The Morning After, with Deadbeat Dad

It’s 9 a.m. on a Saturday, and I’m sitting in a ballet class with a man-sized hangover struggling to put my daughter’s ballet shoes on her feet. They are, of course, on wrong. Her feet twisted outword like some deformed elf. She is kicking her feet back and forth, a four-year-old temper tantrum about to break the scale to 11. My eyes are bloodshot, I have not showered, in fact I haven’t yet been to bed. The night before having turned into an epically evil bender involving a demented war correspondent and three Marines with severe post-traumatic stress disorder and a penchant for whiskey and fighting. For some reason I thought it would be funny to bring them to fashion week as my guests at a men’s designer fashion show.

As an editor-in-chief, front row seats are reserved at this spectacle of self-importance. After having drank half of Hell’s Kitchen dry. (This is work, after all. The war correspondent having followed these kids for nearly a year is trying to tell their story in the pages of the magazine. But he is a drunk and a drug addict and is carrying a .45 that he keeps waving in the air to make his point.) Somewhere in between the fourth or fifth vodka and God knows what else, I come up with the plan to bring them to Bryant Park. To make a long story short: There is a very ugly scene. Punches are thrown and we are very publicly asked to leave to the bemusement of the chattering classes.

Eight or nine or 14 hours later, after the strip clubs and the after-hours clubs, I make my escape. The ride home to Brooklyn is long, especially that digital clock beaming from the Brooklyn Bridge. I see it in my nightmares, a glaring reminder of my complete and utter irresponsibility and failure as a father and husband. The clock reads 7:30 a.m. I turn my phone back on, and there are 14 messages. On the Richter scale of trouble this is like Haitian earthquake. Doing the math in my head, I reckon that I’ve bought myself at least six months of marriage counseling. For the near future there will be no sex . I will be banished to the guest bedroom. If marriage were prison, I’m headed to solitary confinement, to the hole. By the time the cab pulls up in front of my house I see the lights are on; everybody’s up. Of course they are, it’s eight in the fucking morning. I walk up the stoop dreaming of my pillow.

Whatever shit I’m in, and lord knows it’s deep, I have at least a few hours of triage sleep before I can join the land of the living. I struggle with my key in the door, my hands shaking a bit too much for my own good. Before I can complete the task the door opens and a pair of ballet shoes hit me in the face, and out bounds my cute-as-shit little girl. Her red hair in pigtails, ballet tutu dragging on the sidewalk.

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A FUCKING WORD FROM YOU,” says my wife with a smile on her face. It’s a sadistic smile. A smile that says you are my bitch, and I’m going to run a train on your ass.

So here we are, struggling with the goddamn shoes. I suddenly realize that I’m sweating like an animal. I’m also still wearing a suit. And not some office suit, but a cream-colored Paul Smith number that’s a cross between Tom Wolfe and a pimp from Miami Vice. My wife picked it out for me to wear yesterday. Today it looks, well, ridiculous. There is no explanation. My shirt is stained with stripper glitter and Red Bull. I must smell awful. The soccer moms who usually eye me warily are giving me a wide berth. I half expect Family Services to bound through the door. But they don’t. I put on an air of dignity and do my best to get her into the studio. And she does. Then I’m left alone, with the moms and assorted dads sipping their Starbucks and chatting, looking fit and healthy in their workout gear. I sit down on a gym mat. The relief is instantaneous. It’s the most comfortable thing in the world. The Four Seasons should have beds so comfortable. And then I’m out, only to be awoken an hour or so later, my daughter slapping my cheeks. a roomful of people surrounding me like I’m some kind of stroke victim. Undoubtedly I have been snoring, deep, loud, guttural animal snoring. I have also pissed my pants.

“My dad stays out late for his work. He takes pictures of naked ladies,” says my daughter, bless her heart, four years old and already trying to cover for her old man. This must be bad. In one of those books I had to read, Happy Healthy Children or Your Little Treasure, I think there was a chapter about not passing out on a gym mat and pissing your pants. That somehow might affect their development or turn them into lesbians.

I don’t know what to do. I am mortified. And I don’t embarrass easily. But this is the fucking worst. There is a puddle on the mat. Nobody seems to notice this, as my general state is already alarming enough. So I do the only sensible thing that a man in my situation would do. I RUN. I scoop my daughter up in my arms and run from the studio. Twenty minutes later we are home. I have forgotten my keys, my wallet, my phone, everything. In my general state they must’ve fallen out of my pocket. There is a deep wet stain on my trousers. I have worked up a story about hot coffee. I bang on the door.

“Where are your keys? Why are your pants wet?”

“Daddy went pee-pee,” answered my daughter before I could get an answer out. She gives me a kiss and scampers through the door. I am pushed back outside like a dog, with it slamming behind me. I sit down on the stoop, rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. The relief is instantaneous. Nevermind that I look like a homeless disco refugee. I am home, I am safe and I’m asleep.

It ain’t Ozzie and Fucking Harriet. But it’s my life, what can I say.

More from Deadbeat Dad:

• What Goes Up Must Come Down
• A Not-So-Happy Ending
• How Much Trouble Am I In?
• Everything I Need to Know about the Playground…I Learned by Watching Oz
• How to Use Your Two-Year-Old Child as a Drug Mule
• How to Get Drunk at a Children’s Birthday Party
• Deadbeat Dad FAQs