The basement was my lair as a kid. Into my teenage years, the subterranean level was where I found the height of comfort. In the winter I’d crank up the electric heater, slide a CD into the computer tower, lounge beneath blankets, and play Nintendo 64.
At 17 I rarely had a beef with my parents, but we spent most hours after work or school in different rooms, on separate floors. My older siblings had moved out by the time I was a senior, so aside from a friend visiting once in a while, I was free to unwind by myself.
The one disturbance to this setup was the fridge, in which my dad kept his Bud Lights. About once a night, my dad would make the trek downstairs to restock the kitchen fridge with three or four more brews. The process always felt prolonged. Sometimes he’d be brooding and I’d be annoyed for reasons we never said aloud.
I’d hear the creak of a door opening from above that cut through the sounds of ’90s alt rock and it riled my solitary vibes. Maybe he just needs to use the bathroom? The first screech on the L-shaped staircase told me otherwise. Blast!
The steps expressed their high-pitched moans five more times. Then my dad would pause and let out a loud sniff or a fart or both by the back entrance. That really built suspense. Six more slow steps brought him at last to the basement floor. As I glanced back our blue eyes met.
Why do you always make that so drawn out? I wondered.
Do you ever do homework? I bet he wondered.
We murmured hello sometimes. He opened the fridge door (which also went creeeaaak) as I returned my gaze to the TV and un-paused my game. I treasured the N-64’s Golden Age (which included GoldenEye and gold cartridge Zelda).
But I was playing a different game during these times when my dad frowned at me. Madden Football 2000. The real Green Bay Packers had had a down year and missed the playoffs, so I was driven to win the Lombardi Trophy for their Nintendo counterparts. After the Super Bowl, I wanted to see Brett and Reggie and the boys party at Peach’s Castle in my dreams.
As for the CD I was into the night of the first frowning, it was Sparkle and Fade by Everclear. They were an alternative rock band at a time when there were a lot of job opportunities for alternative rockers. The infectiously riff-y hit from that ’95 album was “Santa Monica,” a getaway anthem about being “lonely and dreaming of the west coast” where one can “swim out past the breakers and watch the world die.”
Other tracks included “Heroin Girl” and “You Make Me Feel Like a Whore.” These were adult themes, but for some reason, it still didn’t seem like Everclear was capable of upsetting anyone’s parents. (Not so.) The CD came without a parental advisory sticker—in contrast to hugely popular late-90s stuff that I wasn’t into, like Marilyn Manson, Korn, Insane Clown Posse, and Nelly. With so many rated-R options out there, I considered Everclear more of a PG-13 type of band.
But I misjudged Everclear. Lead singer Art Alexakis went through some heavy, tumultuous shit. In the year 2000, I underestimated the man’s anguish simply because his band had some pop-tendencies. Somehow I still manage to misjudge Everclear. Today I learned that Sparkle and Fade drops the F-bomb four times. I was shocked. That quadruples the number of times someone can say “fuck” in a PG-13 movie.
The sixth song on the album is titled “Strawberry.” It’s a tune with the same name as a sweet, juicy fruit. No reason to shout “fuck” in a song that could be about the singer’s favorite jam to spread on his toast, right? Wrong.
As I Google the lyrics now, the song is not so wholesome. Art gives an account of doing heroin in a speeding car with someone who looked like Satan, crashing, and launching out of the vehicle. His body gets thrashed by the pavement on the street. That’s how he gets some nasty “Strawberry” burns on his flesh. To make matters worse, up until that bad experience, we learn that Art had been resisting that drug for ten years.
Like many stunningly awkward moments, the timing was impeccable. Almost as if from the moment we woke up that morning, fate already had it synchronized.
My dad descended the stairs to an eerie chorus of “Don’t fall down now, you will never get up.” In a way, dad abided by not falling down the steps and arriving upright, but I had a hunch he wasn’t a fan of Everclear. As I paused my Madden game and again locked eyes with my dad, he had the doubtful look of a man who didn’t need some grungy hippie telling him not to fall down. The guitar strums came to a dramatic stop and Art wailed, “Yes, I guess I FUCKED UP again!”
On rare occasions I’d heard my dad say “shit,” but to this day, I’m not sure if “fuck” has ever left his mouth. He might be following the PG-13 rule, content to say “fuck” only once in his entire lifetime.
I winced and watched him. Dad had a sour response to Art’s fuckup. His head reeled back a few inches and his lips drew tight. Maybe it was the cans he had in tow that brought to mind someone recoiling at the very bitter taste of their first beer.
Dad shook his head and frowned at me. I grudgingly climbed out of layers of blankets, got to the computer, and skipped to the next track. I answered his frown with a shrug. His eyes stayed on me as he turned to the staircase. The showdown was ending.
The second time my dad frowned at me occurred a week later. I was trying to learn from the mistake I had made the first time. The solution was simple: Wear headphones. With the sound isolated just for me in my vibrating earmuffs, I could enjoy the profanity in the music my dad despised. Even better, I could drown out the noise of my dad’s long trek down the stairs. It was gonna be a win-win situation with me wearing headphones, playing Madden on mute.
The plan started to go awry when my Madden opponent, the dreaded Minnesota Vikings, scored on their opening drive. Randy Moss caught a deep touchdown pass even though I specifically did not want him to do that. My running game was getting stuffed. My wide receiver Antonio Freeman dropped a key first-down. I found myself trailing by a touchdown in the fourth quarter. The Vikings had the ball.
Meanwhile, Hello Nasty was spinning in my Discman. Adrock made the loud announcement: “I’m the Benihana chef on the SP12/ I chop the fuck out the beats left on the shelf!” No worries there—that was our little secret. Immersed in the game and my headphones, I focused on the TV, squeezing the controller, laying down with my elbows resting on the futon.
With three minutes left in regulation, I needed a stop on third-and-long to force a punt and regain possession. Daunte Culpepper took the snap from shotgun, surveyed the field, and stepped into a throw before I could crush him with Reggie White. The pass sailed into coverage and over the outstretched hands of Moss. Awesome. Get off the field, you lousy Vikings offense.
Only... There was a flag on the play! The crooked refs called pass interference on my man LeRoy Butler. That meant 15 yards for Minnesota and a fresh set of downs. I was livid. My first urge was to spike the controller, but I overcame that and did something more constructive. I stretched out my hand and gave the middle finger to Madden 2000 and all its bullshit. That ought to show this fucking game.
That’s when I heard a muffled, reprimanding voice. It came from outside the soundscape of Hello Nasty. I turned to look. My dad in his sweatpants was watching me flip off the TV in a fit of ire. Not good. I saw the strain of his Bitter Beer Face. Again, he shook his head and frowned at me. I felt his disappointment and it twisted my insides into knots of Catholic guilt. I had to say something.
“No way that was pass interference.”
Dad was not appeased. The frowning continued, as though he intended to frown my soul out of my body and into oblivion if I didn’t change my ways. I sighed, shut off the TV, and reached into my backpack lying on the carpet. Inside was an Algebra book and a notebook. I pressed the two together and lightly hit them.
“Play on words,” I said.
Dad was still frowning, but not quite as much.
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