In 1963, Eugenio and Virginia Boria separated. I was a baby when they decided my sisters would stay with my mother and I would go with my father and his sisters, Louisa and Irene in the next building. I never knew a time my parents were together even though we all lived on the same block.
Eugenio was an ugly drunk with heavy hands and a heavier tongue. He was ostensibly my father, but he didn't know what that meant, and he didn't particularly want the job. He thought his only responsibility to me was to pay the bills and, on occasion, take me to the barber. We never spoke on those trips. We never held hands, even when crossing the street. My aunts made him take me so he did, grudgingly. Other than that, he had no use for me.
As a child, I remember drawing little pictures. childish scrawls, crayons on looseleaf paper. My aunt Irene would fawn over them, clapping her hands with glee. "You are going to be a famous artist one day!" she'd say, and I would beam.
My aunt Louisa, the elder of the two and much more reserved, would look at the picture appraisingly, hand it back to me and say, “Very nice.” She might even grace me with a rare smile.
When presented with the drawing, my father would wrinkle his nose, crumple it up and say, “The fuck, you think you're an artist now?"
Sometimes I brought home good grades. My aunts would reward me with special desserts or little toys. There was always praise. Unfortunately, my father would have to sign the report card and when he did, he would say something along the lines of “Look at him, a fucking genius. How do you fail English? Come back when you get a good report card. Bum.” That was his cute nickname for me. Bum.
One Halloween, I went with a bunch of kids into the corner bar. Everyone knew a bunch of drunks with slippery hands would bring in a good haul, so that was where we hit first. When we went in, we saw the bar was empty except for my father sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer. He called for us to come closer as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket, He pulled out a few singles and made a show of handing out dollar bills to all my friends “One for you, one for you…” about five kids who ran squealing out of the bar. When we were alone, he would fish in his pockets and pull out a quarter. “this is for you,” he said, then he held it just beyond my reach so I had to jump for it. When he finally relented and put the coin in my hand, he turned back to his drink, muttering, “fucking Bum,”
That was life with my father.
As I recall, he only beat me once, but it was memorable. I must have been around six at the time, but he still used a thick belt to beat me with. At one point, he brought the belt down at a sharp angle and it sliced right through the skin on my knee, exposing the bone. My aunts both screamed and pulled him off me, cursing. They never allowed him to beat me again, although there was always the occasional slap or one swipe of a much thinner belt.
The dynamic changed when I was about fifteen. I already stood a few inches above him and had the trim body of a boy who spent most of his time rough housing with his friends. It must have been around six o'clock. I was walking down the apartment’s long hallway to get to the front door when he came out of the kitchen and stood in front of me, barring my way.
“Where you think you're going,” he growled. I could smell the booze on his breath even though he hadn't gone out that day. Yeah, I thought, He hides bottles in his room.
“Out,” I said. I tried to brush past him, but he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around,
“Who the fuck you talking to like that?” and he made as if to hit me.
I took two steps back and raised my hands in a defensive stance. I was no fighter, but I was fairly confident I could lay him out. I was certainly willing to try and he saw it too. We stood that way for a few minutes before he grunted and waved me aside dismissively. I don't think we spoke again after that.
He only ever acknowledged me one time. I was playing at a block party with Eddie and our band, Blackberry Brandy. I was singing lead when I saw my father out of the corner of my eye, walking by with a blonde woman I didn't know under his arm. As they passed, Ronnie and I both distinctly heard him say, “Look. That's my son.”
I didn't catch her response, but I saw them walk on. They didn't stop to catch the set.
After the gig, Eddie brought it up. I told him I didn't feel anything at all, no sense of pride at my father deigning to notice me.
“He was trying to get into that woman's pants,” I said, “That's all.”
We didn’t speak to each other until the day he died, but I hear his voice still, whenever I fail or fall. He leans in and I can smell the booze on his breath as he whispers in my ear, “You’re always gonna be aa fucking failure.” Sometimes I believe him.