He seemed to be completely unselfconscious.
He’d lay around on the couch, with his hand down his pants while he watched TV or read. I assume holding his balls and dick. It didn’t seem to be sexual, there was no movement, just holding. Maybe it was a comfort thing.
Something about it was disconcerting, to do something so private in the public space of our home.
When he brushed his teeth the toothpaste would drizzle down his arm.
When he ate barbecue the sauce would drizzle down his arm.
He would spit thick hockers in the sink or bath tub and just leave it for everyone to see. It was gross.
He didn’t seem to give a shit what anyone thought. Actually, that makes it sound like he was aware of what we thought and felt. It didn’t even seem to occur to him that we had thoughts and feelings.
He would never have tolerated me doing any of those things. Once he saw me peeing outside (the natural right of anyone growing up in the country) by our trailer.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Don’t ever let me catch you pissing by the house.”
“But you do it.”
“Boy, don’t ever compare yourself to me.”
One winter night we were up watching TV. Not long after he went to bed, he came storming back into the living room, naked, as he often was around the house.
Those footsteps always made me brace to be yelled at and accused and convicted of anything. I’m still feel a jolt of fear when I hear heavy foot steps and startle easily at loud sounds. I hate that I still feel it.
He grabbed at the thermostat and yanked down the temperature.
“I’m sweating my fucking balls off in there!”
I took the accusation to mean that one of us had deliberately turned up the heat just to make him uncomfortable. Or we failed at our responsibility to predict how
he was feeling and change our behavior to accommodate him.
I added temperature of the house to my list of responsibilities to be alway conscious of.