The Noise Between Us

R. Alexander

I moved in with my father when I was sixteen years old. Leaving one abusive home for another one was simply a decision of the lesser of two evils. My father’s care felt like escaping one storm, and learning how to stand in another. Nonetheless, he was a child at heart, and needless to say, living with him was a touch… chaotic. We were essentially two big kids running around, not knowing what to do with ourselves, let alone what to eat for dinner.

My father was a very quirky man. He had a certain charm to him that I have yet to find in another person. You see, there was this bell, the kind found at hotels when you need to ring for assistance. The one that dings softly but resounds through time just a bit longer than makes sense. You know the one.

My father had one of these bells (for whatever reason), and found great joy in dinging it anytime he was near me. Well, the joy was found once he realized that it irritated me. I mean, what doesn’t irritate a 16 year old girl? Once he reached this realization, he made it his personal mission to make that noise a regular staple in my angsty teenage life. He would follow me around, dinging the bell, stand behind me in my room while I was doing my homework, follow me outside just a couple feet behind while I walked the dog, and took particular joy and pride in ringing the bell when I was on the phone.

I would be getting ready for school in the morning at 6:30 a.m., and he would be ringing the bell, stomping around the house like a fool. Ding. Ding. Ding.

This was my father.

Well, one day I had had enough. It was nighttime, and we were watching TV on the couch. He lightly tapped the bell as a habit and plopped down on the couch. At that moment, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Mercury must have been in the microwave, maybe I was PMSing, or maybe it was just one ding too many. Without thought of reason, I stood up, grabbed the bell, and went into the garage to grab a hammer. I took my belongings out to the driveway and beat the ever-loving garbage out of this bell. I came back into the house and put the bell and the hammer in the sink. The bell was no more,

My father, seeing this travesty, said, “Rock, this is war.” (He used to call me Rock. Ever since I was born, it’s been my nickname. To this day, I have no idea why.) In any event, I responded in kind with, “Bring it, old man.”

And thus started a three-month practical joke war. Let me be clear, when I say war, I mean it in the truest sense of the word. We were ruthless with one another. I took his car keys to school with me. He took the toilet seat off my toilet. I put cayenne pepper in his coffee. He got an airhorn and used it often. Close to my ear with no regard for well, anything. Surprisingly, I have no hearing damage. It was a close call, though.

When I say that this war lasted for three months, I’m not exaggerating.

Well, it was a Friday night, and my father had a date. While he was gone, I decided to get a bit more creative with it. I went into the pantry to scavenge for something, anything, that would elevate his blood pressure. What did I come up with? Rice. White rice to be specific. I have absolutely no idea how I got the idea or where it came from, but I proceeded to cover his whole world in small grains of nutrient-filled goodness. I lined his pants pockets, pressed rice into the bristles of his toothbrush, in all of his drawers, in his shampoo and conditioner bottles. I even taped rice to his television screen. I put rice in the drawers of his desk, the soles of his shoes, the list goes on.

Once my mission was complete, and believe me, it was a mission. I took my time with this one. Once complete, I got into bed and waited. Eyes wide open, occasional giggles and a smugness only matched by the victory to come.

Around midnight, my father walked through the door, and not ten minutes later, I heard him scream, “Goddamnit, Rock!” I haven’t laughed that hard since.

The next day, my father conceded.. I made him wave a white paper towel as a flag of surrender. He said to me, “Rock, one day you will buy me a new bell. I don’t know when, but you will. You have won the battle, but I will win the war.”

I brushed it off and let it go. We both did. Time passed. He found new ways to ruin my life and the question of who was raising who remained ever present.

A year had passed and it was my birthday. I wanted a nose ring but since I was still in high school, I needed his permission to get one. Well, as I’m sure you can glean, he had one condition for allowing it: I had to buy him a new bell. And regretfully, I did. There was also an accompanying rule with said purchase. I was not permitted to touch the bell under any circumstance.

From that day on, bells were simply ‘our thing’. Whenever I saw one, it was his. He had bells from vacations, my time volunteering in Africa, Walgreens… bells from local gas stations, Amazon, you name it.

My father passed in 2021 and I miss him. I miss him every day. One thing I don’t miss though, is the sound of that resounding bell. It’s not that I don’t miss it because the sound is absent. I don’t miss the sound because I still hear it. You see, after my father’s passing, I rightfully inherited his collection, the one that I built for him over the years. No, I don’t miss the ding at all. I have the original bell prominently displayed in my apartment and I ring it every chance I get.