Skill Testing Question

At the end of last year, I entered a contest.  In exchange for making a small donation to a charity, I would receive some calendars, each with an eight-digit number that acted as a draw code or an entry into a bank for a chance to be drawn throughout the year for a number of prizes.  There's a daily draw for a $1000, which would be a nice exchange for the thirty bucks I shelled out.  There's also a weekly draw for various trips (or their monetary equivalent) as well as a monthly draw for a new vehicle, provided by Dodge (or the cash equivalent).  It being a leap year, adds one more daily draw, which increases my odds of winning (at least) one prize, significantly...  Bad?

Almost three months have passed us by, and no prizes as of yet.  I check every few days, my eyes scanning through the prize winning numbers, but mine never appear.  Come to think of it, nothing remotely close to my numbers ever appears.  The odds of my winning may have gotten worse.

On the off chance that I do get one of my three draw codes drawn, according to the rules, I have to answer a skill testing question without the aid of a mechanical device.  I hate to think that on the off chance that I was lucky enough to win a $40K automobile, that the prize will elude be because I don't know algebra.  I know it likely would be a more simple adding/subtracting/multiplication number, but back in high school, I never pulled off 100% marks on my math exams, which proves a chance of failure all these years later.

I doubt that officials would allow this to happen.  In fact, I recall one draw that required a mathematical question to be answered at the time of entry and the ticket sales person whispering to every entrant, "The answer is fifteen."

Win or lose, the thirty bucks I invested into this delusion, goes to a worthy cause.  It was for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation.  I like boobs.  I've always liked boobs and if it takes thirty dollars of my money to help preserve boobs for future enjoyment, then it's thirty dollars that I'm happy to part with.

Glimpse

Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either.  My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist.  Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.

That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times.  Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad.  An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home.  The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.

Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle.  After that, was pure bliss.  While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was.  I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome.  The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around.  He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke.  The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror.  It was like walking on glass.  You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor.  After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters.  However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear.  I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions.  Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.

Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long.  Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since.  I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies.  Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today?  My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.

It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him.  I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat.  We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories.  Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood.  One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place.  Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence.  He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.

The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999.  I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died.  I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow.  He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling.  I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family.  His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence.  My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway.  Three days later, my dad was dead.

I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently.  Not much, I'm sure.  He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day.  He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life.  My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair.  Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else.  It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair.  I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.

The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies.  It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew.  Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad.  No need for words, just enjoying each other's company.  Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.

My father could be a real bastard, sometimes.  The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad...  The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday.  If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about.  The weather?  Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life?  I don't know.  I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch. 

Broken Hearted

I had a picture of myself, once, as an old man.  There I'd sit, alone in an old folk's home, when someone would come, sit down and visit with me.  The conversation would take me well into the past, exploring my history and contributions in life.  One of the questions that would close the conversation would ask: Do you have any regrets?  I saw myself sit for a moment, eyebrows furrowed with concentration, then these words escaping my heavy breath, "I regret that I never got to hold a baby."

For anyone who's ever held a baby, words cannot describe the joy that is experienced in an act that seems so minor, yet creates a large impact.  Alas, I'll never utter those words, as eight years ago, my sister gave birth to my first, of two, nephews, Jake.  At first I rejected the idea of picking the tiny newborn up in my feeble arms, but finally succumbed to the constant urging and as I said, words cannot describe the delight I felt after that moment.  He felt so small and warm and trusting in my arms.  I was almost afraid to breath, for fear something may happen to the infant child.

Jake and my friend's little girl, who was born around the same time, would be the only babies that I would hold until this date.  Due to mitigating circumstances, in my own head, I rarely came for a visit after my second nephew was born.  Even today, I rarely come 'round.  Other than birthday's and major holiday's, you'll rarely see me in their house.  I've always gotten a feeling of...  I don't want to say disrespect, but I have always felt like they (my sister and her husband) looked down on me, as I were a f*ck up!  In recent times, I'd say that assessment would be accurate, but for the last three or four years, I'd say that was highly inaccurate and premature.

Another factor that convinces me of this attitude, is the way my nephew, Jake, treats me.  At one time, he was all I could think about.  Inexplicably, the moment he entered this world, I loved that kid.  He was always such a cool little boy and I looked forward to the next time that I got to see him.  He'd get his mom to phone me up and invite me over for barbecues and play dates.  It was cute and endearing.  Whenever I'd go to Wal-Mart, I'd swing past the toy department, picking through all the Hot Wheels cars, picking and choosing cars and monster trucks, which I'd gift him on every visit.  This sparked an obsession in the boy who today has amassed a collection of monster trucks numbering close to fifty, if not more.  Maybe I created a monster.

Since his birth, my life has been like a roller coaster.  Up and down, highs and lows that would knock the wind out of the strongest of titans, yet I've managed to keep my head above water.  It's been an emotional time, too, where I admit, sometimes I felt like I couldn't go on any further.  In the darkest hours, though, I'd find inspiration in that little boy and his addictive laughter that would give me the strength to lower my head and power on.  In recent memory, this hasn't been the case anymore...

Chad, is my nephew, the second of the two boys and he's as tough as he is sweet.  Every time I see him, he's got a sweet smile that accompanies his baby blues.  In the beginning, when I rarely came around their house, he didn't know quite what to make of me, but in the years since, he's warmed up to me and we're like pals.  He's always got a kind word to say and is always inquisitive and talkative.  He's always got a toy or device in his hand and is willing to show me exactly what he's doing.  Chad is a pure joy.  He's exactly what Jake used to be.  Jake on the other hand, in recent times, seems as defiant towards me, as he is endearing when his parents around.

When mom and dad are nearby, he's happy, joking and dear, but the moment his parents disappear around the corner or out of earshot, Jake's happy smile is quickly replaced with a devious grin and the hurtful comments are fired in my face, like a proverbial cream pie.  Seemingly minor comments quickly become razor sharp shards of glass, piercing my skin and stinging like salt on an open wound.  A couple weeks back, I was asked to baby sit my nephews and at first, I was excited about the premise, as I'd not seen the boys since just after the New Year.  The last time I'd watched the duo, we had fun, eating pizza and drawing and colouring at the table.  This time around, wasn't quite so enjoyable.

Chad, as always, was sweet as can be.  He had his game boy in hand, thwarting the evils of Mario's world.  Jake, was nice, for a while, whilst mom and dad were home and continued as such for the first hour or so of their absence.  Together, we went downstairs to his play room and fired up his X-box and played some wrestling before trying our hand at some NHL2015.  That was enjoyable until I made the mistake of scoring on his team, and that's when the switch came.  Like a wash cloth wiped across a dirty face, gone was the sweet little boy and I was now facing off with a demon child.  Not a unholy terror, mind you, but more of a wolf in sheep's clothing.  He began to cheat at the game, turning off my ability to control my players, or removing my goalie from net altogether so he'd have the advantage of scoring on an empty net.  The novelty of playing a fun game with my nephew wore off quick and I stopped playing with him.  Next came the barrage of hatred, including the comment, "Why don't you do everyone a favour and just die."

I was flabbergasted and truly hurt...  Still am, if the truth be told.

When asked how everything went when his dad came home, I neglected to tell Bryan about the comment.  I doubt he would've believed it anyway.  I did share that just before going to bed, Jake attempted to strike me across the face with a toy hockey stick, but when I grabbed it out of his hand, he resorted to punching me as hard as he could at the base of my neck.  Bryan appeared to be none too pleased about the report, but feigned a smile and laughed it off.  I doubt the matter was ever addressed with the young boy.

Last night, I dropped by their house, as I needed some help from Bryan.  There was an air of fun filling the house.  My sister and the boys had visited a game store earlier in the day and picked up a couple puzzle games.  A thousand piece puzzle for her, which looked like confetti spread across the table downstairs where she attempted it's assembly, and a couple Rubik's Cubes for the boys.  Smiles and laughter filled the house, which felt busy with energy.  I stuck around for a short while, catching up on news and gossip, but true to nature, when my sister disappeared downstairs to attend to her overwhelming task and my brother-in-law went outside for a minute, Jake's deviant grin returned and the comments came flying out once more.  He told me that I was dumb and stupid and that he was smarter than me, because he could construct a solid colour on his cube in a minute.  Again, meaningless on the surface, but disturbing coming from an eight year old who's supposed to love you unconditionally.

What's most baffling to me, is the fact that he only does this when his parents aren't present, which leads me to believe that he knows it's wrong to say such things, but at the same time, where does he get this attitude from?  I can't help but wonder if Teri and Bryan aren't badmouthing me when I'm absent and Jake is picking up on this negativity?

What have I done that is so bad that they would hold me in such disregard?  So much that their eight year old son would say, "Why don't you do everyone a favour and just die?"

I left their house shortly after, feigning an empty smile of my own, but harbouring a truly broken heart.