Dad and His Soapbox

Vitality Stories

Dad and His Soapbox

One man’s junk is another man’s treasure

In my upcoming debut novel, Tiger Drive, Harry is the father of several children. He struggles with addiction. He is a sanitation worker who never intended to be a sanitation worker. He wants to matter but doesn’t feel like he does. He is a man with a broken past on which he is building a broken future. He is a character some readers will hate to forgive, hate to love.

And this description also matches my dad, Richard, so it’s natural that I often think about my dad–wonder what he was thinking–as I write Tiger Drive, as I write Harry’s story.

I recently had a memory that twisted my gut. I was about three years old, almost four. I know because we lived in Boise, Idaho, at the time. My dad liked to load us kids, and Mom, in the car and take drives. Drives took away his restlessness. Sometimes the drives were just a few hours; sometimes they took all day. I always wished for a pancake pitstop (I still do today).

“Road trip,” he’d say. We’d climb in the car: one of my older brothers “T” (the two oldest lived in Nevada with my grandparents because my dad was quite abusive with them), two of my older sisters “S” and “B,” and my baby brother “K.” My two youngest siblings weren’t born yet.

For this particular memory, I can’t remember where we were driving. I remember my brother and sisters and I were naively singing a–what I realize now was horribly racist–song about a Chinese man that involved counting to ten. I vaguely remember my parents telling us to stop singing the song, that it was “bad.” I don’t remember where we learned it.

All of a sudden, Dad pulled over near an industrial type building with a large, yellow, commercial dumpster next to it. My mom remained silent, resigned about the detour. My dad loved dumpster diving (and he’d do it until his dying day). He always quoted, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”

He jumped out of the car and climbed the metal ladder attached to the dumpster. “Jackpot!” he cried. Us kids were so excited. I’m pretty sure I thought a jackpot involved discarded toys and Barbie Dolls.

But no, it was a box bigger than me, of laundry detergent. Standing on top of the heap, he turned the box on its end to show off his bounty to my mom. My imagination might be working overtime in present time, but I remember a brand with colors: cherry red, gold, and white. He was so excited, showing off his find to my mom, who was now smiling from the car. The detergent could last her a year, and it would allow her to spend precious money on other necessities. All was right in the world for a moment; my dad was feeling purposeful, my mom was feeling relieved. The day could only get better.

But it didn’t.

As my dad stood atop his soapbox treasure and pumped his fists, a man came out of the building. I remember this moment clearly. The man–right or wrong, for liability reasons probably–yelled at my dad, “Get out of there! This is private property.”

My dad smiled sure this could be worked out. “I see you’re throwing this out. It’s still good to use. I’ll just take it off your hands for my family.”

I watched the interaction like a movie.

The man looked at our full car and frowned. He looked at my dad with disgust. “Get out of there and get out of here.”

My dad’s face fell, being talked to like a child. He lifted his hands, confused. “But it’s being wasted, going to the dump in here…”

“Get out of here, or I’m calling the police.”

My dad slowly climbed down and walked to our car. His smile gone. His shoulders slumped. No treasure. No gift for his family.

We drove home in silence. I don’t remember the rest of the day.

I wonder if my dad were a younger man living in today’s world with more available resources for counseling, and still loving dumpster diving, how he might get on his soapbox and brag about his recycling ways, or avidly watch the American Pickers and say, “I can do that.”

Thanks for indulging my memory, but most importantly, thanks for being you.

Teri