THE HECKLER & THE HOG
CHAPTER SOUNDTRACK: “Empty” – Ray LaMontagne
"You’re going to need to trim that ass down to fit in your snow pants," my dad said with a chuckle as he ate the bacon and eggs I made him for breakfast.
“Yes, you’re right, Dad. I’m a fat fucking pig,” I said as I left, slamming the door to his trailer behind me.
I could hear him sputtering inside, like he didn’t mean anything by it—like he was just stating an obvious fact. “I didn’t say that! You’re a fucking cunt,” he said finally.
“And you’re a fucking prick! You asshole motherfucker,” I yelled at him through the walls as I escaped.
My dad is right. I am going to need to trim my ass down if I want to be comfortable in the new medium-sized snow pants my dear friend from Washington State sent me as a gift.
They arrived yesterday. I tried them on immediately, over my favorite jeans, which are admittedly tight on their own. The combination was oppressive, like two sausages being packed into the same casing. I got the snow pants on, but I could barely move. The fabric was so tight I expected the seams to pop when I tried to sit.
I couldn’t sit. The best I managed was a strange hybrid contortion—half-lying, half-bent—like Ralphie from A Christmas Story, bundled up for winter, tongue frozen to a pole, muffled screams pleading for help.
I eat less than my dad does, and he barely eats. I’d stopped by the night before to show him my snow pants, but he wasn’t there. He’d gone out to buy bags of candy.
I had one piece with my breakfast, which wasn’t bacon and eggs. Every morning I have the same thing: a protein shake made with coconut milk, two tablespoons of cocoa nibs, and sometimes a bit of fruit. This morning I added frozen raspberries and a few tablespoons of caffeine.
There’s no added sugar in my shake. The protein is something my body needs. I usually don’t feel guilty about the four hundred calories I’m consuming—but now, I feel like starving myself.
I could starve myself, but I know I’ll never be the right size for him. There will always be another flaw for him to pick at, another way to make me bleed. His comments have little to do with my body and everything to do with my soul. There’s a part of him that needs to diminish my light, and I believe he does it for my own good. He’s a man pouring saucepans of water on a raging fire so it doesn’t spread and burn everything down.
I was still on fire when I returned to his trailer to retrieve my breakfast, which I’d left behind when I stormed out the first time.
His plate sat discarded on the kitchen table. He’d eaten all his bacon, most of his toast, and at least one of the eggs I’d made him. I was glad he’d eaten—but I didn’t show it. I walked past him as if he were invisible, set his plate on the ground so my dogs could finish his eggs, and started doing his dishes.
“So, are you mad now?” he asked gently.
I slammed the dish I was washing into the suds. “No, I’m not mad. It’s just the way you are.”
“You’re making something out of nothing,” he said. “You’re the one who told me your pants are tight in the first place.”
He was right again. I had mentioned it, and he had taken liberty to make my vulnerability vulgar.
“I hate the way you talk to me,” I seethed.
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was teasing you and you couldn’t take it. It’s the same thing every day—you twist things to make yourself look like the victim. You need to grow up. I’m tired of your bullshit.”
“And I’m tired of you not bothering to cover your naked ass when I come in to make your breakfast,” I snapped. “Why don’t you have some decency and cover yourself up? I don’t want to see that.”
I mocked his vulnerability the same way he’d mocked mine, but I knew my words held more cruelty. My dad doesn’t expose himself because he gets off on it. He’s sick in his bed and barely making it. My choice words were the equivalent of pouring dirt on his open grave while he’s still alive and fighting for resurrection.
The truth is, my being here is killing him—and killing me. The breakfast I make him every morning is a feeding tube nourishing a body I’ve already stabbed to death. He’s on life support, and I keep stealing his quality of life.
I should’ve just let him talk about my fat ass as if he were a comic delivering a joke onstage. I could’ve allowed the truth to be funny. If I had, maybe he would’ve had a sliver of joy in his dismal last days. Instead, I chose to be a heckler who ruined the show with serious empathy. “Do you know how your words make me feel?”
My dad doesn’t care about my feelings. The point he was making had nothing to do with them. He was trying to be funny and ironic.
I was trying to make him cruel.
Epilogue: The Heckler and The Hog
I finished writing the chapter and went back to make things right with him.
I found my dad splayed out on his bed like the chalked outline of a corpse in a crime scene.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “What happened earlier was entirely my fault.”
My confession brought him back to life, but just barely.
“Thank you, Amber,” he said, eyes still closed. “I really appreciate your apology. I didn’t mean you any harm with what I said.”
“I know,” I said. “I went home and wrote a chapter about it. It’s called The Heckler and the Hog.”
He cringed, reaching for my hand. “You are not a hog. That’s not what I was saying.”
“I know,” I said, taking his weathered hand in mine. “It’s just a clever title — just like your joke was just a joke.”
“You need to stop doing that to yourself,” he said softly. “You need to heal your pain and stop attacking me. I’m dying, Amber. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
I nodded. “I understand. You need to get up. It’s time to go.”
“What time is it?” he asked, opening his one good eye.
“It’s 11:45,” I said. “We need to leave for dialysis.”
