A Divorced Father Living with His Marine Son

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After getting my dad settled in the living room for a short visit after my parents' divorce, my father and I sat on the couch to have a beer and watch some TV. Sitting next to him, I noticed how much he'd aged. His 6-foot, 2-inch frame, combined with his broad shoulders and chest, gave no hint that he'd lost any of his power. But he was heavier and softer, his hair was graying, and the creases in his face were deeper.

As he leaned forward on the couch to reach his beard and cigarettes, I had to admire how formidable he still looked. He was aware of what was happening to him, but he didn't care. He had no interest in prolonging a life that he felt had exhausted its excitement and purpose. He'd become bored. There were no more wars to fight, no more women to love or children to raise. Left without these, his passion for life was diminished and his interest in life had become lackluster, so he saw no sense in prolonging it.

Life had become a still photo rather than a motion picture. His coming to a visit instilled some real anxiety in me. I knew what to expect from him. As the chain of command drove the hierarchy in his house growing up, it would be like that here. He'd want it that way. In his house or under his command, he was like a giant redwood tree and very little grows underneath those trees.

They are so big they gather all the sunlight for themselves. He was used to giving orders and having them followed. But now I was 26 years old.

I was a former Marine and a senior in college, and I'd been living on and I'd been living on my own and taking care of myself for the last eight years. Coming to visit my home would be my dad's turn. It would be his turn to move over. My father would tell us boys that the changing of command from father to son would be inevitable. Let me tell you something, kid, that a day will come when you're not going to want to do what I tell you to do.

And on that day, you're going to leave because if I lose control to one of you, I won't be able to control the other two. That day came when I was 18. I blocked the doorway that he was trying to pass through on his way to the kitchen. I stood in the doorway. My chest really expanded. I thrusted in front of him.

We stood face to face looking into each other's eyes. He said, so you think you're ready to take on your old man now? Is that what this little display of yours is all about? Well, let me tell you something.

At my age, I don't care anymore about winning or losing. What you need to know is I'm not going to go easy. I'm going to get a piece of you even if I have to bite it off. You're not going to get out of this pain free.

You need to think about whether it's worth it to you. Staring into his unblinking metallic blue-gray eyes, I thought over what he said and decided, yeah, it's time to step aside and let my father go on his way. My father knew that the key weapon in intimidation is that just a pinprick of doubt will burst the over-inflated balloon of self-confidence. Living in San Francisco in 1974 was very different than the life on the farm my father led as a young man. Life in this city was about freedom and audacity, not regulation and authority. There was nothing that was clean or sterile. Order was not part of the day's routine and traditional roles, well, traditional roles and values were best left back in your hometown. My roommate returned from work after 2 a.m. the night my father arrived and joined us at the kitchen table for a drink. Sitting around the kitchen table, my father reached into his pocket and produced an empty key ring.

Tossing it on the table, he said, look at that. That's something you don't see every day, an empty key ring. No more house, no more office, no more car. I left with only my suitcase.

Really, yeah, of course. Had already given away all my clothes, there was very little to pack. At least she didn't throw them out in the street or the driveway like she used to do.

Well, she can have it all, including the car payments, house payments, electrical bill and all that crap that goes with those things. I had my suitcase and that's all I want. I went overseas with far less. The night after my dad's arrival, I invited my girlfriend and a couple of friends over to meet him. Sitting around the kitchen table, having a few drinks was an easy way to introduce my father. Sharing drinks at a bar, around a table, talking, that was his element.

After everyone imbibed a few pops, he answered questions about his life and he started to tell a story about his time in the military police. I looked over at my girlfriend sitting next to me and I started to run my fingers through her hair. I commented to her about how beautiful she looked.

She didn't respond or pay any attention to me as she seemed fascinated by the story. A phone call from a hotel to the Kingston police asking for help. The desk clerk at a local hotel reported that her woman was with a Marine upstairs in her room, screaming, you murderer.

Oh my God, you murderer. The door was locked and bolted on the inside and the hotel clerk was afraid of what he might find inside. He wanted the MPs and the police to come immediately. He continued, in the hall, we could hear sobbing inside the room, but there were no other noises. We pounded on the door until she screamed, you murderer, you animal, help, help. We whipped our weapons right out, unlocked the safety, pulled the hammer back, and I heard my body back and shouldered it into the door to get it open. And the three of us exploded into the room with our guns searching for a target.

With our weapons locked and loaded, we quickly surveyed the room, but found no one other than the sobbing woman sitting alone on the edge of the bed. She raised her arms, he's in there, she said, as she pointed to the bathroom, he's in there. I ordered the other two MPs to cover the door as I burst into the bathroom. Looking down the barrel of my.45, I only saw a drunken Marine sitting on the floor in my gun sights. Sitting between the toilet and the wall with his arm around the back of the water pipe, he looked up at me, and with a smile on his face, he waved his arm and said, hiya, Sarge.

We all had our guns pointed at him until we realized he was unarmed and certainly too drunk to stand up. I demanded to know what the hell's going on here, Marine. With his free arm, the Marine pointed inside the toilet bowl and said, look. We all leaned forward to peer into the bowl, and to our amazement, there was a small orange duckling. The couple had one at a local fair, swimming around the inside of the bowl.

The drunk Marine said, what's this, Sarge? With the arm around the water pipe, he reached up and pulled the cord on the water closet. The sound of a flush unleashed a torrent of screams from the woman in the room as the water was sucked down the drain. The duck caught in the whirlpool started swimming faster and faster against the suction of the vortex in an effort to stay afloat. The faster the water drain, the faster that duck paddled. In spite of his struggle to paddle fast enough, though, to keep him from being flushed down the drain, he was eventually sucked down the drain and disappeared. The bathroom became quiet as the bowl started to refill. Mystified, all eyes remained transfixed on the now empty and quiet bowl which had just swallowed the duckling. Jesus Christ, Marine, what the hell are you doing here? He said he demanded. Marine just sat there next to the toilet laughing so hard he could care less about the prospect that he was going to be arrested and hauled off to the brig.

The woman in the other room, she just continued sobbing about her boyfriend's cruelty until the water refilled the bowl. When the water level was restored and the toilet bowl quieted down, out of the depth of the drain, the duck suddenly popped up and continued to paddle around in his porcelain pond as if nothing had happened. As the crowd sat around the table laughing, a friend approached and asked, hey, is it cool to smoke some pot? I mean, I know your dad was a Marine and military policeman and all that, but is he cool? The reality of cultural and generational clash became real clear to me now.

If I could have imagined at that moment that his few days visit would turn into his becoming my roommate for the next 18 months, I would have thrown all his clothes out on the driveway and bought him a one-way bus ticket back to my mom. And you've been listening to Bob McClellan and what a storyteller. And we look forward to more from Bob McClellan at the McClellan Files. Again, the McClellan Files, Bob McClellan story, his father's story here on Our American Stories.

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Eligible items only, exclusions apply. Following last year's amazing turnout, the Black Effect Podcast Network and Nissan are giving 50 HBCU STEAM scholars the opportunity to have an all-expenses paid trip to Nissan's second Thrill of Possibility Summit. This is a remarkable opportunity to be mentored by auto, tech and podcasting's brightest minds. NCA&T's Marcus Scott Jr., who attended the first summit, had this to say, a life-changing, impactful experience that I've never had in my life. Enter now to be a part of this incredible weekend. For more information, visit blackeffect.com slash Nissan.