Daddy Was A Daf O'Dill
March 6, 1998

When I was in my early teens, my daddy was president of a very notorious band of motorcycle hellions who called themselves the Daf O'Dills. But don't let the name fool you folks. These guys were anything but flower children. These guys were real BAD O'Dills!

Their very name belied the sheer mayhem and treachery these heathens were capable of committing. So prevalent was the scope of their criminal activity, that the Starkansaw legislature actually tried to pass a bill declaring all crime against the law unless committed by a Daf O'Dill member. The deal would have worked but the Daf O'Dills themselves wouldn't agree to one small condition: They had to change their name to the I.R.S. And so they remained outlaws.

Even though my dad's name was Alcatraz Starke -- everyone called him "Al" -- he never seemed particularly dangerous to me, except when I sassed the man. I don't know why, but I would hide his bolt cutters and run around with his ski mask on just to irritate the man. He'd walk into the room and I'd pick up the phone and act like I was dialing 911. Man, would he get mad.

When he had enough, he'd say "OK, Raiford," and start undoing his belt - the one with the four-by-six inch iron plate belt buckle wrapped in black leather, with the words "MUD FLAP" emblazoned in red along with a couple of "SS" lightning bolts. Boy, you never wanted to get one of those across your bare-hind!!

I could tell that Mom (her name was Attie - short for Attica) was getting fed up with Dad. You know, constantly having to wipe his fingerprints off everything. The middle of the night phone calls to bail him out of jail. The police showing up at the front door asking his whereabouts.

That didn't make any difference to me, because, far as I was concerned, all of the things the cops wanted him for were just bum raps. I mean, at the time, it was just incomprehensible to me that my dad could do any wrong. And if he was found guilty of anything, then he was just an innocent victim of circumstantial evidence. In fact, Mom used to get mad at me, too. That's when she would assure me: "Raiford, don't think you're so smart, boy. You ain't the only hell your daddy ever raised! Not by a long shot!"

Well, she finally told Dad to leave one day. And he did.

For two whole years we didn't see or hear from him. We weren't even sure if he was dead or alive. Then one day I came home from school and there he was sitting at the Starke dinner table, returned home like the Prodigal Son. He looked really strung out -- at least 30 pounds underweight with all his teeth either rotting or missing.

Well, Mom knew how badly we kids missed him that whole time, and I think she kinda missed him too, and besides that, it looked like he'd hit the wall and was ready to make a change. So she let him stay.

It looked like things were starting to get back to normal around the Starke household. Dad was starting to put on a little weight and getting his one good tooth looked at by a dentist. And Mom, well, ol' Attie seemed to be warming up. I caught her wiping Dad's prints off his coffee cup one morning. Just like the old days. She was smiling. And so was he.

Yeah, things were going great. For everybody except me. You see, I was in my third or fourth year of ninth grade and this New Math was just killing me. This aggravated my dad to no end. "Do you know how many bikers have failed in robberies because they couldn't figure out the combinations on a lock?" he kept asking me. So he confined me to my room every day after school to hit the books.

Then one day he found me alone in my room listening to Rolling Stones records. He stood in the doorway with no shirt on. Tattoos on his tattoos. My black light glistened off his tooth. I spoke first:

"I don't need to study, I'm gonna be a rock star."

"So you're gonna be a rock star," he said, "tell me what kind of rock star are you going to be when you can't even sign your name on the back of your royalty checks to cash 'em in?"

"Aah, what do you know?" I said, "You're just a washed-up loser."

"OK, Raiford," he said and with that he took a deep breath and started to unbuckle his belt. "Uh Oh," I thought. I knew what was going to happen next.

His belt slid out of the last loop. He swung it like a lariat. I braced myself for the impending onslaught. "Let the reign of terror begin!" he bellowed. I began laughing uncontrollably.

"What's so funny?" he screamed. Then he looked down. His pants had fallen to his ankles. And his boxer shorts had little baby deers all over them.(A gift from Mom.) His pants were a couple of sizes too big and his belt was the only thing holding them up until he gained his weight back. I could not stop laughing. His face turned beet-red, "Why you little..."

At that moment I saw my mom's head peer through the bedroom door. I immediately started feigning starke terror. "Mom!" I screamed, "Make him stop! Look at what he's trying to do to me!"

"What's the meaning of this?" she said. All she could see was Dad chasing me around the room, hopping like a rabbit, with his pants down to his feet like shackles. Mom called the police and they hauled ol' Al away.

My parents separated for good after that. My mom would never speak to my dad again, and like most kids who have grown up in a broken home, I remain wracked with guilt. I guess maybe it was my fault. If I had only studied my math, instead of guitar riffs. If I hadn't laughed at his boxer shorts. If I had just left his darn ski mask alone. If I just hadn't sent him that bouquet of daffodils when he was in jail. Then again, maybe it's all circumstantial evidence.

-- Raiford Starke is a blues guitarist whose first album "Blue Healer" will be released soon. He lives with his dad.

© March 6, 1998, The Seminole Tribune