Editing sucks. Revisions suck. I get that they are necessary and all that but I tend to think my best stuff is unedited and just thrown on to a page as fast as my fingers will allow. It's probably sloppy at times and could be better organized, but it's honest and hasn't been picked through. I like that. And I couldn't sleep.
When I was a little girl, four maybe, I had tap shoes. They were the best shoes in the whole world. I didn’t care that the only place in our apartment that didn’t have carpet was the 4x4 square in front of the door. I think the downstairs neighbors probably hated us. The kitchen had tile too, but I don’t remember ever dancing in there. And I don’t ever remember liking to dance after that. But I always wanted another pair of tap shoes.
This was the same little apartment where a year or so before little Brandi got to party with Mom and Dad. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I was a kid, they weren’t much more than that. You leave your beer cans sitting around and your kid is bound to pick them up right? Both of my parents have told me this story on separate occasions. I always wonder, how did no one notice what I was doing long enough for me to get drunk? I’m sure it didn’t take much, but it’s also not really a funny story. I used to think it was. I guess because they did. It’s not so funny anymore.
My favorite memory of the time spent with my dad as a child happened on the back porch of the same apartment. Wow, I just realized how many of my early childhood memories occurred in that crappy apartment. Anyway, the stairs out back were the concrete ones with the metal railings. My dad taught me how to climb to the top on the outside of the railing. At the age of four, it was magical. And at the age of 10, it was still pretty fucking cool. I’m pretty sure I would probably still enjoy it to this day. My mom was not impressed.
My mom was not impressed with a lot of things my dad taught me. I once told her parents that me and my dad like to sit on the back porch and bbq and cuss and spit and drink beer. That’s one of my dad’s favorite stories to tell. I think the one he enjoyed the most though, and she hated the most, was when the mom of a little boy I used to play outside with came to our front door with her son. I was little I don’t remember exactly what happened, but both of my parent’s versions are pretty much identical. Said little boy was picking on me and I hit him in the nose. When it was my time to speak I said, “Dad, I did what you told me to. Jab, jab with the left and come across with the right”. I haven’t punched anyone since. Okay, there was one time when I was drunk and pissed at my sister. I tried to punch her, missed and hit the guy I was with at the time. I hardly think that counts though.
Even though he was not around much, I still ended up just like him...with a few minor adjustments. I think he had the right idea. He always talked to me like I was a person. Other people told him that he couldn’t talk to kids like they were adults, but he didn’t see it that way. Neither do I. Too bad he didn’t stick around to see it all play out, I think he could have had a dramatic impact. Then again, maybe he did anyway.