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“ferocious attack dogs” Mr. Quiefton had bragged
about for so many years were a bunch of dyed-in-the-wool pussies, man.
    Sometime
after this incident, I found out that Mr. Quiefton had trained them with
something as unsophisticated as Rolling Stone magazine. They couldn’t
tell the difference between that and an ordinary newspaper. They instantly
heeled, bowing their enormous heads to the soil, whimpering and lying on their
bellies with total submission. After the realization that I wasn’t going to die
a humiliating death—not right then anyway—I crawfished toward the gate with the
newsrag still clutched in my sweaty hand. I flipped the latch on the other
side, tiptoeing across the threshold while keeping my bulging eyes focused on
them, locking it when I was safe.
     
    ***
     
    I
emerged from Mrs. Quiefton’s trimmed hedges and viewed my surroundings like a
paranoid squirrel. Their house was a couple blocks over from ours. I didn’t see
my father’s frothing chops anywhere. The only notable activities were some
children playing basketball in a driveway across the street, and Walford, the
twelve-year old special kid, pissing on a fire hydrant. Everything appeared to
be normal.
    Racking
my brain for a plan, I concluded that the best course of action was to give
Pops some time to process the day’s information.
    My
plan necessitated that I avoid him like the plague.
    I
decided to double back and grab my bike that I’d bypassed during my dash from
the Caddy. I had left it lying in our backyard due to the not-insignificant
issue of Pops trying to tear me a new asshole. As I walked, I stayed
ever-vigilant for an angry wad of malice and navy slacks to come lunging at me
from the bushes of a neighbor’s front yard. The fact I was in the middle of the
street in broad daylight didn’t make me feel any safer.
    Pops
will strangle you on the pitcher’s mound of Yankee Stadium during the World
Series. He doesn’t give a shit.
    I
didn’t see anything out of the ordinary when I approached our front lawn.
Standing on the street by the mailbox, I viewed the telltale signs of a man in
the throes of acute psychosis. Pops was more pissed at me than I’d realized;
he’d left behind his briefcase and fedora.
          
    He
never went anywhere without those.
    I
crept to the gate flanking the left side of our house. Nothing in the backyard
except our brick storage shed and Fred asleep on his air mattress. I picked up
my Beach Cruiser, rolling the balloon tires along the grass back to the front
yard, peeking around the corner as I did so.
    Still,
nothing.
    I
heard birds chirping, kids laughing, and the groans of Mrs. Vadgastank’s
husband from next door as she gave him a blowjob beside the pool. Typical,
run-of-the-mill stuff. I gradually began to relax, a warm sense of tranquility
enveloping me like fat titties from a hot shower. Walking through our manicured
lawn to the street, I pondered my father’s reaction. A piece of me began to see
his side of things.
    “I
think it’s going to be okay,” I said out loud. “Pops just needs to let his
anger subside. After all, how would I feel if I had gotten a phone call like
that about my kid? He was shocked. That’s it.”
    The
hunt was over. My life was not going to be snuffed out like a Pall Mall in a
smoky bar. I was going to live and occasionally have women deny my sexual
advances. Everything was looking up.
    I
came to the curb and placed two wheels on the street. Grinning with confidence,
I began pedaling to my friend Robbie's house on the other side of the
neighborhood. I wanted to smoke a bowl and I wasn’t going inside to retrieve my
stash. Pops could’ve been in the living room eating a plate of Valium with a
side of bottle. If you think I was going to fuck up that tranquilizer,
well you’re just-
    CRAAAAAAAAAAASH!
    See?
This is why I don’t get happy about shit prematurely.
     
    ***
     
    Pops
exploded through the wooden fence on the four-wheeler we kept in