Completely in the Dark

Dad was a big bathroom guy.

You know, with the outdoorsy magazines, the seed catalogs, paperback Westerns—all stacked beside the toilet.

The “smallest room in the house” was multifunctional—reading nook, meditation space, and day-planning war room.

Dad once told me a story about his days as a greenhorn architect. After designing a bowling alley (which just paid for baby brother’s post-maternity hospital bill), Dad was sent to the Lone Star State to work on some oil tycoon’s project.

After Pop was called into the office of said fat cat, the Texan nodded toward a far corner. “See o’er thar?” he grunted. “Monday morning I’ll be takin’ a shit there. An’ there goddamn better be a crapper ta sit on!”

I veer into the scatological not to demean the memory of my father, but to evoke the physical presence of the man.

He loved his mornings: his pipe with Borkum…