Short Story...Things My Father Taught Me

Things My Father Taught Me

            When I was ten years old, my father taught me how to swim.  He took me to Lake Beaumont as the sun was setting and he threw me into the water.  I wasn’t surprised.  This was what my father always did.  That is who my father was.

            When I was two years old, my father taught me how to walk.  He threw broken glass on the floor so that every time I fell, I cut my hands, arms, knees, and shins.  He said, “No son of mine falls down.”  It took me three months to learn how to walk.

When I was four years old, my father taught me how to catch a ball.  He threw baseballs at my chest until I cried.  He broke three of my ribs.  He said, “If you don’t want the ball to hit you in the chest, you’ll just have to catch it.”  It took three weeks for me to learn how to catch a baseball.

           

When I was six years old, my father taught me how to hit a ball.  He duct taped a baseball bat to my hands.  He wouldn’t let me loose until I successfully made contact.  My hands were burned from the duct tape and two of my fingers were broken.  He said, “No son of mine swings like a pussy.”  It took three days for me to learn how to hit a baseball.

           

When I was eight years old, my father taught me how to ride a bike.  He tied my hands to the handlebars and my feet to the pedals with rope.  He tied the handlebars to the back of his pickup truck and he took off.  He didn’t stop until I didn’t fall anymore.  He said, “No son of mine needs fucking training wheels.”  It took three hours for me to learn how to ride a bike.

           

When I was ten years old, my father taught me how to swim.  Three minutes after he threw me into the water, I drowned.  As my head fell under the water for the last time, I heard him say, “No son of mine would ever drown.”  That is who my father was.

Jamie Schoffman

4/1/12