He had his own mugs. Five or six, if memory serves, that he kept on a shelf underneath the cash register at the front there. No one else could use them. Only him. A thing I used to do was put just a bit, the merest bit, of dish powder into one of the clean mugs. Just enough to make the coffee bubble ever so slightly and taste ever so slightly of soap. Then, I’d get a kick outta  his face when he sipped on his coffee and wondered what the fuck. (Sometimes, I guessed wrong on which mug he’d use next so I’d hafta wait days, days, for him to pick the booby-trapped one. But it was always worth it once he grimaced, looked first at the coffee, then around the room for some reason.) 

His crock pot specials went on or in special plates or bowls. Glazed china. Not fancy by any stretch. They were cheap, but they were china. Back when I worked weekends and after school for him, if I felt like being a dick, I’d clean the plates and bowls using a steel scouring pad. He’d go apeshit if he saw me doing it, cause steel scouring pads crack the glaze and once the glaze is cracked, the plate or bowl is useless.

I flunked outta college. Cost him a few grand in tuition. He was mad enough bout the money to which I made him say bye-bye, but what really ticked him off was it wasn’t a hard school, like a Big Ten or an Ivy League. It was a lousy goddamn state school. Made him nuts that I couldn’t even pull a 2.0 at a lousy goddamn state school. (I got a degree years later, from a different goddamn lousy state school, one willing to look the other way, in regards to my checkered academic past.)

I would fill half his daily crossword with random letters. This aggravated him no end. He was also a big fan of the patternless crosswords and the jumbles. I ruined those, too. (Not every day, mind you, and not even very often. None of these things I did very often. That would be rude. No, just enough to make life interesting. I only did these things when I was bored …)

He had upwards of a thousand keys. I shit you not. The man had keys. A big ring that he kept hung from one of two nails: on the wall in the back between the dish room and the walk in, or next to the door in the kitchen that led to the garage. I only did this once (I’d be dead if I pulled it again), but I took all the keys off the ring and rearranged ‘em so he’d have no idea which key was which. Took him forever to memorize the new key order. That was a good one, I was proud of that one, but like I said, if I pulled it again, he woulda killed me.

When I first got my license, I took his car, drove it downtown. I somehow managed to stall the thing in the middle lane of southbound Lake Shore Drive. I was all alone, kinda freaked out and couldn’t figure out how to push it off to the side. So I ran over to Michigan Avenue, called him and told him he really better come get his car. He wasn’t too fond of me for like weeks after that one.

He was a Winston man and when the mood struck, Glen and I would switch a Winston with a menthol (Newport, Kool or Salem). Once he got to the menthol and noticed his lungs were filled with horrible disgusting menthol, he’d nod and say ‘Very funny, way to go, you got me.’ But he’d still smoke the thing. He wasn’t about to put the thing out simply cause it was a horrible disgusting menthol. He just didn’t very much enjoy smoking it.

He used those cheap drugstore planners for notes to himself. Food or supplies to order, repair calls to make, number of breakfasts and lunches served. Those plastic-cover, day-per-page jobbers with a section at the back for addresses, phone numbers and important dates. What I’d do is pick a day somewhere in the near future and scribble a bunch of stream-of-consciousness crap, like how and why I wanted to switch from piano to guitar lessons. Make it take up a whole week, fill up the pages of six or seven days with why guitar was guaranteed to get the girls but piano was by no means a certainty. Pretty much render the thing useless to him. That was fun. Getting yelled at once he reached the useless stretches.

On his day off (Sunday), the only day he could sleep in, Glen and I would smear peanut butter all over the roof of Wilson’s mouth (Wilson was the dog before Chubba-Wubba who was the dog before Fleegle), then place Wilson on the bed, next to the old man, so he could lick the peanut butter from his mouth. He’d do this for minutes. The sound’d wake up the old man, and once the old man was awake, there was no going back to sleep. He’d throw the covers off and say something long the lines of, ‘Mights well go watch fucking Charles Kuralt.’ Wilson’d stay behind, working his mouth for all that peanut butter.

I’ve spent the better part of this morning thinking bout this and other shit I put him through. Last night, before I passed out, I sent mom an email joke-complaining bout Pokey’s current habit of pooping all over the changing table (and as a result, my hands) while I’m putting a new diaper on him, and how I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t suspect he’s doing it intentionally, and the reason I suspect he’s doing it intentionally is I could swear he smiles at me and his eyes get a little extra … twinkle … as I’m swearing cause I’ve got his poop all over my hands.

This morning, I woke up to walk him around, and once I got him settled down to the point where I could do other things, I checked my emails. Here is the entirety of mom’s reply (and this was what got me reminiscing in such a way): “Does it smell like PAYBACK???”