Three More Dad Stories

 Every morning we would make the drive from  Mill Valley to downtown San Francisco.

Some days traffic was rough but most of the time it was smooth sailing over the Golden Gate. Just me and Dad for awhile and then John joined us.

We also had a hitchhiker for awhile.

Her name was Sandy and she was actually a secretary in my Dad’s office. She was a middle-aged woman and she was miserable. She wouldn’t talk, was usually late coming down and stifled all conversation but Dad felt badly for her and his giving her a ride was a truly charitable thing.

One morning we pulled up to the spot where she was usually waiting...and she wasn’t there. That wasn’t unusual, but what was strange was that there was just a pair of old shoes in the spot where she usually stood.

We pulled over and waited and all at once Dad burst out laughing.

“What?” I asked.

“She must’ve bought a pair of odor eaters.”

Story Two:

It was just Dad and me in the car and we were listening to the news reports of the day.

“The man was found shot to death,” the announcer said, “but what was worse was that after his death he was cut up and his body was stuffed into three 55-gallon drums.”

“My God,” I said. “That’s how I want to go.”

Dad made the sign of the cross.

Looked to the top of the car.

“What?” I asked.

“May he rest in pieces,” he said.

Story Three:

We used to hang at a pool after work. The entire apartment complex was alive on Saturdays as we sat there in the sun, all day, drinking beer and cooking on the grills.

One Saturday, Dad was making ribs. The men on the grill beside us were doing barbecue chicken.

I got to chatting with a black man in his mid-30’s.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a musician,” he said. “I play in a band you might know.”

“Try me,” I said.

“The Doobie Brothers.”

“Get out of here!”

I called my brother John over. We had a beer or two with the bass player from the Doobies.

“Want to see my gold records?” He asked.

John and I headed to his apartment and there they were. A half-dozen gold records on the wall.

Ten minutes later we headed back to the pool, and there was Dad.

Standing at the other grill...

...eating a chicken leg.

“It’s true!” Dad yelled. “You son-of-a-bitches can cook some chicken.”

We all laughed.

“Your Dad is something,” the Doobie Brother said.

Yeah.

He was.