Larry

1989

I don’t remember the last time I saw my dad. He used to just show up and take us to dinner. He would hand us a few bucks to buy something for the girls and then would disappear for a month or so.  Dawn said it best when it came to him. He has good intentions, but never follows through.

There was never any father/son bond between us. In fact I think he hugged me once. He said goodbye, hugged me and was walked into the Psych. Ward at the VA hospital in Loma Linda. I was 16, no money, no where to live. Being homeless again didn’t appeal to me. I bit the bullet and called my mom collect.

She picked me up and drove me to her house. The ride over was silent. I could tell she wanted to say something.

We got to her house. She asked if I had any clothes or bags. I told her I didn’t know. Me and dad had split the travel trailer the night before. He woke me up and said we needed to go. I didn’t have the time to grab anything.  We got in the car and he just drove around. Five or six hours later we ended up at the VA Hospital. He told them he wanted to die.

Mom told me I could have my own room back and that she would take me out to get some clothes tomorrow. It was weird being in the house again. I had been gone a little over a year and things seemed different. It wasn’t bad at first. We went to a few thrift stores and got some clothes. We went to the grocery store. She told me to get whatever I wanted.  That lasted about five days.

She made spaghetti one night. She poured us a glass of wine. You’re old enough to have a glass every now and then she said. I sat on the couch with my dinner. She sat on the chair on the other side of the living room.  She looked at me and said

“You think you can just move back in whenever you feel like it? You and your asshole father are just trying to take advantage me.”

“Quite mom, I just want to eat.”

“Fuck you. You do not ever talk to me that way.”

Her plate of spaghetti flew towards my face. I ducked to the side. Spaghetti covered the wall and the couch.

“Clean it up asshole” she said.

I went to the porch and smoked a cigarette.

 I decided I would go back to my grandma’s house in the desert.

I took the bus out there. My dad picked me up.

He said he was only in for three days.  I asked why he didn’t pick me up. He said it never occurred to him he should do that.

2006

I get a call form my cousin.

“Your dad’s dead, he killed himself.”

Way to break it to me gently asshole. I called the Coroners office in San Bernardino.

I’m calling about Larry Robison. I’m his son.

The coroner I talked to was very nice. He asked if I wanted to hear the note he left behind.

Sure.

Only a couple things stuck out in my mind. He said that he knew his grand babies would be taken care of and that he hoped to come back as a blue jay.

He killed himself in his girlfriend’s house. He took a shit load of pills, wrapped him self in a blanket and shot himself.

His girlfriend called me a few days later. She said that my father died owning her money. She wanted me to pay her the money and pay for a new couch. I told her to fuck off.

Last I ever heard of her.

I called my mother to let her know. She told me she’d dance on his grave. I hung up.

I had him cremated. I took his ashes and buried them in my grandma’s backyard. I didn’t attend the memorial service. I didn’t feel like hanging around a bunch of people that were pretending to like him.

I felt bad for my grandma. All of her kids were dead. Her husband was dead. My uncle, my dad and my aunt killed themselves. My other aunt got drunk and didn’t bother wearing a seatbelt. She died somewhere on Inyokern road, beer cans littered the area.