Chapter 1

In which our hero (who was an amateur villain) faces a lengthy list of his shortcomings, evades retelling his misspent youth, and questions the American public school system.

I waited a moment for the initial shock to pass, of course during that moment I realized I was the only one shocked and mostly by the utter lack of shock emanating from my underwhelmed but confused daughter. Her face, momentarily, resembled something that Picasso might have considered committing to the canvas. One eye squinted to the point of inversion while the other opened wide enough to test the borders of its face sharing friends. Nostrils flared, eyebrows cocked, and a forehead developed a cramp from so much wrinkling and then nothing. The information had processed quickly, and the results of the hypothesis were in. Daddy = unconfirmed super-villain. Conclusion: this should surprise no one. By the time I exercised one blink my daughter’s face had returned to a normalcy of slight interest with a peppering of impatient disdain.

“Okay.” The word dropped from her lips plainly and lacked any emotion other than quiet acceptance.

“Okay?” I shot back, “That’s all you have to say? Your father has just revealed he attended a secret school, can communicate with animals, had several terrible incidents involving Santa Clause, and leaned on a moral scale towards super-villainy as opposed to philanthropy and Okay is the reaction we’re going with.”

“Uh-Huh.” She clipped the last syllable hard to reassert the confidence of her conviction that this was not a surprising development.

“Daddy, I’m six years old. I have been alive almost as long as some doctors go to school. Doctors daddy. Doctors. That means I’m pretty smart, not quite doctor smart, but at least dentist smart. I’m also very observant, and since we spend a lot of time together, I might have noticed a few things that make this all seem sensible.” My daughter proclaimed this explanation and directed it with accuracy towards me, but the impression hung heavy that she was also saying it to herself to settle some long-held suspicions. She continued, “ Firstly; you don’t like anyone, in fact, you refer to most people as moorons. Secondly; you’re always telling momma you would rather be around the pets than any idiot who might be lurking beyond our front doors. Thirdly; you curse a lot daddy. If we had a swear jar, you’d probably be able to get me into a better school so I could be doctor smart. Fourthly; you grind your teeth; fifthly you talk to yourself, sixthly you yell at inanimate objects, seventhly you find hugs disconcerting, eigthly you...

I sat quietly listening to the long and very thorough list my daughter had compiled, in her six short years, regarding my misanthropy. It stretched before me, a long and straight road. No twist or roundabouts. No turns, no on-ramps, or off-ramps. A single bleakly paved road that leads to the shallow, narcissistic, yet self-loathing person I had always been. I could not let her go on. Not only was it making me reassess the weight my foibles were placing on my loved ones, but it was also close to bedtime, and she was showing no signs of slowing down. We were roughly around fourteenthly when I decided to rejoin the conversation.

“Okay, I get it. There shouldn’t be any surprises in the sudden revelation that your old man has the social graces of a room full of rabid wolverines, but I think your statements deserve some clarification. First, where did you pick you up this ly thing? Counting doesn’t work like that. Also, you may be right about your schooling. Second, I do not refer to everyone as moorons. It’s morons, and you want to consider saying it right or you’ll sound like a mooron. Third, I don’t like dealing with people; that’s true. I find them exhausting. I also find them deceitful, vain, greedy, cruel, selfish, and pridefully ignorant, and that’s just your immediate family. Everything else is right on the money, and I can’t argue that. These are the reasons why your father’s life has been mired in many self-fulfilled prophecies and self-defeating battles. It’s also the main reason I was lucky enough to find myself chosen for Lord Jarvis’s school. Let’s go back to the beginning baby girl.”

“Whoa. Stop right there daddy I already know the beginning.”She interrupted.

“You do?” I was slightly taken aback, “Has your mother told you this? It is not something I have shared too often.”

“Daddy everyone knows the beginning.” Her exasperated tone lead me to believe that maybe I was off the hook. I had images of my wife exercising some verbal acrobatics with my daughter whitewashing and refinishing all the soot covered layers of my past. I could always rely on her to run some serious subterfuge when faced with questions regarding my base surliness.

“Well great then,” I said calmly. “ No need to reminisce about things you can’t change. Move forward is what I always say.” I never say that, but I needed a phrase that could lead to an exit strategy, and I don’t work well under pressure. I stood slowly, fixed my gaze at the entry way to my office, and willed my feet Godspeed on their escape. I also hoped they would take me with them.

My daughter showed no interest in the recent development that this little history lesson might be cut short. Like most six-year-olds, her train of thought made frequent stops at any distraction that resembled a station, or a tree, or a kitten, but when faced with even a hint of not getting what she wanted her attention was as focused as a knife juggler. Her little voice was not to be deterred by a lack of audience.

“The beginning,” she spoke confidently, “is when the Lord made heaven and earth; then Jesus came along to give mankind fire, and the devil did not like that one bit, so they both trained Dinosaurs to have epic clashes of blood and steel. Did I mention the Dinosaurs had swords, well not the T-rex his arms are too small, so he had a gun that shot swords and then there was a flood, but Jesus survived cause he had a boat but it hit an iceberg, and he was rescued by Columbus who happened to be discovering America, and they fought lots of pirates while sailing back to heaven and I think that brings us back to where you left off.”

My feet, intrigued by what they just heard, reconsidered their path to freedom and retreated to the comfort of the chair seated before my daughter. They rather rudely failed to discuss the situation with the rest of me.

“Hold on a minute baby girl. I need a moment to process this “. I promptly rose from my chair, dodged the array of loose dolls and brightly colored pieces of cut paper that littered the floor, and crossed the pathway to the kitchen. The cold tile alerted my bare feet that they were, in fact, awake, not dreaming, and had indeed just heard one of the most entertaining but wildly inaccurate retellings of the historical roots of civilization. I opened up the cupboard that housed our excess glasswares and took note of the audible creak that shuddered from the screws holding the door on. I would need the wife to tighten those up later. I removed a large apothecary jar from the middle shelf and placed it gently on the counter resting beneath the cupboard. I crossed to the other side of the kitchen and searched the various drawers. I sifted through piles of old bills, calculators, receipts, comic books, cleaning supplies, and finally masking tape. I pulled a six-inch strip and placed it on the jar, ensuring to run my thumb delicately but firmly along the strip to ensure no bumps or air bubbles wrinkled it. I pulled a black marker from the scattered school supplies strewn carelessly across the dining table and placed the cap end between my teeth to remove it. As the dark end of the pen tip touched the tape I sketched the words “Swear Jar.” I crossed back over the tile to the rough carpet of my office and placed the tape, the pen, and the jar on my desk. My daughter never moved an inch, and it appeared she was not the least bit curious as to what I was doing. While lowering myself back down into my chair, my hand instinctively reached towards the back pocket of my jeans, removed my wallet, and placed it on the desk with the rest of recently discarded items. My eyes wandered down to meet my daughter’s shiny brown gaze followed by her toothy grin. Not to be outdone I raised her a toothy grin and one arched eyebrow.

“Where in the CENSORED did you learn that? Better yet what CENSORED face took the time to CENSORED –ing fill the prime real estate of your growing brain with that steaming pile of Gorilla CENSORED. I’m guessing somewhere in your head, at this exact moment, a grizzled brain detective, two weeks from retirement, is fervently searching for the sick CENSORED who callously murdered the brain cells unfortunate enough to be in the path of the information that steamrolled over them. Now he has to face their families and his new lifetime filled with the nightmares of the Holocaust he just witnessed-“

“Daddy” she interrupted, “ That hardly seemed rant worthy.”

“You’re right baby girl.” The phrase exited my mouth with an over exaggerated sigh. This was getting to be old hat to her. The outburst, the rants, the incessant but wildly creative cursing. I reached back over to the desk and pulled my wallet out from under the pile of my recent arts and crafts. I held it in perspiring hands and looked down at the little girl in front of me, sitting Criss cross applesauce. Her face still smiling, her eyes still exuding cautious but eager inquisitiveness. I could not allow myself to wiggle out this. She deserved to know the whole story. I had dodged a lot of blame in my lifetime, and I also spent a great deal of time justifying my pettiness, but here was a little creature barely getting used to the universe surrounding her and she had already accepted what I was. She was already past who I am and this was her way of finding out how I got here. I loved every molecule that held her together at that moment. It was time to stop evading the blows and own up to the punch. I dropped my wallet in the swear jar.

“Well, when your mother asks how you were able to afford college I hope this moment sticks out in your mind. Okay, no more stalling. You are a worthy adversary, far too clever to be deterred by your father’s shenanigans, so I concede to no more interruptions. Now, we must travel back to the beginning, your father’s beginning.”