His Own Work of Art

Kourt wrote this classic Bonsey Family story.

About ten years ago, my family and I lived in a private neighborhood that was driven by arbitrary rules, status, and whether or not your family was invited to another family’s big holiday party. It was obnoxious, actually. Lawns had to be meticulously maintained, toys were never allowed to be left scattered in the yard, and heaven forbid you leave a huge mulch pile in your driveway for three weeks straight, which my family did. We never heard the end of that one. My dad hated these rules. He couldn’t stand the neighborhood, and he certainly couldn’t stand the people. This was constantly a point of contention in our house; mom loved living this cookie cutter lifestyle (or whatever it was) and dad, well, dad didn’t really give a shit. One weekend in early May, mom was away with my older brother, Brandon, at a soccer tournament and dad was home with Sam and I, going through the routine of a typical weekend with two preteen kids. A few days before, Sam had flushed one of those miniature “furby” toys (the one’s that you get in a McDonald’s happy meal) down the toilet in our “guest bathroom.” My mother had thrown a fit because we were not even allowed to use this bathroom; “it’s for guests only,” she would say in a voice that made her sound more like a “Stepford wife” than my mother. As if any ten year old is going to abide by that rule. Mom and Brandon ended up leaving for the weekend, forgetting all about the toilet fiasco. While they were away, though, dad realized that there was a big issue with the toilet. Sam’s little toy had caused some plumbing problems and the toilet needed to be fixed. My dad is the kind of person who does his own work. He rarely hires anyone to come to the house to fix something, or to paint something or to build something, he’s always been the type to get right down to the heart of the matter and fix things on his own. And I have always admired that quality about him. I can remember dad approaching the scene of the crime, sporting his loose jeans and his typical disheveled white t-shirt. Even though it was late morning, his hair was still sticking up on one side of his head, the result of a poor sleeping position. His hands fell at his sides, looking as though they could sense the gruesome scene that lay ahead of them. Needless to say, dad looked like the typical parent of three young kids; tired, unbalanced, yet ready to handle any situation thrown at him. So he went to work on the toilet. Sam and I went off to the living room to see what the Disney Channel had in store for us at 11:00 on a Saturday morning. Mom was gone, which meant we could get away with a bit more “TV time” than usual, and with dad distracted by this toilet mishap, we took advantage of our opportunities. As we turned on the TV, the buoyant opening credits to “Even Stevens” filled the room, drowning out the sound of dad’s incessant banging from inside the bathroom. Almost immediately, Sam and I were absorbed in the trivial story lines of Ren, Lewis, and Twitty, forgetting all about dad and his hard work on the furby-infused toilet. The next morning, I walked downstairs to find that the toilet was missing from the guest bathroom. Huh, that’s odd, I thought to myself as I sauntered down the hall and into the pantry to rummage through tattered, half-open cereal boxes to find something that could be considered breakfast. Sam was already awake, plastered to the couch with an empty cereal bowl at his side and another episode of “Even Stevens” playing on the television. “Why don’t we have a toilet in the guest bathroom?” I inquired. “We don’t?” Sam asked, puzzled. Assuming that he had even noticed the missing toilet was clearly misguided on my part. “Yeah, there’s definitely not a toilet in that bathroom. Dad must be replacing it or something. Way to go, Sam.” I can’t quite remember now, but Sam had some witty response to my sarcastic words. At ten years old, Sam’s sense of humor was precocious. He constantly made us laugh, surprising us with immensely witty comments for such a young kid. Ignoring him, I walked outside to see if dad was mowing the lawn or dealing with our mulch pile that still sat in our driveway like a stubborn dog that doesn’t want to go outside to pee on a rainy day. As I opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, I saw that dad was nowhere to be seen. I padded across the hot tar - even though it was only May, the persistent sun seemed to make a frying pan out of our driveway - and found my way to the front yard. As I stepped onto the wet grass, I found dad. I also found the missing toilet from the guest bathroom. Confused, I halted my strut and watched dad as he knelt in front of the toilet (that was perfectly positioned in the center of our front lawn) placing flowers from our garden in its bowl. Dad looked even more disheveled than yesterday. He, of course, was wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before; his white t-shirt hung looser around his frame and the dirt stains from his “landscaping” work painted an image of spattered chocolate milk across the front of his shirt. There was something magical about watching dad in this moment. Now this is a sight to see, I thought to myself. I stood there for a few seconds without saying a word, as I observed my father, who was still unaware of my presence. Suddenly he looked up from his artwork. “Hey kiddo,” he said to me, “What do you think?” “Are you going to keep this out here all day?” “Sure! Why not!” Dad exclaimed, placing the remaining flowers in the toilet bowl. “Why not all week?” “Huh,” I said. “What? You don’t like my landscaping? I thought it was rather classy.” Suddenly, I began to chuckle. Then the chuckle turned into an uncontrollable laughter. As I stood there, staring at my father with a toilet placed in the middle of our front lawn, flowers delicately placed within it, I could not help but laugh. And laugh I did. He was laughing too. Without having to say anything, we both knew why we were laughing so hard. I ran over to him, my feet seeping into the damp spring grass, and helped him place the last of the flowers in the toilet. “Mom’s going to flip” I said to him, admiring the toilet in all its glory. “Oh I Know” he said, letting a subtle grin emerge from the curve of his mouth. Later that day, my aunt stopped by the house for a visit. Upon seeing dad’s masterpiece, she was in stitches, erupting with laughter at the first sight of the newest addition to our front lawn. It was a beautiful afternoon - one of those breakthrough spring days when the weather decides to cooperate - so dad and Aunt Lynn planted themselves outside on the steps of our front porch. Dad had brought out a six pack of beer, and was happily enjoying its refreshing taste as Aunt Lynn carried the conversation. It was a sight to see, really; dad on the front steps with a beer in his hand, his loose t-shirt swaying a bit in the delicate spring breeze, his sister sitting next to him, and a toilet playing the role of an oversized vase on our front lawn. What is the country club going to think about this one? I thought to myself. I remember watching the soccer mom minivans and the oversized SUVs driving by the house, reducing their speed as they took notice of the display in the Bonsey yard. I remembering watching widened eyes peer out of the side windows of cars as they inched slowly by our house, digesting the scene. Already, dad’s display had ruffled the feathers of half the neighborhood moms. All the while, dad sat their, completely at ease, taking in the afternoon sun and enjoying the refreshing taste of his beer. Suddenly I saw the familiar gold Dodge Stratus make its way down the street and reluctantly turn down Prestwick Circle. Brandon was asleep in the passenger’s seat, his body tilted so far back that only the visor of his baseball hat was noticeable. Then there was mom, who you couldn’t miss with that look of horror plastered to her otherwise winsome face. Now this is good, I thought to myself. It was a brilliant sight to see - mom driving down our street, hands clenched to the wheel, her eyes wide with a mix of amazement and shock, and dad, sprawled out on our front steps, entirely at ease, beer in hand, smiling to himself as he admired his work of art. Yes, it truly was a work of art. And my dad, in that moment, was his own work of art.