Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Hiding behind his living room drapes, my father adjusted his trifocals and peered up the street. He was patiently waiting for a SWAT team to swoop in and arrest me.
I love visiting my dad, but he didn’t raise his children to pilfer condiments, incinerate their underwear and make off with the neighbor’s Internet. “You were normal before you went to school in California,” he says, as if that were two weeks ago. “They made you burn your bra. Remember?”
Actually, I think we had a dorm fire, but close enough. Dad’s memories often find themselves stranded between fact and fiction, where evidence is optional and reality is subject to revision.
“I don’t eat much, so get anything you want,” Dad says as we stroll through the supermarket, our first stop when I visit. But four bananas, one box of Fiber One and two navel oranges later, he wants to know exactly how long I’ll be staying. “I’ve seen blue whales eat less.” (Dad watches Animal Planet.)
Next, we cruise by the sushi bar for some of “that poisonous, raw stuff.” As I put a few soy sauce packets in my jacket pocket, Dad goes pale.
Him: “When did you start stealing food?”
Me: “When you buy sushi, it’s free.”
Him: “No judge will believe that.”
Visits with my sweet, lovable dad have been getting stranger since he started naming his vegetables. For years, my father’s sole foray into farming was mowing the lawn. He never suspected that suburban dirt would support anything besides crabgrass until Social Security started sending monthly checks.
Then, out of nowhere, he began harvesting zucchini and tomatoes. If “Proud Parent of a Terrific Vegetable” were a bumper sticker, Dad’s car would be wearing it. Every time I’d send photos of his grandkids, he would retaliate with 8x10 portraits of his veggies. Pretty soon they had names. Sarah, a voluptuous beefsteak tomato, was his favorite until they had some sort of falling out and she vanished under suspicious circumstances. (Dad claims she perished in a dorm fire.)
Back home after the market, I plugged in my laptop to check email. The neighbors always let me borrow their wireless connection, but that worries my computer-less dad. He’s convinced this invisible signal is a finite resource, like hot water. So he’s got a mental picture of the neighbors trying to take a shower while I run around flushing all their toilets.
Him: “How much are you taking? Will they have any left?”
Me: "I’ll leave a dribble.”
Him: “What if you break it?”
Me: “Dad, I’m not a hacker.”
Him: “We’ll bring them some zucchini, just in case.”
As I depart with our vegetable offering, Dad eyes me suspiciously from his post behind the drapes. He’s still checking for red flashing lights and wondering if I’m wearing a bra.
Jan A. Igoe is a writer and illustrator from Horry County who is blessed to have an amazing dad to keep the post office from displaying her photo. Send your thoughts to her at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.