He’d been sleeping on my couch for the past week, a picket fence of Coors Light cans walling him in. The lamp was never on in the living room. He just sat there all day, his belly sagging over his penis, staring at the television. The DVD menu blared on loop. Was he preparing to watch a movie or was he too lazy to shut it off? My guess was neither. I think it just hurt too much for him to think in silence. He’d try to smile whenever I walked in. I had waited for him my entire life. Well, half of it anyway; toward the end, I’d sort of given up. But now, suddenly, here he was. My father, the unwanted visitor.
He was always running. This time it was from his old squeeze who’d been taking care of him. He said her kids didn’t help with his high blood pressure. To avoid conflict, he’d left everything behind except a suitcase full of cheap Italian boots he claimed to have bought for me. None of them fit. When I took him around the Hill to find a place, a flock of trannies lumbered past in knee-highs, and I saw his face harden. My father always trained his dogs to be racist. We both knew he didn’t belong.
The house I was sleeping in was a shabby three-story on 12th Avenue. In the summertime, it was invisible behind two big maples, but come fall, the enormous gray gable emerged like a shit stain against the sky. According to my landlord, a bunch of nuns once slept there and still haunted the place. In the wintertime, cocooned in blankets, I’d xani out watching zombie flicks and drink a glass of milk. Then I’d imagine the invisible nuns touching themselves beneath their prayers. I had three other roommates: two boys and our latest arrival, a 21-year-old of Asian descent. She was young—young even for her age. This was her first time leaving her mother’s house, and she’d made it only two blocks. Five feet two, Christian. She did have eyes, though. Attractive, despite the demonic tantrums I sometimes heard ringing through the walls.
In the week after my father arrived, I was anxious all the time, swallowing nails. Every time he met my friends, it would be stories of prison, selling rock, fucking hookers, burning bodies, all interwoven with tall tales of my childhood. My father painted me as a hero of the hood, the angel he’d pushed away for protection. “Nathan!” he’d sing, the sound ancient and debilitated. “Nathan, Nathan!” Every time he said the name, it chopped me at the knees, grew my ears too big for my head, bucked out my teeth, made me a lost little child all over again. “Nathan!” he praised, glorifying till he choked on his drunken tears, blubbering to my friends while I stood in the corner. He spoke as if I wasn’t there. After three days, I hated the sound of my own name.
One night, near blacked out between one thing and another, with a baggie burning in my pocket, I stopped off at home while a friend’s van blew smoke outside beneath the streetlights and rain. I ran up the stairs, swung open the door, found the DVD menu on at full blast.
They didn’t stop. They didn’t hear me. Beneath the bluish-orange glow, the girl—my roommate—had both eyes closed, two dark fingers in her mouth, not her own. The fingers pressed her cheeks apart to the cacophonous trumpets of Conan the Destroyer.
He was on his knees, with his curly round head in her crotch, a shrine of Coors Light cans beside them. The front door was still wide-open, rain slapping the porch. My father’s head nuzzling up and down made me think of the methodical chewing of zombies. His stubby fingers still toyed inside her cheek. Conan the Destroyer looped interminably. Her eyes never opened. She looked like a patient drugged at the dentist.
My closet was in the hallway. I quietly opened it and sifted through the dirty pile in the corner, dropped off what I needed, picked up what I needed. On the way out the door, I stopped, turned around to look again. I watched for her eyes to open, but her thighs were the only sign of life, swaying slowly and innocently like a 12-year-old dreaming. I turned to leave again, then realized I couldn’t go until I was sure she was conscious.
I snuck around the hallway to the kitchen, from there turned the corner to the living room. I thought I could come at the couch from the side. But as soon as I turned the corner, I saw my father’s leathery face emerging from her hips. His eyes met mine. He smiled a big, silent, tooth-gleaming smile. I practically smelled her on his gums. Then he waved. It was the kind of jubilant, side-to-side wave Mickey Mouse gives a toddler at Disney World. His nose dove back down, then popped up nodding in victory before plunging in again.
I got close enough to cast my shadow over her face. I waited for her to give me some sign. Her eyes tickled in a trance, her long fine black hairs standing on end. Finally, I touched my father’s shoulder. He jerked, and her eyes shot open. She shoved back, pale and horrified, pulling her knees closed. There was some scrambling, some yelling.
“I had to make sure you were awake,” I tried to explain, as my father started laughing.
The next day, my father reported proudly that he’d finished her hours before, amid a clutter of Barbie-pink rubbish, a sea of shoes, and Hello Kitty sheets. That night, we had a feast cooking in the kitchen and a living room full of friends. She walked through the front door to her bedroom like a ghost. My father yelled after her, invited her to dinner as if she were his daughter. Her eye caught mine. The door closed behind her.
A few days later, my father split without telling me—left all his luggage and my suitcase of useless shoes. I haven’t heard from him since. As for the girl, we lived together for another two months, mostly avoiding eye contact. I would have liked something from her—not sure what, but something. Soon, we were both unwanted visitors in that house. We moved our shit out in silence, that one eye cutting through me as if I’d eaten the bitch out myself and split town. I’ll admit one thing: Seeing that made me believe a lot more of those stories my father always told. Made me sort of proud in a fucked-up way. 
Nathan Quiroga is also known as Buffalo Madonna in the band Mad Rad.
I think I just puked a little
I tell you something, I ignored the phone at work while I read that. That was fantastic.
This was good, but can we have a story about a good father?
Buffalo you are a genius. And a fuckin poet. And you are loved. Lets drink soon. Jesus –Cuzn
have you talked to a professional about your unresolved oedipal complex?
Buff, don’t you ever stop writing. You hear me? Never stop. writing. Ever. A million times, thank you.
love you my friend. a true libertine
You had my heart the first minute I laid eye’s on you. I knew that you would be be truely amazing and you prove that everyday. I am so proud of the man you have become and the boy that stills cry’s out for the love of his father. I have always had enough love for you to be both and always will.
Loving you always my amazing son. Mama
Your reading of this at Humiliation was moving and gorgeous, I’m happy to see it printed so I can remember. Fantastic work.
Loved it! Can’t wait to read more stories from you!
I like this.
ok, if @8 really is Buff’s mama, i’m going to cry. @8, he’s so very lucky to have you as his mom. bless your heart.
Good job, Buff. Really well done.
useless shoes… great work
Funny how we find our selfs doing those nasty things we never imagined we could do and even more funny is how guilty and cheap nasty we can feel because we did them. when relations go bad they go bad as you can imagine but that is part of being an Adult Man or Woman.
“Respect” is an old song.
fabulous writing! i would love to read more.
I know Armando personally, and will probably never look him in the eye again without feeling sick. I also know his “old squeeze” and her kids … we’re related by marriage, you could say. So, I see your Dad quite often.
You, Nate, are amazingly talented. Since knowing your father, I have followed your career, listened to some of your music and read your stories. There is a lot of goodness inside of you.
I’m sorry for the disappointment you must have felt. Sad for him that his son is a bigger and better man than himself. Yeah, I know he just wanted to connect with something good that came from him (you) … but you don’t walk out (again) without saying good-bye. I’ve seen him down here many times since this happened. I hope you’ve heard something from him by now.
I know Armando personally, and will probably never look him in the eye again without feeling sick. I also know his “old squeeze” and her kids … we’re related by marriage, you could say. So, I see your Dad quite often.
You, Nate, are amazingly talented. Since knowing your father, I have followed your career, listened to some of your music and read your stories. There is a lot of goodness inside of you.
I’m sorry for the disappointment you must have felt. Sad for him that his son is a bigger and better man than himself. Yeah, I know he just wanted to connect with something good that came from him (you) … but you don’t walk out (again) without saying good-bye. I’ve seen him down here many times since this happened. I hope you’ve heard something from him by now.
And, sorry, but I just cannot help wonder how he hides the big tattoo on his chest that proclaims his “love” for his “old squeeze” … just inked on in the middle of March … the ink barely set in. Kinda disgraceful. Gotta have pity for the dude. He’s just so lost.
Actually you sound pretty much exactly your Dad, but maybe less perceptive. I mean WTF. You let stay on your couch knowing about his past? If he can’t fit in your bedroom then you can’t take him in. You were totally p-OWN’d by your OWN Dad. Especially leaving him unsupervised like that. Are you fucking stupid?
If you are gonna take him in you gotta manage the situation, or clearly it’s going to turn to shit. Instead you laugh about it and publish articles and do public readings. What is wrong with you? That you performed this to a live audience makes you, the Douchebag. Obviously you are Guilty. You created your own version of a day in court when the prosecution wasn’t there. You are proud of “your story” IN which you invite your Dad in to rape your housemate. Then when he tried to “make up.” I’m not saying anything makes up rape but you totally trashed even his “makeup” that with your inhumanity. Bottom line: You are a wad. And that is all.
I am the wretch… “the unwanted”!. My Belly does not hangover my Penis….I don’t drink coors “Adolf was a bigot”I sat at Nathans house waiting for him to come home.We went drank coffee and ate…Unlike some of his Families role models that remain Hidden but feel a need to post…Glad that,uneducated people can find a parasitic life and be content.. I Chose to get mine I made my self I was alone when I was young I had no live role models.. But I Don’t stand here not on a soap box yelling it was my manic “DAD”… Your Life was not the best But you were raise to be a man act so….RAPE is a bad word I never Did shit but Have a time.. Never had too and you know that ask the other dime a dozens…I am sorry you used this place for fiction tell them a story and give them my address .. I hide from no man,Fear no man.. As for my ink , I carry the kids I made… just found out they may not want me my kids.. not my choice I have 1 breath left and I will give it to them…All who respond send a pict and address so we can get straight… don’t hide I don’t “Want some get some Bad enough Take some”The Unwanted has no fear of this world or the next….Ya’ll mere Mortals to me…Nathan nice piece so why not just finish it….; you can take Poe and render him into a Grimm
thegirlwhoholdstheworldinapapercup Get a Life Patty and while you at it add a leg….You and your Bi-sexual Husband have issue way beyond this forum get on Jerry or something…Ask your man If he ever has the balls to try me…Bahhhh How many kids have been taken from you?Mom of the Year.Right!!!!!…You should just be grateful you are not charged for other peoples Air.. Cuz it is wasted on you…