The summer my dad lost his job, he decided to fulfill his lifelong dream: inventing the canine condom, a move that would revolutionize the petcare industry. Dad schlepped twenty-two years for Dow, concocting goos for slipping and sliding, but with a sizeable severance in the bank and oodles of time on his hands, he planned fame like that of Edison and Bell, via the puppy prophylactic.
"Neutering’s cruel," he said. "And pounds overcrowded. We'll be rich." Soon our house hummed with hounds’ wails while the smell of random shit permeated the floorboards. Dad’s arms wore bandages like medals and his pants appeared as torn as a castaway’s. Dogs came and went, Dad dragging one downstairs only to drag it back up minutes later, cursing under his breath, grabbing a sandwich when he could, forgetting that any of us existed. Where Dad got his pooches, we didn’t know. What he did with them, we avoided picturing. But he was determined. Mom, more worried than usual, deputized me official Igor, sending me down to help, insisting despite my best protests. That was the same summer I was hellbent on becoming a roller coaster legend. The massive amusement park up the street had debuted the Spine Tingler, which boasted the world's largest drop, plus a corkscrew that screwed historically farther than any before it; one turn banked so tightly, they hired a NASA engineer to publically proclaim it a loop, its drastic angle beyond any turn, the whole sequence begetting a loop looping into another loop, another industry first. A season pass in my possession, I was first to ride the Tingler a hundred then a thousand times, and the world took notice: The local paper ran a human interest story Memorial Day weekend. I rode fifteen times a day then, but as records became obtainable, I doubled my regimen, getting in line, riding, repeat. Midsummer, one TV station did a feature, our family physician administering a fake physical, my eyes following his finger, him checking inside my feet for my brain. A slow summer for news indeed.
The park, printing money from my media buzz, offered me the month of August, a front car, 143 turns a day, no waiting. That'd put me just over my ultimate goal, 10,000 rides by Labor Day, the last day of summer. With sixth grade waiting in the wings, I lived for that record, and only one barrier stood in my way: Dad's doggie domes.
If I could erase just one of my memories, my father's methods for retrieving data from his dogs would be wrung from my consciousness, no contest. My job as lab goon consisted of carrying a clipboard, tugging on leashes, and of course, picking up a lot of poo. I knew this was Mom's attempt at bonding, of getting her boys closer together, but as focused as Dad was, a deaf orangutan could have gotten as much from him as I did. I just tried to stay out of his way, stay mindful of nips to my fingers and nose.
Dad didn't end up inventing anything that summer, but after three days of tolerating my presence, he did make one crucial discovery: I didn't know a condom from a rubber handstamp. Dad looked me in the eye, took off his protective eyeware, and gave the dachshund on deck his reprieve. Then Dad talked with me, the first time all summer, for the first time in that certain way. Given my extensive coastering, my stomach wouldn't seem turnable, yet Dad's explanations of human reproduction, forthright and descriptive—including chalkboard diagrams—did the trick.
Afterward, Dad solicited questions, and I presupposed I'd never engage in anything he'd described, not ever, not for all the money or fame in the world. Dad, releasing me from Mom's sentence, walked me down to the Tingler, and on the way, insisted I'd change my mind. One day, he hypothesized, girls would seem a lot cooler than roller coasters, though with some similar effects.
"Just wait," he said, insisting it would seem right, a natural part of life. Like breathing or eating. It would be as if I'd discovered something new, something nobody had thought of before. As if I'd come up with it all on my own.