My father wasn't just a bricklayer.
He was a MASON.
Sure, he could lay bricks.
He could also do classic stonework and other fancy stuff which explains why we were in Montecito, and I got to be his summer "tender" while building a wall for what would eventually become Oprah's place.
And he later sneaked me in to what would eventually become Michael Jackson's Neverland.
But that's a different story.
This is a story about guilt.
Unconfessed guilt.
"Need more C'ment, Johnny."'It's a mile to the 101 freeway, five more to our Goleta landscape yard.
But who's counting? Just happy to get away from his incessant demands for block and mud.
Dad was not in a good mood anyway, muttering how his work would be smeared over with "Castillian" white wash.
I immediately smashed the door of my father's one year old truck into a landscape boulder.
It was loud.
But he didn't come out to investigate.
And I had the 45 minutes round trip to figure out how I would handle the situation.
Denial.
Upon returning, I carried both bags (each 93 lbs of Riverside Cement--remember I was 17) and added sand and water in proper proportions.
My father thanked me and the job was done two hours later, joints cleaned, and the mixer attached to a damaged truck.
But I said nothing about the accident.
We walked out to the exclusive Montecito drive and my father saw the huge dent.
"Look at that, Johnny!"
"What?"
"Somebody must've backed into my truck and just driven away."
And I lied, I lied to my father and lied with silence.
Then he shrugged.
"Damned insurance company will have a field day."
My father wasn't a stupid man nor did he ignore the obvious.
He always let me punish myself.
Why couldn't he just beat me like other fathers did?
Then there was the time I totaled the family car returning from my girlfriend's house...
