A view of Micky Spillane and my Dad
My Dad quit high school as a sophomore.
The Depression impoverished his family.
He was an A student, told a story
about how he found a wallet with $5 in it.
Despite what a boon it was,
returned it and got praise for reward.
Despite his incomplete education,
Dad devoured books and loved them.
When I was a teen, he insisted
I read Hugo’s Les Miserables
over my angst and protest.
I became a literature professor.
But among the book stacks
beside his bed, crouched Spillane.
After my dad died, I picked up
I, the Jury, one of a flurry of novels
this tough-as-nails author’s
detective creation, the executing dick
Mike Hammer, reveled in. A perfect name
for the way that gumshoe and my Dad
approached their hard-boiled lives.
Sadly, later, when I found about my Dad’s
adultery and business chicanery,
I wondered if the pull of Spillane
had turned that wallet-returning,
noble young man into a scalawag.
When Mickey said he didn't
give a damn about critics’ opinions
because more people ate
salted peanuts than caviar
and that none of his characters
drank cognac or sported mustaches
because he couldn't spell the words,
or that he didn't have fans but
a lot of customers because
that should be the goal of writers,
I understood my father better and wept.
Originally published on Rat's Ass Review