Oedipus catharsis and a lifetime supply of summer pants.

He'd eat half a carton of ice cream in one sitting.
A whole sleeve of cookies would disappear
in twenty minutes; thirty if he took the time
to dunk them in his tea.
He rarely had milk in the house
and when he did it was usually
from a previous visit weeks ago
when I'd asked him to buy some.
I'd wind up dumping the chunky contents
of the jug down the toilet
trying not to gag in the process.
That sad little box of baking soda
in the condiment rack of the refrigerator door
fought the good fight
but ultimately lost the battle against foul odors.
We washed down every meal with orange juice--
even steak, even hotdogs--
because he claimed it was good for the immune system.
Even at the age of eight I never failed to notice
that OJ only had that critical property
when it happened to be on sale.
The rest of the time we drank flat soda
that'd been in the fridge for as long as the milk.
His tap water, like his stance, was hard.
It's a wonder the man survived
after I grew too old and autonomous
to subject myself to his gruesome bachelor pad
every other weekend and for half the miserable summer.

But what gets my Goddamn goat to this day
is how he'd sit at the cheap diner we went to
every week for my entire fourth-grade career
and butcher his gums with one of the toothpicks
that came with the check
until they bled.
His teeth would be stained
with a light crimson
and his dead shark's eyes
would stare blankly above my head
at what I can only assume to be
a vision of his precious Heavenly Father
guiding his faithful hand
in whatever blundering move came next.
We'd sit in that awkward silence
until I'd try to use my homework as an excuse to go home--
home being the safety of my mother's condo.
She'd ran away from him already.
I hadn't had that option yet.
To this day she regrets not saving me sooner.
Maybe I shouldn't have revealed that.
Guilt is a useless emotion
like homework was a useless excuse.
He took me to the library.
I tried to find a quiet table
but all I could think of was how badly
I wanted to finish my assignments quickly
and get the hell out of there, get the hell away from him.
And that fucking toothpick
or the shards of what was left of it
would still be dangling from the corner of his mouth
several shades darker than it had been
when still in the plastic wrapper back at that greasy spoon.

--- roughly where it should've ended ---

You didn't know when to stop, did you, dad?
Another thing I've inherited
though none of that will ever be tangible
since you've spawned a second son clandestinely
in the fifty-ninth year of your wasted life.
I hope you fade away before you can do to him
what you did to me.
Joshua is a strong name, a soldier's name--
I know that's why you picked it from your Good Book.
Let's hope he plays his cards right
and has an ounce of faith in fate
by seeing through your ruse sooner than I did.
You've dodged my attempts at contact
for almost four years now, but that's nothing
new to you: you've been a coward
since your second breath.
Your father should've shot you into his mistress
and done the world a favor.

If it's you who's after me
then let me spare you this confusion.
If given the chance again
I'd slap that splinter out of your lips.
You don't scare me anymore
because I know I won't become you.

You've had ample time
to make right of your fissure.
"For God so loved the world
that He gave His only son..."
What did you give yours up for?