Black Sheep - A Novel Excerpt

My next few memories are all identical, my father hurling his beliefs about politics; about God; about the price of shoes; on unsuspecting victims, defending himself against some imagined slight.

“Don’t you piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining!”

In every situation, I’d stare at my patent-leathers, waiting until he finished. Sometimes he’d ask, do you want me to tell you why I did that? I would say no, even if I did. Then he would answer, because it’s not your job to tell people what they want to hear. I asked, who’s job is it, then?

Apparently, I’d misunderstood him completely.

One time, we were eating lunch near a fountain in a park.

“Turn your head,” he told me. I did. I heard him unzip his jeans and the sound of a strong stream of urine landing against the marble fountain.

“Sir, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re going to have to come with me.”


I turned and watched my father give the policeman this speech.

“Is it part of the police department to harass me when this city is a flagrant vice capital of the world? This city is famous for it’s gamblers, prostitutes, exhibitionists, Anarchists, alcoholics, sodomites, drug addicts, fetishists, onanists, pornographers, frauds, jades, litterbugs, and lesbians, all of whom are only too well protected by the graft. If you have a moment, I shall endeavor to discuss the crime problem with you, but don’t make the mistake of bothering me.”

His dick was still in his hand.

“You can’t piss on public property.”

He zipped up, took my hand and said, quite proudly, “Showed him.”

I laughed until I cried all the way home.

One day, I realized he’d stole that whole speech from Confederacy of Dunces. I don’t remember when I began recognize the breadth of his lies, the scope of his indiscretions. Nothing he did came from him. You got the feeling everything, even how he loved you, was stolen from somewhere.

Last night, I awoke to him tap-dancing on my ceiling.

“Dad?”

“Just doing my cardio.”


Then he winked and I turned around, pissed, trying to show him I was sleeping. Of course, my father has interpreted death not as a great sleep, but the final awakening.

Yeah, I won’t lie. Things aren’t great.