The doorbell rang after midnight. Rose stood in the rain, a Hefty Bag slung over her shoulder.
"I'll explain everything tomorrow. I'm so tired. Can I please just go to bed."
Most men wouldn't think twice. Most men didn't have their car stolen last week.
A phone call the next day confirmed what I had expected. Her boyfriend's father, Art, under whose roof she has lived for nearly two years, has had enough. He can barely afford to support himself and his wife. His father is ill and lives with them. He has two unemployed sons in their twenties taking up space. A while back, Rose joined them. Perhaps the father was at first happy. Rose might calm down his often-wayward son, inspire him to pursue a responsible lifestyle.
What he got instead was a larger cast of freeloaders to deal with. I put Rose out because she turned my home into a tavern for herself and her friends. Mom and Dad go to work. Phone calls are made. "Friends" show up. The younger daughter comes home from school to find the house filled with strangers.
Now the boyfriend's father, Art, finds himself in the same situation. He's cleaning house, starting with Rose. My guess is that Jay isn't far behind.
Rose tried to be slippery with me. I needed to go to work the next day. I told her she had to be home when I got back. She wasn't. The following day, after making it clear there were to be no visitors in the house, I got home an hour or so earlier then usual from work. Guess who pulls in the driveway? In a cab. With no money to pay the fare.
I should have let the driver call the cops on Jay for non payment. Instead I slipped him a ten, and informed Jay he was no longer welcome in my house. If I so much as see him, I'm dialing 911.
I knew where things were going and it was time to take control. It took some arguing to obtain the support of my wife, but finally she agreed. I tossed a sleeping bag in the trunk of my car. The three of us drove to the edge of a park a mile from our house.
You will go to an A.A. meeting every night as long as you live here. There will be no visitors as long as you live here. You will be home when Dad gets home from work every day. If he wants you to blow in a breathalyzer or piss in a cup, you will do so with no argument.
You can accept our terms or you can take the sleeping bag. No more discussion. Yes or no.
She bitches about the meetings, swears she had a drug problem, but kicked cocaine years ago, and doesn't drink to excess. I don't buy it. Going to meetings every night also works as a great reason for her not to go out at night. I give her a piece of paper. She has to bring it back with a signature of the meeting secretary in order to get in the house.
There have been hopeful signs. She attended a confirmation of a cousin today. She used to slip out the door before we left for these things, knowing we were helpless to mount an all-out search. The house would be hers all afternoon.
She complains mostly about my stance of non-negotiation. Every complaint is met with this response: I can get the sleeping bag for you if you like. I'll even drive you to the park.
If things improve, I may let up. But I've been through too many years of bullshit to allow things to get haywire again. I know damn well there will be nights when she sleeps in the park, or at least in the garage. But she was homeless and now she's not. Perhaps this is a teachable moment.
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David Cox
Bellwether Vance
Dennis Knight
Judy Berman
Mothership
Norma Tennis
Salon.com
Comments
I wish you and your daughter, and your wife the best. I love how you don't self-censor.
---No children of my own, but I shared with you a few stories about my youngest niece, so I have some sense of how difficult this is---and I hope you don't ever have to make that drive to the park.
Salon, you are part of The Problem. Why is this pro-quality guy writing for free, providing you with revenue and fresh content?
Read his bio? He didn't mention a trust.
Sometimes cool fonts are not enough.
I remember this carpenter who's father was a real serious imbiber.
His true stories are rib breakers. He can build a outhouse or a grand piano.
He'd prop up on a few blankets. He was a 14- years old truck driver.
His Father would stop off in rural bar. He was a 18- wheeler and the best trucker.
Bless that family.
You must be loved.
Those days teach us.
I bet she's haywired!
She an aspirant saint!
Rated with empathy.
You, sir, are definitely doing right things right. As always, sending out good thoughts and prayers.
Rated.
It's snowy here this morning too. That has to make the sleeping bag an even less palatable option.
If there is any graveyard humor in all this, it's flashing back on the song from West Side Story:
GEE, OFFICER KRUPKE
ACTION
Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke,
You gotta understand,
It's just our bringin' up-ke
That gets us out of hand.
Our mothers all are junkies,
Our fathers all are drunks.
Golly Moses, natcherly we're punks!
ACTION AND JETS
Gee, Officer Krupke, we're very upset;
We never had the love that ev'ry child oughta get.
We ain't no delinquents,
We're misunderstood.
Deep down inside us there is good!
ACTION
There is good!
ALL
There is good, there is good,
There is untapped good!
Like inside, the worst of us is good!
SNOWBOY: (Spoken) That's a touchin' good story.
ACTION: (Spoken) Lemme tell it to the world!
SNOWBOY: Just tell it to the judge.
ACTION
Dear kindly Judge, your Honor,
My parents treat me rough.
With all their marijuana,
They won't give me a puff.
They didn't wanna have me,
But somehow I was had.
Leapin' lizards! That's why I'm so bad!
DIESEL: (As Judge) Right!
Officer Krupke, you're really a square;
This boy don't need a judge, he needs an analyst's care!
It's just his neurosis that oughta be curbed.
He's psychologic'ly disturbed!
ACTION
I'm disturbed!
JETS
We're disturbed, we're disturbed,
We're the most disturbed,
Like we're psychologic'ly disturbed.
DIESEL: (Spoken, as Judge) In the opinion on this court, this child is depraved on account he ain't had a normal home.
ACTION: (Spoken) Hey, I'm depraved on account I'm deprived.
DIESEL: So take him to a headshrinker.
ACTION (Sings)
My father is a bastard,
My ma's an S.O.B.
My grandpa's always plastered,
My grandma pushes tea.
My sister wears a mustache,
My brother wears a dress.
Goodness gracious, that's why I'm a mess!
A-RAB: (As Psychiatrist) Yes!
Officer Krupke, you're really a slob.
This boy don't need a doctor, just a good honest job.
Society's played him a terrible trick,
And sociologic'ly he's sick!
ACTION
I am sick!
ALL
We are sick, we are sick,
We are sick, sick, sick,
Like we're sociologically sick!
A-RAB: In my opinion, this child don't need to have his head shrunk at all. Juvenile delinquency is purely a social disease!
ACTION: Hey, I got a social disease!
A-RAB: So take him to a social worker!
ACTION
Dear kindly social worker,
They say go earn a buck.
Like be a soda jerker,
Which means like be a schumck.
It's not I'm anti-social,
I'm only anti-work.
Gloryosky! That's why I'm a jerk!
BABY JOHN: (As Female Social Worker)
Eek!
Officer Krupke, you've done it again.
This boy don't need a job, he needs a year in the pen.
It ain't just a question of misunderstood;
Deep down inside him, he's no good!
ACTION
I'm no good!
ALL
We're no good, we're no good!
We're no earthly good,
Like the best of us is no damn good!
DIESEL (As Judge)
The trouble is he's crazy.
A-RAB (As Psychiatrist)
The trouble is he drinks.
BABY JOHN (As Female Social Worker)
The trouble is he's lazy.
DIESEL
The trouble is he stinks.
A-RAB
The trouble is he's growing.
BABY JOHN
The trouble is he's grown.
ALL
Krupke, we got troubles of our own!
Gee, Officer Krupke,
We're down on our knees,
'Cause no one wants a fellow with a social disease.
Gee, Officer Krupke,
What are we to do?
Gee, Officer Krupke,
Krup you!
Maybe it’s your journalism background, but your direct, trimmed of all fat style suits your posts so well.
Um, re: Xanadu’s comment, did I miss something about OS fonts? Is a default of Times New Roman cool...?
I shall pray for you and your wife and, of course, for Rose.
Monte
God Bless.
And for what it's worth, I wouldn't let up. Not a bit. Firm, ironclad rules are required at this point.