The Electric Nature of Fatherhood

By Oscar Barajas

Those 1980’s were definitely very interesting days when it concerned the long arm of the law. Domestic violence calls were usually quelled by comments like, “Well, officer, you know how THEY get sometimes. You know how it is, I get home from work and all I want is to get some dinner.” The other neglected crime of the 1980’s was drunk driving. Sometimes the police would pull the car over, come up and see kids in the back seat and then go back to their squad car because the drunken man was just trying to get his kids home.

One of the people who took complete advantage of the 1980’s was my father. Some people have drinking buddies like Andy Capp. They meet up in a pub and talk about their problems. My father was a little bit different. My father had a gang. He shared drinks with such dignitaries such as “El Nopal” otherwise known as “The Cactus”, “La Pata” otherwise known as “The Foot”, and “La Burra” otherwise known as “The Donkey.” They would stand out in front of the apartment buildings on Soto and Sheridan in a scene that would rival “King of the Hill.” They would stand on the street in clear defiance of the sun hiding their drink from the law as well as their wives.

This was the launching pad of my masculinity. I sat there taking it all in. I observed the cat calls and the insults. There were not many rules, except for the golden one. You could never, ever, ever ask one of these fraternity members how they got their moniker. I could not even ask my own father how he came to be known as “El Cepillo” otherwise known as “The Brush.” The society was so secretive that even my mother did not know how my father got his nickname. All she knew was that the nickname had followed him to Los Angeles from Jalisco.

I adhered to the rules during the hot days of summer. I sat there in a corner, listening to the radio while the wisdom collected after every empty beer bottle. I learned a lot from these men. La Burra taught me how to tie my shoes properly rather than just making knots and sticking the shoelaces into my shoes. El Nopal taught me that expiration dates were merely suggestions. I held that lesson true to my heart until the day I ate a bag of dried shrimp chips he gave me. I turned purple, but my dad thought all I needed was warm water with salt. Luckily, my mom won out and we ended up going to the doctor. I was already foaming at the mouth while my dad theorized that I just needed tap water with sugar instead.

I think that my mother was the catalyst in the plan. She was always there to deflect every bad idea my father and his friends had. When my father wanted me to go up to the roof in order to fix the television’s reception because my fingers were more nimble than his own, my mom was there to stop me before I reached the ladder. If it was not for my mom, I would have blown off a couple of fingers by now for the benefit of a couple of bored drunks. All I know is that when I am a father, I will probably ended up doing the same things my father did. After all, how else can you know how hot boiling water is, unless you have someone else dip their finger into it?