Part of my Not Playwrighting series…
What I know: My father was abandoned as a child.
What I believe: He was emotionally stunted because he was abandoned as a child.
What I know: Starting at the age of six, my grandmother sent my father to live with family and friends of the family, many of them unkind and interested in child labor.
What I believe: She shipped him off because my dad looked like his father (she kept my Aunt Iris with her.)
What I know: My father was three years old — I think — when his father left. I'll verify this with my brothers. He saw his father once more, at a train station, when he was ten.
What I believe: (Simplified version) Because his father left when he was so young, whenever a man would befriend my father later in life, he never questioned their friendship. He was desperate for their companionship.
What I believe: People smell desperation. Healthy people are repelled by it and parasites are drawn toward it.
What I know: In my lifetime, my father's two closest friends were con men he met in A.A.; not necessarily good con men, but con men nonetheless.
Friend #1: Let's call him Dusty, because, well, that was his name:
James Dusty Rhodes, a convicted child molester who died in prison. Dusty appeared one day, after my father got sober. They'd met at meetings, though I don't remember Dusty at meetings. Writing this, I wonder if Dusty continued with his sobriety. I have no idea. I do know that Friend #2 didn't.
What I know: (Caveat: These are the recollections of my childhood. As I write, I feel the skew of a child's mind. Dusty appeared when I was about nine and went away when I was sixteen or seventeen. I base this on the fact that my dad got sober when I was eight and one of my final memories of Dusty is him teaching me to drive- Hello, Paula Vogel!)
Dusty wore a lot of polyester. I picture him in mauve or beige or powder blue or brown. This was the seventies, but, again, I want to bounce this memory off my brothers. Have I made him into the sleezy lounge singer that I see in my view-finder mind? It was the seventies. This could be correct.
Dusty slept on our couch a lot. When he wasn't crashing at our place, he seemed to live out of a station wagon. Although I don't remember this specifically, I do remember the clothes hanging in the car. Perhaps he was couch surfing. I really don't know. I do know that he had a tumultuous relationship with his ex-wife. I shouldn't have known this. (For some reason the name Siggy just appeared in my brain. I think that was the ex's name. Must check with brothers.)
My dad and Dusty had many business ventures together. The one I remember most vividly was Rhotronics, their electronics company. My father was completely non-mechanical, had no engineering experience, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither did Dusty. They also had an engine cleaning business, and I think Dusty was initially part of my dad's tool selling enterprise. Every venture my father got into either peripherally or directly involved Dusty. I don't know anything about Dusty's education or work career beyond the schemes that he convinced my father to join.
Dusty was around, and then he wasn't. My dad told me that Dusty was in prison for writing bad checks. When I was 22, I asked him again why Dusty was in prison- because it seemed like a long time for bad checks. My dad told me, He's in for child molestation, but he didn't do it. Let's just say, I know he was not falsely imprisoned.
My father continued to visit Dusty while he was in prison, even after I told my dad that Dusty belonged there. He told me about his visits to Dusty; he told me Dusty said Hi. I asked him to stop telling me anything about Dusty, so he did. I don't know how long he continued his visits. I do know that my mom didn't believe me when I told her that my dad visited Dusty. (My mom's issues will have to wait for another blog, another play.)
To my knowledge, my father's denial about Dusty continued until my dad died last year. About ten years ago, my cousin Rich tracked Dusty down via a sex-offenders website. My father didn't believe it was Dusty. I looked him up. It was him. I may not know if he wore polyester or not, but I'll never forget that face.
Dusty's last address was a Florida state penitentiary.
Friend #2: Let's call him Sonny Saunders, cuz he's still alive.
Wow.
Keep writing, my friend. It's really good, play or not.
Oh, Wiseone. Your insights make me wince and also make me proud of you. For what it's worth, Mary O always took your side in discussions of Dusty.
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My two cents: This would work well as a long essay.