Fatherhood (Sometime after Jack Kinney's funeral)

Well, the son of a bitch is gone. A man whose soul had been diseased with the bitter cancer of hatred for a lifetime, was finally taken by a cancer of actual diagnosis. Kind of poetic if you ask me. Though that's not what everyone's been asking me. "Are you OK?" Yeah, that's the question. Of course I'm OK.

The old man and I weren't exactly the 'Ward & Beaver' kind of duo. He never took me to a race track ( those were only for him to attend, as he gambled away our dinner, new clothes, and our solidarity) He never took me on a camping trip, or fishing in a canoe. And we sure as hell never won any goddamn father-son three legged races.

Despite our intertwined DNA threads, the 'man who knocked up Saint Joan' & I were woven from completely different cloths. The most we ever had in common was our distaste for the Kinney household, & our self destructive love of liquor (apparently hereditary on both sides.)

Now, wait a minute. I guess you could say we did have a certain rapport. We had our share of intimate moments, me and Ol' Jack. I seem to recall many a time where I became meticulously acquainted with his calloused knuckles.

Jack Kinney's version of 'Hugs & Kisses' usually resulted in a busted lip, or cracked ribs. Ah, yes 'daddy's kisses'. They always left the loathsome taste of crimson iron assaulting my taste buds.

They say olfactory senses can trigger fond memories. Most will think giddily of their childhood of yesteryear with a passing scent of their father's after shave, or the subtle hue of cherry in his favorite pipe tobacco. Not me. Nope. I'm reminded of 'the man who didn't want me' by a more primitive collection of smells. Blood. anger & that delectable mixture of sweat and cheap whiskey that rained from every pore.

He wasn't 'A family man'. No shit. Move the fuck over Cleavers. The Kinney family has arrived. The Asshole, The Ice Queen, & The Brats.

Now I'm no expert when it comes to families, but I'm fairly certain that in order to become a 'family man', the aforementioned man needs to possess a heart.

I remember once, when I was young (maybe seven or eight) I went to My father's Doctor appointment with him. He told me "Sit still Sonny boy, shut your trap & don't fucking touch anything." Hell, at least he was talking to me.

During that visit, I kept hoping to catch a glimpse of Ol' Jack's X-rays. I didn't. Not that I'd needed too. I already knew that there was only a vast void of darkness in the space where his heart should've been.

That same evening, he'd stopped off at a bar to drink away my mother, leaving me alone in the parking lot. Eventually I walked home by myself in the rain. Oh, the bonding. Good times.

I never knew that I had a real family until we moved to the Pitts, and I met them.

With Michael's dad too dead, and mine too drunk we didn't have much by way of fatherly figures. Vic has always been great. (Damn did he help us out of some crazy fucking jams!) When he started to get sick, we were all scared shitless about losing him. I'm grateful he's decided to put up with us a little longer.

Regardless, we still had the 'Father of the Fucking year' candidate forever huddled in our corner. Debbie Novotny. Christ. The woman has more balls than the lot of us men combined.

Mikey was lucky his dad was already dead. I'd told him as much. At first he was pissed and thought I was being cruel. Those thoughts were quickly amended though, when he was introduced to one Jack Kinney.

'Christ Sonny boy are you sure that's the kind of boy you want to be grouping yourself in with. We just moved here, and that Michael kids' let's face it, he's fucking fruity. You don't want all of these potential new friends thinking you're a goddamn fairy do you?'

Looking back, I wish I would have told him right then & there who I really was. I don't wear 'Cowardice' well, even on this body. What I'd have given for a mere touch of Justin's strength back then. Who I am I kidding, I'd like a touch of his bravery now.

I never told my parents. Never. What the fuck? I'm not ashamed of who I am. Why did I avoid it? So many opportunities. All of them missed.

I've asked myself countless times Why do I even bother? Do I really fucking care? I have the answer to neither question.

Jack's mock pride for his (mockery of a 'successful straight') son was always displayed most prominently whenever he held cold hard cash between his palms. My money. What was I hoping to buy? Acceptance? Apologies? Love? No. Those things were not available for purchase.

When the bastard told me he had cancer I didn't feel sadness. I almost felt absolution. I quickly contemplated if coming out to him was the best thing to do at such a time. It only took me a second to decide once he opened his mouth and whispered his homophobic words through whiskey tinged breaths.

Fuck it. In that instance I had to tell him (If never to tell him anything else) that his son was flaming fucking faggot. I felt vindicated.

I swear right now (to God or not), that I will never let Gus feel afraid to introduce me to his true self. I can't wait to meet the real you one day Sonny Boy.

So here's the deal. I admit I got a little (I will not be using the words drama or queen) 'carried a way' shall we say, about this whole Bris business with Mel. It's not that I'm against circumcision. I'm not. He's just so damn young, he's so damn perfect. I can't fathom anyone wanting to change him already.

Despite everyone's (namely my own) reservations, I'm going to give it everything I've got to be the father Gus deserves. I may no longer be his legal guardian but he's no less my son. Either way I'll be a far better dad that fucking Pepe' le Pew. What was Lindz thinking there? Anyway.

I'm happy that I was able to let the bitterness burn away & sign him over to Mel & Lindsay. They love him. In a way I'm not sure I can. No. Let me finish. In a way I'm not sure i can ...Yet. I'm still learning.

Justin says I'm already a great father & that my son is lucky to have me. I only wish I could have as much faith in myself as he always does. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve him.

I find myself getting a little confident here regardless. Maybe I am cut out for this Daddy Shit. After all, who'd know better than Justin about my abilities to take care of another life? (My 6th grade goldfish notwithstanding, nothings' ever keeled over on my watch.) He's stayed with me before, & remains as perky & lively as ever. I made sure he studied, I got his ass to school, I fed his little tummy full of food. Oh, that fucking yummy tummy. Focus Kinney. Gus.

My son. Wow. I am still getting used to the sound of that. Brian Kinney, Soccer dad? Unfucking-believable, trust me I know. I'm just a shocked as you. Maybe more.

Admittedly, I'd been terrified ever since I gave the munchers' my legendary 'Essence de Kinney' in a jar. Just like that. I handed over my fucking son. My future forever altered, in a goddamn plastic cup complete with tacky blue lid. At least the orderly who 'assisted' me was hot.

I tried my best to avoid Lindsay during her pregnancy, in it's entirety. I didn't want to think about it. Out of sight. Out of mind. With my conflicted feelings of disdain and excitement, I learned that nine months isn't nearly as long of a time as I'd so often believed.

Yeah Sonny Boy, you sure did pick a hell of a night to come into my life. The same night he so boisterously urged his way into it. Was that the plan? Was he your gift to daddy? No Kinney.

My son is the greatest gift I've ever received. Justin Taylor runs a close second. Stop it.

I have lost count of all of the times I've fucked up in my life. How many times I've hurt others. The number of promises I've broken. None of it matters anymore.

That beautiful child is my apology for it all.

Jack Kinney always told me I'm good for nothing. I have no rationale to belong in this world. Fuck off Pop. I've found it. My inspiration. My purpose. My relevance. It's name is Gus.

I promise Sonny boy, I'll take you to the race track. We'll go on a camping trip. We'll go fishing in a canoe. I swear to it now 'Beaver', we'll win us a goddamn father-son three legged race.