The Quiet Ones

They say my dad never seemed to get angry. The years I spent with him; I never once saw him lash out. It didn't matter if I failed a test in school. It didn't matter how many fights I got in. All he would say to me is, "Johnny, you've got to control your temper. Find an outlet and pursue it."

I would roll my eyes at him in disgust. As if someone like him, always quiet, always nonchalant, and seemingly happy could understand the restlessness inside of me. Watching my parents was like viewing a sickening show about a standard couple in the 1950's or an 80's sitcom. Mother and father sat at the breakfast bar each morning. Ma would make Dad's coffee just the way he liked it. She looked silly wearing the floral-patterned apron he bought her for Mother's Day. Each year, he would buy her a new apron and she had quite the collection from years prior. Some with marigolds, some with roses, and others with hearts or daisies. She would tie her hair on top of her head in a bun and smile at him while making breakfast. The way they flirted so openly with each other filled me with disgust.

I had learned not to let them notice or the flirting would get that much worse. That, and dad would pull me into a strong hug, sock my shoulder, and call me "squirt", which further triggered my gag reflexes. I had to wonder how I came from these people. Maybe I was adopted, and they just never told me. Maybe it was all a charade. I concluded that had to be the answer.

My friends were a collection of outcasts and ruffians. Mother and father never said a word, despite having them over frequently. They'd check to make sure we were okay when they'd hear arguments or thudding noises but didn't ask too many questions. My friends always told me how lucky I was, but I didn't want to be lucky. Luck seemed to make others jealous, and jealousy ended in fights and suspensions.

I remember coming home with cuts on my forehead, a bloody nose, and a black eye. To my family's disdain, a couple of my adult teeth had also been knocked loose. The principal suspended the other participant and me. Mother calmly sat me on the upright stool at the kitchen breakfast bar, and applied alcohol, salves, and bandages. She said nothing, and her mouth froze to a strange state somewhere between a smile and a frown. I handed my father the pink suspension slip which he tucked into his front shirt pocket. For the next two weeks, he said nothing about the incident and put me to work. When he spoke, he told me it was my job to give my mother a much-needed vacation, and him an extra set of hands. I took out the garbage and did all the remaining house chores without protest. I learned to change out car parts, oil, and weld vehicles. I re-painted his old Buick Century.

I had no desire to fight or argue for those two weeks. My body felt the need for sleep, and when I slept it was soundly. I looked at the job I had completed after painting Dad's car and felt proud. I hoped he would allow me to work on it again. I knew it was a possession he loved and driving it after my behavior was too much to ask. Working on it despite it being a punishment, also felt like a privilege. I didn't quite understand his thought process. I gave it a good wash and wax at the end of that two week suspension and thought I might get a part-time job when I turned sixteen. Maybe I'd save up and buy Dad some chrome rims for it. That would look nice, and he would appreciate it.

For my sixteenth birthday, Dad took me for my driving test in our family's car, the Ford LTD Country Squire. Man was it ugly, but I kept my mouth shut. Dad was paying for my driver's license. I passed and was rewarded with a birthday celebration of my favorite dinner, cake, and ice cream. Dad gave me my own spare set of keys to the Squire and told me all I needed to do was ask. I told him about my intentions to seek employment and start working as soon as possible. He smiled proudly.

It took me nearly a year, but I finally saved up for some new rims for Dad. I stored them in my room under the bed until his birthday. His birthday and my graduation were only a few days apart. When he saw them, I watched his eyes light up before he smiled and laughed. We installed the new rims on his Buick together. He was impressed that I knew which ones to order. Auto mechanics had been an interest of mine ever since that suspension a couple years ago. Little did I know that I had found my outlet. I won't say my anger went away, but I will say I felt more at peace. The restlessness I had was now put to good use, and the satisfaction I received from working on that car was addicting.

I walked across the stage and declared my auto mechanic intentions at my graduation ceremony, and my family held a celebration. At the celebration, my father handed me the keys to the Buick Century. He folded them into my hand, patted me on the back, and said, "It's yours now, son. Congratulations."

I stood there gawking at him, dumbfounded.

"Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the chrome rims for the few days I had them but what I enjoy most is the memories I made with you. You've earned it, and I'm proud to watch how you've grown."

Dad didn't cry, but I felt tears stride down my face. I quickly wiped them away without saying a word. I had grown to become a "quiet one" and finally felt as though I belonged in my family. That night, dad and mom took me to our attic.

"There is something we've been meaning to show you. We were just waiting on the right time." dad murmured.

"Here it comes, I am adopted!" I said rolling my eyes.

"What?! No! Where did you even get that idea?!" Mom shouted while Dad laughed verbosely.

They pulled out a worn, dusty box from the back corner. It took some digging as old lamps and home décor were stacked around it, along with baby books, pictures, and trinkets, that proved I was not, in fact, adopted. Dad took a long, hard blow and the dust went flying everywhere.

"You probably always wondered why we held our piece when you got into fights. I know we didn't act like normal parents, but we did the best we could. In this box, you might find the answers you are looking for." he said, slicing it open with his box cutter.

Inside was a championship belt, medals, boxing gloves, and several photographs. My jaw dropped. In the photographs, was my very own "quiet" father. A smirk spread across his face.

"Your mother came to every fight, and that my boy, is the championship belt from my last tournament." he explained.

My mom smiled and leaned onto my dad's shoulder before saying, "It is always the quiet ones you have to watch."