My dad is my neighbor

My dad is my neighbor. I’m pretty sure he had a life, I found pictures of it - naked ladies in a closet at my parent’s house (it’s my sister’s also) - I've had those slides for two years now, maybe three. No one noticed.

We had two Siamese when I was a kid, Ladidi and Ladida. They were named, or rather re-named by my dad when he got them from a model in New York after a Beatles’ song. My dad wanted to be the Beatles. In Jerusalem he played music. I had a tape of some of his songs, once. I was told not to lose it. After the army he went to England and tried to make a record. A guy told him that one of his songs was good, and that if he gave him tree others like this one, he was in. But he went to the States to become a graphic designer. He met my mom at a wedding. They come from the same family. They lived together for a few years there.

My dad used to carry me on his shoulders to brush my teeth when I was a kid. I don’t remember him from when my mom became sad, to around my sixteenth. There is like a hole in my heart, a blank. I remember him telling me mom is insane when I was eating cereals one afternoon. I remember him telling me to stop dancing in public when we were waiting for suitcases at the airport. I remember him telling me Arab kids and the family of Arab kids will never accept me. He told me that we can be neighbors with them, but not more. I realized how many times he spoke about neighbors. My entire family is afraid of neighbors. Don’t make noise, the neighbors will hear you..

My Arab lover from when I was young gave me a reputation. The reputation was Daphne when I fuck her, she makes noises and her parents are in the next room.

One day I came home, not their home, my apartment. My apartment they were paying for. It was raining. My dad was waiting for me downstairs. I asked him if he was lost. He came up and talked to me about my mom on the long chair from their house. The one he was angry I threw away couple of years later. The long chair with the shape of my head, from sitting too many times on it after taking a shower. It was my chair. My friends called it The Shrink Chair. It gave the apartment some character.

I noticed that somehow, my dad always wants to tell me what to write about. When I was seventeen, I wrote erotic poetry.  My entire family read it. My philosophy teacher read it. I sent it to myself for copy write. It was my dad's idea.

Another thing I noticed, is that I never think about my father. We cross each other’s lives when I need something, but like something pragmatic. Something you can hold in your hand. When I moved for example he helped. When I need to buy something for my house, I ask him. And he gets it on Amazon. He studies it, he sends me links and then he gets it for me, he brings it to my house. Sometimes I have to go and get it, and I have dinner with my parents.  

I bought two Siamese also. I named them after erotic artist. Writers.

I have no idea who my father is. He makes a lot of jokes to strangers. He still asked for French spelling corrections when he writes an e-mail. Last time I helped him, it was for Amazon.

I know from my mom, that he was harassed at his job after thirty years of working for them. He has a brother who makes his life miserable and a wife he bears with. My sister is in love with him. Last time we had coffee together he made a sex joke about someone sucking someone and I thought it was weird.

One time, he saw me with Raphael. I didn’t recognize him, it was in his look. I remember feeling very scared of his reaction when I lost my virginity.

Dad is my neighbor. I know where he lives. What kind of music he listens to. How the guitars he doesn’t use look. The type of clothes he wears. I know he is a hoarder and always keeps stuff just in case he thinks we might need it, and sometimes he is right. He told me that the only reason why he has things. It’s for one day giving them to us. He taught me what nachas means, and asks me when are we getting back.

He likes to do home improvements but never finishes what he starts. It drives my mom crazy. He always tells me we are poor. He’s got theories about things and I never agree with him. My dad is my neighbor. I have no idea what’s behind his door. I probably will never ask. He told me I was the shame of the family. It was about photos, and burlesque. I don’t believe in sacrifice because of him.