I, Brutus

Dad, cosplay, and a dog (first of two shorts based on my Dad)

Photo by AkuAku

My dad, for reasons he took to his grave, decided one evening to become the King of Siam. Maybe he’d caught The King and I somewhere. Maybe the idea just landed on him, the way ideas did. Either way, he committed.

The transformation: a white towel wound into a turban, his old silk robe, a bedsheet draped over his shoulders with royal intent. Mom’s bedroom slippers, little bells knotted to the bows. And for a scepter, the yardstick mom kept with her sewing things.

The bells announced him. My brother and I were tidying the kitchen with Mom after a late supper when a faint jingle drifted in from the hall, and we all turned toward it. Dad entered. He lifted his chin with kingly bearing, then tilted it fast as the turban threatened to unravel over one ear. He planted the yardstick, set a hand on his hip, and waited for his subjects to bow.

We nearly ruptured something. Mom dragged out a chair and dropped into it, past the point of standing.

Now, Brutus. We named him that because, sweet as he was to family and any friend we introduced, he turned pure brute with strangers. The laughter drew him in, tail going, ready for whatever game this was.

Then Dad’s costume registered.

Brutus locked up mid-stride. A growl rolled up from somewhere under his ribs and his lips peeled back over his teeth. Then, springs in his haunches, he crossed the kitchen in one leap and landed square in front of the King of Siam, all snarl.

Dad backpedaled into the corner.

“Brutus, it’s me! It’s me! Brutus!”

He held the yardstick out between them, and Brutus clamped onto it, gnawing it slick with slobber before Dad wrestled it back out of his jaws.

You might imagine his family rushing to the rescue. His son and daughter were rolling on the kitchen floor. Mom had folded in half in her chair, one arm clamped across her stomach, tears running down her face.

Brutus pressed in for the kill. Dad, down to his last card, tore off the turban and cape in a single motion and yelled over the lunge:

“Brutus! It’s me! See? It’s me!”

And Brutus stopped. Who knows why. Mom’s theory: mothballs. The old robe reeked of them and buried dad’s familiar smell, the turban hid his face and head, and no version of dad had ever jingled. Whatever it was, the growl drained away. Dad offered his hand, slow. Brutus sniffed it, then licked it, an apology of sorts, and Dad patted his head. King and brute, reconciled.

He stayed sore at us the rest of the night. Later, from my bed, I caught my parents’ voices moving down the hall.

“That dog could have eaten my balls for dinner, and none of you would have cared.”

Mom’s answer was a chuckle, fading with their footsteps toward their bedroom.

Author’s Note

1. My father was a guy who loved to laugh and loved to be surrounded by a group of friends and family as he told his tales. Both my parents were storytellers. Whenever my father was not working and was home for our bedtime, my brother and I used to beg him to tell us stories. (It gave our Mom a break.) Most stories he made up entirely. Some he fashioned by embellishing events. Others were true stories made better by his telling.

2. Read the other short story based on my Dad, The Flying Cockroach.

   The Flying Cockroach

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