Joe

In my mind, I can imagine a perfect family. The head of this family would arrive from work, to his loving family. He would be clean shaven and good humored. Imagine, if you will, Ward Cleaver. The model of proper, civilized life. This was not my father.

My father has a gruff voice and a harsh manner. He has certain ways he likes things, and he will tell you if you have crossed the line. Growing up he didn't mince word with my friends either, which meant, coming from "normal" households, they we're terrified of him. I'm pretty sure he liked this.

It seemed when they were around there was always the possibility displeasure would be expressed. The line not to be crossed was not always clear to outsiders. Don't call after nine. Keep you hands off the knickknacks. Don't sit in my Dad's chair. May sure the salt returns back to it's place, within reach of my father.

I can't say I always liked this, but I got to enjoy it more with the invention of Joe.

See, at some point in my life I learned that fear in others can be entertainment for me. Given the affect my Dad had on people, it really was only a matter of time before we capitalized.

I think it was the Gibson's, Jason and Eric, who asked first about the mound of dirt in the back yard. To which my brother and I told them it was the resting place of our older brother Joe. Poor Joe. See, one fateful meal time my father had asked for the salt and Joe mistakenly gave him the pepper. The details were sketchy, but a shotgun and a shovel brought him to this place of final rest.

Now, we didn't have any back up and our story might have been a little outside of believable. So, the Gibson's played along, a spice rack was added, but more importantly, Joe was born. My friends fear and my Dad's quirk with salt placement had bore him.

It was our friend Scott, who was more than a little gullible at that age, who was to hear the story next. Add to this the fact that he was a tall, jumpy kid, who seemed to always be a half step from running and I couldn't control myself. He asks about the dirt and I get real somber. Looking off in the distance, trying to keep it together. I tell him about Joe.

He's a little freaked, but not sure if he can trust me. So, he does what any teenager does when they think the father of one of their friends is a murderer, he asks another friend for confirmation. As luck would have it, it was Jason Gibson. Who sells the whole thing.

I can see it now, Scott is over, careful to avoid the mound of dirt in the back yard. My dad is napping, so we move into the back of the house. We don't talk about Joe, but he's there. Dinner is almost done. My Mom, not knowing any of this, asks Scott if he would like to stay for dinner. His eyes are big and his mouth won't form the words. There is a sound in the other room, my Dad is up.

Scott is gone, out the door, the space he was in still warm with his body heat. My brother and I smile at each other, knowing. Looks like there will still be a place for Joe.