On Father’s Day, 2012, AxeMan remembers.
(On the cusp of the faux alter-ego). The old man forever on the road, his last car, his nighttime reading, the heartbreaking end; a 1956
Olds 4-door hardtop parked somewhere near the NYC hotel where he died alone, on the road, in 1958. AxeMan never saw that car again. AxeMan remembers. His first wet dream. I, the Jury, pilfered from pop’s traveling suit-case.
AxeMan, bullied by neighborhood kids, came home in tears. Egged on by his mom. the old man brought home a blow-up schmoo. Filled with sand on the bottom, you could punch it and punch it, and it always came back for more. It wore AxeMan out.
AxeMan finds a baby picture. Pop looked dapper. Mom looked okay herself. Who knew that she was in a constant state of panic, preparing herself for the endless cycle of hellos and goodbyes? Who knew that she was so afraid of dropping her baby again that they had to hire a woman to help her bathe and take care of the little guy? And where did the money come from?
AxeMan remembers thinking that the old man reminded him of Jack Ruby.
He doesn’t know why. So many things defy explanation. AxeMan had many father figures. Teachers, bosses, even friends. To one degree or another they filled some need. They are gone. Not dead, but gone.