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In our basement – which quickly became the dumping ground for a squirting twice-played-on Ping Pong table, broken Christmas ornaments from three decades ago, and treadmill Mom used when she was going through her I-wonder-if-men-still-fantasize-about-me phase squirting – my father constructed a crude and rickety bar for himself. Over the period of six months, he slapped together: … plywood from a tree in our backyard struck by lightning… squirting … an old Toyota bumper he snatched from the town junkyard… … paint my brother swiped from his elementary school custodial closet while the janitor was sipping ten-year old scotch out of a filthy old tennis shoe under the basketball bleachers… … some Plexiglas from the top of our neighbor’s broken foosball table… … nails my sister stole from the Hardware Store she worked in while her manager was looking up the skirt of a woman reaching for a toilet brush on a top shelf… … and hundreds of Guinness bottle caps that my father had been collecting since he was five.
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