Pogo

     I leaned in close. He was now so soft-spoken that I often had to ask him to talk louder — probably compensating for yelling at us as kids. 

     “Not really. My dignity hurts more than my wrist.”

     “I’m familiar with that.” He kissed the top of my head. “It’ll pass.”

     He pulled covered plates, Tupperware, and jars from the fridge and arranged everything on the counter in an assembly line – a habit he’d developed from years at the community food pantry.

      “Dad, do you recall where that pogo stick came from?” I asked.

     “I do.” He turned, bouncing a butter knife in his hand.

     I settled in for the story. As Dad grew older, he’d become a raconteur after years of one-word answers. I enjoyed the change. He could’ve used an editor, but the AA and Fellowship members probably appreciated his tales more than we did.

     “I rode it home from a bar a week before Christmas in 1981 after my driver’s license was suspended.” 

     He let that nugget sink in and turned back to the counter, arranging the meat, cranberry sauce, and lettuce on the bread slices, merrily moving along the line. 

     “You’re joking, right?” Looking at Dad’s back, I couldn’t remember him without gray hair. At 71, he was skinny and sun-weathered with a bum knee. 

     After adding salt and pepper, he cut the sandwich crosswise and put it on a plate. “It’s a miracle I didn’t split my head open, but I made it home in one piece.” He sat at the table and pushed the plate toward me. 

     “Why not call a cab?” I asked. 

     “I was broke, and the barkeep refused me another drink. I stomped out like a dumb kid and slammed the door. Outside, I realized I had a problem. It was bone cold, and I had a long walk home.” 

     “No options?”

      “It was the pogo stick or walk two miles.” He sat up straight. “It sobered me up.”

     “Where did you find it?” I wiped a gob of cranberry sauce with the last bit of crust.

     “Leaning against the dumpster in the parking lot. The streetlight made it twinkle like a polestar.” 

     “I bet it did.” I pictured him bouncing and falling all the way home. The exertion would’ve warmed him up, at least. Poor Dad. “Do you have any other secrets?”