How do I tell Dad I think he’s a Drug-Mule?

11 08 2008

Son of Chico wants to intervene, if–and only if–Dad is indeed a drug mule

Don’t get me wrong: I love my dad…but I think he might be a drug-mule.

I first had my suspicions when dad came home from work, four hours past his curfew, reeking of hashish and Old English. He insisted that I call him “Chico,” then passed out in the guest bathroom. Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Immersed in a marathon stretch of “Dancing with the Stars,” suffice it to say, I was in no mood to abandon my spot.

The man at the door was six-foot-four and hirsute. He demanded to speak to my father.

“You mean, Chico?” I asked. Within seconds, the man had me in a choke-hold and started pummeling me. He threatened me in Spanish, or at least I think it was Spanish. My two years of French in high school did not facilitate the negotiation process.

He bound me to the armoire–a sensation that I found not altogether unpleasant–then asked for my father again. I’m not sure what followed in our conversation…was it a coded initiation into a life of crime? Harmless banter about 1970’s prime-time television?

“Ese, strada.”

“Estrada. Qui, Eric est tres macho.”

“Oye tio! No es un amigo mio. Y te papi?”

“Dans le salles de bannes.”

Mon-tel-ban? Ricardo?”

“Quois?”

“Ricardo Montelban?”

“Non. Tatoo.”

“Ah, si. Tatoo. The Plane, the plane.”

A few minutes later, dad limped out of the bathroom, where he’d been busy retrieving the goods. The man shrugged. All was business as usual: just another simple transaction with a card-carrying member of AARP who wedged half-a-kilo inside his body cavity.

But still…something doesn’t sit well inside of me. I’m not 100 percent certain, but something tells me that Chico just might be a drug mule. It’s possible, of course, that I’m reading too much into this. He is retired, afterall. And those AARP trips sure mean a lot to him.

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