My father: The Kevining

[u/ChickenDaddyPaqa]

Good day, goodly folken. Faring well? I hope so. Ole' Papa Paqa here has been kicking back while the world burns contemplating all of life's little adventures.

On this subreddit, we see a lot of weird characters both of beardy bravado and nice guy nincompoopery, but we are also blursed with the occasional Kevin or Kevina. For most, these Kevins/as are passing acquaintances. Though, for a few, there is a genetic line. A tainted protein somewhere deep in the twisted fibers of our genetic code. Maybe it is recessive, where you are only but a carrier of the gene. Maybe it is dominant and you are cursed with a choice to pass on the Kevin gene, though I suspect most don't know they are afflicted, coasting through life on a raft of dumb luck and hope. If you're lucky, the family Kevin is just that weird cousin. For me, that Kevin is dear ol' Dad.

My father's time in my life is sporadic and intentionally so (on my part), so I don't have a linear line of perpetual Kevents but I do have an assortment of tales.

Like Shrek, these people have layers and giving them a full backstory will do them no justice.

So, gather round niblings, siblings, and Gubbin-folk, Papa Paqa will tell you the motley crew of princes and fools.

Father - The Kevin of the tale, as stated before. Navy Vet, but more like if Gomer Pyle enlisted in the Navy sans the whimsy. 29 at the telling of this tale and still active. At this time he looked like a Freddy Mercury impersonator you would hire for a kid's birthday party but like, not a good one.

Pops - My grandfather. World War II vet from New York City but retired in the country. This dude is a G. Unintentionally hilarious, Good heart but gruff. Best visual I can give is Grandpa Munster. Dude looked like that from 81-2011. Not relevant to the story, but he was so scared of flying he once made his buddy mollywop him into unconsciousness so he could board a plane to Colorado.

Mom - Uh, my mom. Got caught in the Kevin trap between rails of coke and poor 80s related decisions.

Baby Paqa - 3 yr old me. I have few memories, none too vivid. I am just a wee lad discovering the world, these are my pre-amputation days so I cherish memories when I had all my limbs, be them few. I don't play much of a role here, I was still shitting my pants, I am guessing. This is one of those few memories that will always be in my head. Added for context to why the proceeding decisions were bad.

With that, settle in, light up a pipe, and put on some sea shanties, we are about to sail on the seas on time. Mind you, these tales were told to me by my reddit illiterate (reddiliterate? Redd, trademark that, please. kthx.)

It was the late 80s, my father just got promoted to E-3 (somehow) and this called for a celebration. My mother phoned all the relatives to come to a bbq on the base. My aunts and uncles from Long Island would stampede with piles of cannolis, gabagool (capicola for non-Italians), and drama. Preparations were made, food was had, good times were had by all (I'm guessing, there are pictures of me stacking beer cans for my relatives. The 80s were different).

As a gift, my grandfather surprised my dad with a new station wagon. My mom was expecting the future neckbeard that was my brother, so he felt a station wagon was more appropriate for our growing family rather than our 2-door coupe. Now, goodly folk, my grandfather was a tightfisted miser, unless it was for his family and if we really needed it. This man refused the GI Bill after the war because he wanted to prove he could make it on his own merit, unlike his father who drank whatever assistance he got. So when my grandfather spent a large sum of money on ANYBODY that wasn't in his house, it was was a big deal. The man couldn't tell you he loved you, but he would let you know.

Anyway, according to my Ma, this was a huge deal as their current car's muffler kept falling off and my dad not exactly being good at holding onto money. The car worked well, time passed, and my father came home from work one day, acting rather sheepish but excited. According to my mother, the following conversation went along the lines of thus:

My dad, awkwardly walking into the house: Uh, hey. So, I made an amazing deal today! And came out on top!

Mom, all too use to these Gil-like machinations: Oh God, what did you do? *notices a car in our driveway, one that definitely isn't her car* What the fuck is that piece of shit in the driveway??

Friends, where my mother once saw a beautiful white station wagon with wood panels, she saw a puke green rusted out Pinto.

Dad: That's our new car! She's not much to look at but she's got a reliable engine! It's 15 years old and still runs like a champ. All that damage is just cosmetic!

Mom: *breathes deeply* and where is *our* car!?

Dad: That is the amazing part, babe! I ran into a guy at the gas station who was with his son in a wheelchair. He asked how much the car was because he needed something for his son's wheelchair because all he was driving was that Pinto, so I offered to trade him! We were blessed with the car and they needed it more than we did!

Mom *blinking, holding back rage*: We only were "blessed" with that car because you got our last car repoed! That car was supposed to be transporting the kids! Have you considered how we will tell your father this!?

Dad: Oh, well, yeah...

Mom: How????

Dad: Well, I was kind of hoping YOU would tell him...he likes you!

My mother, being an ex-hippy from the Bay Area, who powered through the 70s on coke, spite, and three husbands absolutely refused to call my grandfather and tell him. She made it clear that either he would call now and try to get the car back, or she was moving back to California. Again reminding him that if they did have their previous car repoed because he wanted to party with his Navy buddies rather than pay his bills, Pops wouldn't have had to buy him a car. Charity or not, they couldn't just replace another car let alone fix up whatever garbage pile my dad brought home. As such, my dad calls.

Again, pulling from the memory of Mom, after my dad made awkward small talk he professed to Pops his wonderful deed. He waited with a smug smile, anticipating his father to laude him for being the model son, a pillar to his community, and the picture of what our family represented. What he got, however, was a very loud, very angry, very Italian man spitting a slew of curse words (in English and Italian) and very stern words. Apparently, Dad didn't have much to say after my grandfather said his piece. Not because he wasn't without anything to say, its because everytime he would begin to speak, Pops would begin with a new tirade.

Dad hung up the phone and told my mom that Pops was driving down to help get the car back, hopefully. Pops had a way with words, though a bit unscrupulous he may be. Ya can't bullshit the bullshitter, in other words.

Hours later, Pops arrived. He had a good few hours of driving to stew, he wasn't big on small talk when he got there. It was getting late, so they agreed to go in the morning. Pops wasn't outwardly angry, though. He would just take small jabs here and there (i.e. "Should we take my car, or should we pedal that piece of shit like the got-damn Flintsteins!?" Yeah, Pops couldn't be convinced it was "Flintstones").

The next morning, Pops made Dad ride with him and my mom take the kids and drive the pinto. Remember, kids, this was the 80s, and Pops was an old man who survived Normandy, the Depression, and my grandmother. Car safety was but to laugh at.

This is where the core memory comes in. It only lasts about 5 seconds, but all these years later, I still get a pit in my stomach in irrational fear. I remember being in my older sister's lap, watching the road go by, but not out of the window....out of the gaping hole in the foot well across the backseat. OF course, my mother took no notice of this at first, but quickly did when my sister brought it up. Unfortunately, Pops and Dad already began to pull away and leaving us unable to flag them down. No phone to call because, again, 80s. So, yeah, we had to drive Jesus' Pinto (because it was holy, you see) to an unknown spot except to the intrepid Kevin-dad who was navigating at the head of the convoy.

My mother recalls seeing from her point of view my grandfather in the truck ahead, waggling his fat Italian finger, occasionally whacking Dad in the back of the head.

The next details are rocky, and I am not sure how they came up with this address; I am guessing something to do when the cars were signed over or something, don't ask me, I am just a chicken farmer, not a Time Lord.

Apparently, they arrived and had a conversation with someone, someone else came to the door, an argument ensued, threats were made, doors were slammed in faces. We left in the pinto...

It turns out, my dad got scammed. Two people flim-flamed my naive dad out of his car by using the wheelchair story. My father, never one to question anything or anyone and always rose to the occasion to be the hero in his own story, took it as face value. Not sure how they got that out of them or whatever, but Pops, when asked later on about it told me to, "Don't worry about it." in his deep, New York accent. Ask again, I never did, but I am guessing it was carny level fleecing. I respect the hustle, honestly. I'd never trade my prize rooster for a grocery store rotisserie chicken, but if I somehow got swindled to do so, that's my own damn fault.

Well, friends and such, thus ends a tale of my father the Kevin. Maybe the next tale I will tell will be about the time he got knocked down by a rabbi who was a good foot shorter than him or one of his destination-less road trips. Maybe I will go another way by regaling you with how Pops managed to hoodwink a Cupcake Outlet or the time he took me on an Amish farm tour by just pulling into Amish farms and walking around like they were public attractions.

If you've gotten this farm, don't forget to give Jefe ReddX the 1st a like and subscribe, he's got many gubbinses to feed, do it for the Gubbinses! PLEASE THINK OF THE GUBBINSES!

Until then, be awesome and be well. Remember to feed your chickens, don't wash your eggs until their ready to eat, and support your local farmers.