp the American dream. I was hoping that surrounding myself with the joy might be positive. Also, being that it was “All-Star weekend”, I thought for sure all of the hot, single moms would be feeling great about their “Kevin’s growth-spurt” and find comfort in the cold, dead blue eyes of a life-battered fellow like me.

As I sat my ass and my awesomely developed calf muscles down on the sun-scorched steel bleachers, I thought, “Wow. It’s a beautiful summer day and I’m sitting alone. Maybe I should fill my cargo shorts with pennies and jump into that pond.”

But I stopped myself short. I saw her raven hair, alabaster skin, pouting breasts. “Perhaps that attractive woman looking at magazines near the concession stand will come over and fall in love with me. No. I am unloveable. I know this. Maybe she will have sex with me.”

Then some guy steps up and kisses her on the cheek. Bastard. Look at him. All showered and color-coordinated and holding Fortune magazine.

Man, I need some hope. I look for it in the face of a young boy waiting to buy some Pixie sticks and Big League Chew. He catches me watching and bellows out, “Mommy, that creepy guy is staring at me.”

His mom is the attractive lady I was looking at ten seconds ago. Now she whispers something to her Izod-ed lover.

He puts his arm around her, pulls his son close and gives me that, “Why don’t you just kill yourself, you creepy hanging-around-kids-parks dull-eyed bum-smoker?” look.

Oh go play golf, you manicure-getting, comfortable-shoe-wearing dope.

I check my phone, see who called. Nobody. Hmmm. Okay.
I take out my notebook, write. That always makes me feel better.

She says, “You’re just afraid of your feelings.” Of course I’m afraid of my feelings. Who am I? Michael Bolton. I don’t know what to do with feelings. That’s why whisky was invented. So I don’t have to feel.”

I peek over at the happy family. Now Dad is ogling younger women. The kid is picking his nose. Mom is eyeballs-deep in OK! magazine, wishing she was richer and younger but not as lonely even though she has a kid and a husband and friends she shops with almost every day.

She truly believes if she had better tits and was banging George Clooney, she’d have peace. Maybe she is right.

I’ll get a cup of coffee. That will help. Yeah. Then I’ll be jumpy and have to urinate. Perfect. Just like them.

Yo soy la pequenia Shania Twrrrraaaain….wink, wink…

uuuuhhhhhh…oh yeah…

You are thirty-four.
That is true.
Comment?
I will be thirty-five on November 3 and that sure is something.
Does it bother you?
I suppose but so many things bother me that it gets lost in the pile.
The bother pile?
That’s right, which is right next to my poopoo undie pile.
The good news: I have proclaimed my love for Funyuns.
Funyuns? That’s a fake onion ring snack, right?
Oh yeah. You nailed it. “A fake onion ring snack”. And the Beatles were a “musical band.” And having penis relations with a hot sexy woman is “just pleasant.”
You appledick. Funyuns rule!
I stand corrected.
You stand dumb and bald-fat smelly.
What does that mean?
I don’t know. I lash out when I am angry.
What are you angry about?
Vagina! Penis! Flopsweat!
Let’s change topics. What have you been doing lately?
Same old stuff. Went to the dentist.
And do you have any cavities?
No, I think the dentist molested me. Her lady bits were on my shoulder. I could feel her heat. I love to be near a lady’s bits, but not with a paper apron and metal clip on my chest. I had to think about broccoli being shoved in Dame Judy Dench’s butthole to keep my erection under control.
You are a mess. Thirty four and still fighting erections like an eighth-grader.
I’m just lonely. I need to meet someone who might want to try to love me. Someone who might be willing to open her heart to a depressing, fat idiot who rolls out of bed each morning disappointed that he had to wake up and live another day.
Do you need me to lay next to you so your life and bed don’t feel so empty?
You’re not going to try anything queer are you?
I doubt it. What do you consider queer?
The normal stuff. Two men. Penis in bottom. Penis in mouth. Penis in hand. Hugging. Kissing.
I can’t imagine why I would do any of those things.
You can’t imagine? Or you definitely will not do any of those things?
I definitely will not do any of those things.
Because. Seriously. I am so straight I eat a hot dog from the middle.
So you would never be into those things?
No! No! No!
Just asking. You obviously can’t make a woman dig you. So…
Stop asking. It’s a closed topic.
Anything else?
Regarding?
Anything.
Anything else regarding anything? What kind of interview is this?
A crappy one. Like on Entertainment Tonight. I’m no good at this.
Slow down. What’s wrong? You are always so arrogant and confident.
My aunt caught me masturbating.
You have an aunt? But you’re a voice that lives in my head.
Wrong. I’m a “voice that lives at his aunt’s house because his own parents hate that he was ever born” which is in your head.
Sorry. Get your hand off my thigh.