My Boring-Ass Life (Revised Edition): The Uncomfortably Candid Diary of Kevin Smith (28 page)

I don’t really remember that Q&A. I recall showing clips from
Jersey Girl
, but the caliber of questions or how long the panel lasted is all a haze at this point. What I do recall, however, was my Old Man sitting up front, in a wheelchair, next to my Mom and sister.

Rather than temper the show because they were there, I went for embarrassingly candid and frank, as per usual. After the panel, Virginia brought Mom and Dad backstage, where we talked to Joe and Nancy Quesada for a few minutes before I learned that Donald was stuck at the Philly airport with car trouble. Dad was wearing a
Simpsons
sweatshirt that Malcolm had bought for him on the Con floor after he’d mentioned he was feeling cold.

My panel was near the end of the Con day, so we waited ten minutes for the hall to clear out, and then I took the ‘rents down to the floor to show them the Panasonic stock car that my man Ed Janda had emblazoned with a big blow-up of Jay and Silent Bob from
Strike Back
. I remember this impressed the hell out of Pop, for whatever reason, and then Ed Janda took a picture of me, Mom and Dad in front of the car.

I brought Mom and Dad back to the hotel, where Jen had already gone post-panel, as she wanted to get ready for the Morton’s dinner we were planning. I gave Dad a pair of warm-up pants and drove him and Mom to where they were staying with my sister.

I’d reserved the private dining room at Morton’s, and that night, the five members of the Smith family (Mom, Dad, Virginia, Donald and me) and two of our spouses (Virginia’s husband Eric and my Jen; Don’s husband Jerry was home in Florida, stuck working) gathered for a family dinner.

We sat around eating, drinking, talking, joking, bullshitting, and just generally having a great time. My father sat next to me, and in classic Don Smith fashion said very little, only occasionally chiming in with the well-timed joke. My sister has always maintained that I based Silent Bob on my Dad: the guy who never said much in social gatherings, whose lack of yammering set him up for perfect, well-timed
bon mots
when he did open his mouth. My Old Man was a pretty funny guy when he wanted to be.

That night, he seemed to wanna listen more than anything else. He laughed a lot, and put away a filet mignon, a trio of Manhattans, and a big chunk of cheesecake while the rest of us took the floor. The waiter was kind enough to snap a group shot of us.

It was, hands-down, one of the best evenings I’d spent with my father as an adult.

When dinner wrapped, I put Mom, Dad and Donald in a cab. I offered to drive them the few blocks to Virginia’s rented apartment, but Mom said it would be just as easy to take a taxi. My father sat in the back seat on the passenger side, and I remember very clearly kissing his cheek and telling him I’d see him in the morning. He smiled and nodded and said g’night.

I got the call from Donald at around six in the morning. I tried not to answer the phone, assuming it was a Convention fan with no sense of time. When the hotel phone stopped ringing and my cell phone started, I figured it was important enough to wake up for. Donald told me that Dad had suffered another heart attack, and that they were at the hospital a few blocks away, and that I needed to get down there, ASAP.

I got up and got dressed, but didn’t wake Jen, as I felt it couldn’t have been all that serious if Don was calling. I got downstairs and cabbed it over to the hospital, entered the Emergency Room doors where Don had said to meet him, and instantly realized the situation was far worse than I’d imagined.

My mother was sobbing in such a way that I’d never seen her cry before. She was in a panic, unable to catch her breath, her eyes were wide and her skin pale. My brother, who’s always been a rather quiet, dignified crier, was completely red and wet-faced. Between rounds of Hail Mary’s, my mother told me Dad had had a heart attack, and the doctors were having a hard time bringing him around. She kept repeating “Not now, Lord. Jesus, please not now...” before diving back into a fresh Hail Mary. This was grief such as I’d never seen before, and I learned it was well-warranted when I made eye contact with Don over Mom’s shoulder and he slowly shook his head “No”.

I could only imagine it was like getting shot in the head. Life changed in an instant. My heart skipped a beat. At that moment, the Doctor came out and said we might want to come in and see Dad.

Upon entering the ER, the first thing I noticed was how quiet it was. There were no machines running, no activity swirling around my Dad. He was just lying on a gurney, awfully still. Mom was immediately at his side, holding his hand and stammering to him through thick, agonized tears. Virginia arrived, and the circle was complete: the man who’d taken me to the movies every week of my young life, the man who I loved most in the world, was very still and very quiet, surrounded by his wife and kids. All throughout my youth and through some of my adulthood, I’d seen my father asleep. This was nothing like that. The sheet wasn’t rising and falling on his great barrel stomach. He wasn’t snoring. He wasn’t there.

Growing up, the Old Man and I used to watch TV together all the time. In those dark, pre-cable days, the selection was usually kinda weak, considering my father worked the night shift at the Post Office, and would only be able to watch the tube with me from three in the afternoon when I got home from school ‘til six, when he’d go to sleep for a few hours before his five-day a week 11 p.m. departure. But I have very vivid memories of my Old Man lying on the floor with me, watching
Bowling for Dollars
every day, with me perpendicular to him, my chin on his belly, as if it were a great pillow. I hadn’t done that since I was maybe seven. That morning, I recognized my last opportunity to rest my head on my father and seized it. As still as I thought he was before, my head on his chest confirmed for me that my father was truly gone. I kissed his head, told his empty vessel that I loved him, and headed outside to bawl.

I called Jen and told her the news, and she got off the phone to rush down to join us. Don filled me in on the particulars: how Dad had woken up around five, insisting he was overheated. How he was cold to the touch but sweating profusely. How he seized up in pain when they called for an ambulance. How it was all over by the time the ambulance arrived, and how the attendants knew this, but seeing how distressed and frantic my mother was, decided to go through the motions of getting Dad to the hospital anyway — a kindness that we all appreciated.

Almost immediately, I put up this post on the board...

June 1, 2003

Give your fathers a hug, if you can...

I’d hug mine if I could.

My father died very unexpectedly this morning around 5:30-6:00 a.m., suffering a massive heart attack. He’d just turned sixty-seven on 22 May.

Very emotional day, to say the least.

Pop meant the world to me. The man was an excellent father and directly responsible for my interest in movies, having taken me out of school early on Wednesdays to hit bargain matinees when I was a kid. A quiet man who only spoke when he had something funny or insightful to say, my sister often insisted he was the basis for Silent Bob. He’d survived congestive heart failure a few months back, and rallied quite nicely to better health and a more robust zeal for living than he’d had in years.

Fortunately, thanks to
Wizard
World this weekend, my entire immediate family was already gathered in the same place at the same time — a feat rarely achieved over the last ten years. My sister and her husband, who live in Hong Kong, were in town, and my Dad, Mom and brother had flown up from Florida to see the Convention and my sis and me. Last night, me, Jen, Mom, Dad, Don, Virginia and Eric had a great dinner at Morton’s — talking, laughing, and shooting the shit. If he had to go, he chose the best time to do it, surrounded by the children he raised, their spouses, and the woman he loved and spent nearly every day of the past forty-one years beside. In this way, he died as he lived: generously and on everyone else’s schedule.

I love you, Pop. I’ll miss the hell out of you.

The wake followed two days later, and the funeral a day after that. I gave the following eulogy...

Looking at everybody in attendance this morning, I imagine my father would be really surprised if he were here. Not by how beloved he was — or still is, actually; but rather due to the fact that so many lapsed Catholics present in one church hasn’t collapsed the roof... Yet.

What follows is a partial list, in no particular order of importance, of what my father taught me in the brief thirty-two years I spent as his son, his pupil, and an all-around fan:

My father taught me the importance of family, immediate or extended.

My father taught me how to be a man — and not by instilling in me a sense of machismo or an agenda of dominance. He taught me that a real man doesn’t take, he gives; he doesn’t use force, he uses logic; doesn’t play the role of troublemaker, but rather, trouble-shooter; and most importantly, a real man is defined by what’s in his heart, not his pants.

My father taught me how to operate a Yo-Yo.

By example, my father taught me how to always strive to be the most loving husband I can possibly be. He taught me that, in marriage, the term “wife” doesn’t preclude the terms “partner”, “best friend”, or “passion”. He showed me that, even after nearly forty years of marriage, you can never be too romantic, and that there’s no shame in being hopelessly in love with your wife; the only shame is in NOT being so.

He also taught me that — no matter what — your wife is always right. And if she’s not, allow her the illusion that she is.

To clear his name, let me just say now that my father never taught me a single swear word. My Mom did, but not my father.

My father taught me that a father should serve as the best example of a man as possible for his daughter. That way, she’ll never settle for anyone who’s not at least as good as her Dad.

My father taught me to not be judgmental, and instead, simply accept the fact that most people are idiots.

By example, my father taught me how to be a good brother — and that being a sibling doesn’t preclude you from being friends as well.

My father taught me that belief in God is only as meaningful as belief in one’s family or one’s self. To serve one and not the others is an empty gesture at best, and a betrayal of all three at worst.

My father taught me to weigh my words carefully, and speak up only when I had something insightful to add to the proceedings, or something really funny to say. He also taught me that if I couldn’t be that kind of guy in real life, that I could earn a healthy living pretending to be that guy in the movies — particularly when paired up with a long haired stoner.

My father taught me the value of quality time with one’s child — even if that quality time meant simply sacking out in front of the TV, resting your head on your Dad’s stomach, and watching
Bowling For Dollars
. This weekend, my father taught me that there’d be no price to pay that’d be too high to be able to do that just one more time.

My father taught me how to pick the right girl.

My father taught me that it’s okay to duck out of school early every once in awhile to see a movie. The benefit is two-fold: a) the bargain matinee will save you a couple bucks, and b) there’s nothing they can teach you in school that the movies can’t teach you in two hours or less, with a few car chases and good music thrown in to boot.

My father taught me that family comes first, and that family isn’t necessarily limited to blood relatives only.

My father taught me how to feed twenty-eight cats at once.

My father taught me that, every now and then, you’ve gotta hold up in your room, turn on the stereo, and sing along at the top of your lungs.

Conversely, try as he might, my father was never able to instill in me an appreciation for Country Music.

My father taught me to respect men and women alike. But women more.

My father taught me that if you’re ever gonna drive down to Busch Gardens in Virginia, you should first call to make sure the park is open.

My father taught me how to ride a bike.

My father taught me that it’s possible to work in the United States Post Office for twenty-four years, and NOT show up to work one day to blow everyone away with a sawed-off shotgun.

My father taught me the value of hard work, and — by rooking me into mowing my grandmother’s ridiculously huge lawn every weekend in my early teens — the importance of getting someone else to do the hard work for you.

My father taught me how to love and be loved.

My father taught me, much to the chagrin of my wife, that when it comes to gas, rather out than in.

My father taught me how to drive. No, wait — Ernie O’Donnell taught me how to drive. But my father taught me that it was okay that Ernie O’Donnell taught me how to drive. Obviously, my father never taught me how to gracefully recover from a mistake made when speaking in public.

My father taught me that all dreams are possible — even if your dream is nothing more elaborate than having a wife and children who love you.

Sadly though, the most useful lesson my father could’ve taught me was one he never got around to imparting: and that is... how to face the rest of my life without him.

Sometimes, it takes someone else’s words to eloquently express what you can’t compose yourself. Today, those words belong to the poet, W.H. Auden. The poem is called ‘Stop All The Clocks’ and it was featured in the movie
Four Weddings and a Funeral
— one of the only movies my father ever liked that didn’t star Clint Eastwood.

[I read out the poem.]

I was lucky to have had Him for a Father.

I was lucky to have known Him at all.

So tonight, Mom and I made small-talk for awhile before getting into the heavy lifting of acknowledging that Dad’s been gone for two years. I offered the simple platitudes that are easy to offer when you’re not the one who lost your best friend: best not to think about his death when we can concentrate on his life instead, let’s celebrate his birthday and not his death-day, etc. But, really — what do I know about loss of the scope my Mom’s had to deal with for the past two years. To imagine it, I need only to imagine Jen dying, and how utterly bereft, lost and adrift I’d be — and even then, it’s all speculation. My Mom has to live with my father’s loss every day.