My Marlboro Man

I was raised by the Marlboro man. At least, he owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, rewarded to only the most loyal of customers.I never liked country music- even when it became popular. It never felt like me. But it feels like him and whenever it comes on the radio now, I stop and listen. After ten years, the music he loved is no longer a reminder of my loss, but a tribute to his memory.

My dad wasn’t the kind of father you cuddle up to on the couch. He wasn’t an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough and smelled like cigarettes, Old Spice, and motor oil. He was a disciplinarian. A workaholic. He was a seasoned rebel- a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He never taught me to ride a bike. But he taught me not to fear. He never took me camping. But he taught me independence.

At his funeral, my Uncle Danny said it best, “Dean Van Cleave was a man’s man.” To me he was more. He was superman, unreachable but hovering. Far-off and indestructible, protecting me from a world he never trusted. He did not believe in guns. All he needed were his hulk-sized fists and his lightening reflexes. There was no need to participate in the elementary school game “My dad can beat up your dad.” My dad was King Bad Ass- hands down. I once saw him jump from the roof of our three-story house to rescue my sister on a runaway radio-flyer. Not a scratch. He walked with the confidence of a man who finished more fights than he started. I knew instinctively he’d always be there for me, but in the unlikely event of kryptonite he taught me to defend myself.

“Never run from a dog.” He said, “He’ll only chase you. Walk like you’re not afraid and if he comes at you, punch him in the eyes or nose.” I assumed he had thrown down with a dog at some point in his vast array of violent encounters, though I was always too shy to ask him about it. He had the same advice when it came to people.

When I turned eight and wanted to be baptized Mormon I had to ask for his permission. The prospect of entering the smoky garage- his sanctuary -had deterred my older siblings from being baptized until they were older. Summoning all my courage I approached him, sitting cross-legged at his workbench, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lip as he contemplated one of his many projects.

“Daddy?” I whispered, “Daddy, can I get baptized?” I can still see the twinkle in his faded blue eyes. He waited a moment before answering.

“That’s a big decision- making a promise to God.”

I nodded, watching the smoke ribbon from the end of his Marlboro.

“You don’t get baptized because your mother wants you to- you get baptized because you want to. And if you make that kind of promise you better believe I will hold you to it whether you’re sixteen or thirty. You make a promise to God, you keep it- understand?” I did understand. He scared the crap out of me, but I understood. He taught me integrity. He taught me respect. He taught me to own my actions. My brother baptized me and I knew my dad was proud.

My dad had five tattoos that I’m aware of. I can only remember four of them because the fifth was so faded it looked like a green bruise the shape of Mickey Mouse. Of one thing I’m sure: it wasn’t Mickey Mouse. One said U.S. Navy. One said Born to Lose. I swear one said Mom. But the one on his calf was my favorite because it was a picture of a chicken.

“Daddy? Why do you have a chicken on your leg?”

He would simultaneously avoid both my eye and my question. It wasn’t until I was older that my mom explained to me that it wasn’t a chicken. It was a cock. Yep. I didn’t ask him about it again.

When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. We lived in a tiny mountain town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate highway. And what really chapped his backside were all the incompetent drivers in his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and suggesting where they could shove it. On more than one occasion the car in front of us pulled over to challenge him. My dad was more than happy to oblige, to the frantic predictions of my mother, “Dean! He probably has a gun!” When both he and I knew he was impervious to bullets. Fortunately, he never had to fight. The incompetent driver, upon seeing my terrifying father coming for him in his rearview, would always change his mind, speeding away in a cloud of gravel and shame- leaving my dad straight-faced and triumphant: the greatest driver in the world.

Which is why I begged my mom to teach me to drive. Our lessons didn’t last long as my dad did not approve of her inferior skills and wanted to pass along secret techniques that only he knew. Devices he had learned in his youth, growing up in the Black Hills of South Dakota. That also didn’t last long. After a few lessons I refused to drive at all and did not get my license until I was eighteen.

For a man who Jimmy Ellis had called “one mean white boy” after boxing him to a draw, my dad had a big heart. He picked up hitchhikers, laughed with cashiers and waiters, flirted with every single baby he saw. He may not have read the bible, but he quoted it to me constantly, “Somewhere in that book it says something about treating others the way you want to be treated, Dammit” He taught me to love strangers. He taught me to serve.

I left home at sixteen just as he had. Being married to the Marlboro man had its price and my mom was tired of paying it. My parents had been engaged in constant warfare for as long as I can remember. The threat of a broken home hung like a guillotine over our house. I loved both my parents. Both were wrong. Both were right. Both would continue fighting whether I was there or not. I made plans to live with my sister in Utah. Her one condition: I had to have Dad’s permission.

“No.” was his firm answer. I packed my bag. “No.” I said goodbye to all my friends. “No.” But it hadn’t stopped him, and it didn’t stop me. A week after I left he called me. “Honey, I’ve given it some thought.” His sigh was more painful to me than any punishment. “I am giving you my permission.”

I knew he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and he treated me like an equal from then on. I knew I had gained his respect the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.

The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. It had been two years since I had lived at home and I could tell he was relieved to have me back. So relieved he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in perfect condition, even the interior, but it didn’t run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. My mom told me he had built his own car once. But anxiety and age had frayed him around the edges. If the car could have run on sheer will power I would be driving it today. But it couldn’t and he was unable to fix it. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash.

“This is a good car” and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and I was grateful for it. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. That massive ugly Buick took care of me years after my dad was gone.

The last time I saw him was that Christmas. I wish I had known it- we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have.

“Just you and me.” He promised. When he took me to the airport, my sister and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me- that slightly awkward cigarette and Old Spice hug.

“Love you.” He said gruffly. I watched him walk away. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn’t give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.

That spring he annoyed the hell out of me with phone calls about the income tax forms he was preparing for me. He loved tax-time: the numbers, the columns, the challenge, the money. The man walked around with ten hundred-dollar bills in his wallet just to feel the secure weight of them in his torn Levi pockets. Just to feel he had an unexpected card up his plaid, threadbare sleeve- an F.U. to everyone who’d ever looked down on him for growing up too poor to buy underwear. He had worked hard, he had been successful and he celebrated his success by eating steak three times a week. He loved tax time and I didn’t understand. I was even a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could tell him sorry and thank you, though I never had the chance to say either. I ended up talking to my mom. He walked in just as I was about to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6’4.

“I could still take him.” He said. That was the last thing he said to me.

Tuesday morning I got a phone call.

I took a plane and a bus to get home for the funeral. The house was filled with people- talking, laughing, crying. But I hardly heard them. His cowboy boots sat just inside the front door.

I thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me smart -ass as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. My Superman. My dad.