Dad said it was a museum piece that the museum didn’t want anymore.
I thought that was a bit strange, since the older something got the more a museum would want it. But I was only fifteen then and too stupid to question my old man.
“What is it?” Jimmy said when Dad first brought it home.
“It’s a commode,” I said. For an older brother, Jimmy had always been peculiarly dense to my mind.
“You’re both right,” Dad said, and proceeded to show us how to use it.
Some people have expressed disbelief when I tell them that Dad took a shit in front of us. But he would take a dump in front of anyone, anywhere we were, any time. How else do you show someone how to use a commode?
When the police knocked on the door the next day, Dad hid in the laundry (with the commode) and made me answer the door.
“Is your dad home?” the female officer said.
I looked her all the way up and down, just how Dad had taught me to do it, when a woman tries to act up bigger than she should. “Nope. Just me and me brother Jimmy.”
“There have been several items stolen from the museum where your Dad works. Have you seen or heard anything unusual lately?”
“Nothing comes to mind. You know, you can’t harass people just because they’ve got a record. My Dad’s paid his debt.”
“Of course.”
They left, but got Dad a week later after he punched a barmaid at the pub. Arresting him gave them a good enough excuse to search the house.
He may have got another petty theft rap along with his assault conviction, but for that week he had the commode he was the happiest I’ve ever seen him.