My dad used to tell me there were two Rita's. I never really knew what he meant by that, but I always felt vaguely guilty about it. But he assured me it was a "gift." He said he had two "hims," as well. He also said I would be like him one day. And Christ, I hope that isn't true. Because both "hims" were killed by a black bear as they were escaping from their mistress's second-story window. See? Turns out at least one of his hims was an idiot. I have a deep suspicion I'm harboring one of those myself. An idiot. Excuse me: a gift.

Getting killed by a black bear is harder than you think, even in Smokey Mountain country, which has plenty of them. Even there, most people don't get killed by black bears. Usually it's people doing stupid things while camping, like leaving food in their tent. A chocolate bar. Or a piece of meat from the grill. Or maybe little Bobby brings cookies into his sleeping bag. Or decides to keep some cereal right next to his head in case of midnight munchies. It would always become big news when one of these attacks happened. And of course they'd have to find the bear and shoot it.

What made my father's death by black bear a story in our small town wasn't the death itself. It was the circumstance leading to it: he'd been in bed with Lauren Warren, who was well-known in town for her excellent pottery store where she sold her beautiful self-designed clay pieces. Lauren hadn't been born Lauren Warren. She had acquired her sing-song name from her husband Tommy, a binge drinker and frequent bar brawler who drove truck for a living and was on the road more than he was at home. He hadn't been due back until the following evening. So when my dad and Lauren heard his pickup in the gravel driveway, they were caught off guard. Dad grabbed his clothes and went out the back window into the cool fall evening. Still naked. Probably still sporting wood. Must have been quite a shock to that bear, who was in the middle of dining on some leftovers in the Warren's trashcan, and was not about to give them up to this strange white creature.

I heard this blues musician once talk about how he couldn't think of a better way of dying than to get shot while sleeping with another man's woman. I think he's right. I mean, crimes of passion and all—there's something poetic in that. But getting mauled by a bear while you're running away? Poor dad. He just couldn't get that shit right.

My grandparents buried dad, what was left of him. And mom didn't go to the funeral. She told me if she ever caught me crying over him she'd slap me. She said he never loved either of us. That he couldn't love. Didn't have it in him. I think she was wrong about that. I think his problem was that he loved too much. He just often loved the wrong people.

My friends tell me it's him I keep writing about. My dad. Well, no shit, people. Girls and their daddy issues. I'm a walking cliché.

Which reminds me: Mike. He dropped by my house yesterday. Knocked on my door. I didn't answer, because I was in the middle of tremendous impulsive sexual decision. But I looked out the window and watched as he walked away. He had both hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders were hunched against the cold. He wore a cap. His dog was with him. I wonder what he wanted.

Category: Fallout