That Night
R. Nikolas Macioci
My dad, nicknamed Shorty, killed me
in many ways. When he drank, he transformed
into a man mean as a rabid monkey.
He liked ladies in excess, and for that reason,
alone, should never have married or had children.
At 21, he and his tireless work ethic rose
to superintendent of Federal Glass Company.
Of all the girls on the assembly line, hand painting
Scottie dogs onto juice glasses, he focused on Mom,
asked for a date. Shortly afterwards, the farm girl
married the handsome Sicilian.
I always wondered what had hurt him
to cause alcoholism and to abuse Mom and me.
I couldn't see it in his eyes. I couldn't see anything
in his eyes but the color of expensive, milk chocolate.
The night he almost lost his infant son,
he had taken Mom, her sister, Liz, and Liz's husband,
Toots to play cards at the Grotskys, friends of Liz
and Toots. The Grotskys lived two steps shy
of tar paper houses. It was 1941, and they were proud
to afford any kind of house. Actually, cheap, green
shingles topped their roof. The Grotskys glowed
with warmth and hospitality. Continual refills
of beer accompanied the poker game.
After several hands, Mom found herself
unable to balance me on her lap while playing,
so she faded to a heavily nicked, wooden, rocking chair.
My two-month-old head lay close to the chair's arm.
Dad tottered from the card game, slurred words,
"You're spoiling that baby." He whipped out
a pocket knife, opened the blade, took aim.
The knife sliced air, stuck in the chair arm
an inch from my head. He laughed, turned back
to the card table.
As I grew up, Mom told me this story many times,
and we agreed that fate and drunken focus
had saved me from being a surefire fatality.
R. Nikolas Macioci
My dad, nicknamed Shorty, killed me
in many ways. When he drank, he transformed
into a man mean as a rabid monkey.
He liked ladies in excess, and for that reason,
alone, should never have married or had children.
At 21, he and his tireless work ethic rose
to superintendent of Federal Glass Company.
Of all the girls on the assembly line, hand painting
Scottie dogs onto juice glasses, he focused on Mom,
asked for a date. Shortly afterwards, the farm girl
married the handsome Sicilian.
I always wondered what had hurt him
to cause alcoholism and to abuse Mom and me.
I couldn't see it in his eyes. I couldn't see anything
in his eyes but the color of expensive, milk chocolate.
The night he almost lost his infant son,
he had taken Mom, her sister, Liz, and Liz's husband,
Toots to play cards at the Grotskys, friends of Liz
and Toots. The Grotskys lived two steps shy
of tar paper houses. It was 1941, and they were proud
to afford any kind of house. Actually, cheap, green
shingles topped their roof. The Grotskys glowed
with warmth and hospitality. Continual refills
of beer accompanied the poker game.
After several hands, Mom found herself
unable to balance me on her lap while playing,
so she faded to a heavily nicked, wooden, rocking chair.
My two-month-old head lay close to the chair's arm.
Dad tottered from the card game, slurred words,
"You're spoiling that baby." He whipped out
a pocket knife, opened the blade, took aim.
The knife sliced air, stuck in the chair arm
an inch from my head. He laughed, turned back
to the card table.
As I grew up, Mom told me this story many times,
and we agreed that fate and drunken focus
had saved me from being a surefire fatality.
