Dad or Alive by Adrian Kulp

Author:Adrian Kulp [Kulp, Adrian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101607145
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2013-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

EMPLOYEE:

What happened?

ME:

Good question, man. This thing just sucks. Poor craftsmanship. Probably made in China.

EMPLOYEE:

So…you want to exchange it…for the same one?

ME:

Sure.

Jen insisted that Babies “R” Us takes anything back, no questions asked.

I took her word for it and tossed it in the back of the family truckster and headed to the store. Ava and I were starting to find our groove and have some fun on our daily outings.

After Ava was born, aside from an occasional lullaby, I’d never really changed the music I listened to at all. I’m a white guy from farm country, so you’ve probably already guessed that I was a fan of hip-hop. Turned out, Ava and I both loved Jay-Z. The sweet beats of Hov kept our morning trips exciting.

We pulled into the parking lot, and I looked for one of those golden spots that my dad always uses for his new truck. An isolated group of spots, toward the back of the parking lot in no-man’s-land, would avoid door dings and runaway carts.

At first I couldn’t tell if it was the fecal Genie in the back of the car that smelled so bad or if Ava had a fresh loaf from the buttocks bakery. Unfortunately, it was the latter. She’d waited until we left the house and had gotten fifteen minutes down the road to deliver today’s special; what a sweetheart.

This was my first “away game” diaper change, and I assessed my options. I could handle this inside the store and roll the dice on whether or not the men’s room had a changing table. I could recline the front seat back to make an operating table or push it all the way forward and use the floorboard in the back. Even better, pop the hatch, pull out the stroller, and use the trunk.

It had been a while since I’d done any tailgating. This was the sad, evolved state of a once-cool time.

In high school, tailgating was a couple of guys huddled around the back of my ’85 Ford Ranger at the Hosensack railroad tracks in the dead of summer, shotgunning a case of Natty Lights we stole from someone’s open garage. We’d toss the empties into the fire, hit a couple sprays of Binaca, and head to the Coopersburg Diner for a drunken midnight breakfast with the rest of our senior class.

In college, things changed again. If it were a sporting event, instead of shotgunning a car-keyed pounder, we upgraded to bottles covered with monogrammed fraternity Koozies. We had the aluminum Weber, an American classic with the porcelain-enameled bowl and rustproof ash catcher. We feasted on value-pack steaks, Jersey sweet corn, and hobo veggie packs. You could almost guarantee the grill master (me) would be donning the communal novelty penis apron while cooking.

The concert tailgate was a different species altogether. In the mid to late nineties, I hit a few dozen Phish shows over two summers. My laid-back attitude preferred tepid Sierra Nevada Pale Ales, the Holy Grail of parking lot beers. They did a good job washing down the hash brownies.

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