My father’s been hit by cars four times while walking to work. It’s about a mile walk, and he makes it every morning and every night, five days a week, so given the statistics, it’s not that surprising.

Still, the actual events are pretty stupid. (Dad’s afraid of doctors, so never got checked out after any of these)

The first time he was hit by a car while walking to work, he was on the sidewalk, and a lady was pulling out of her driveway. She got his shin with the bumper, then she laid on the horn at him. He walked with a bit of a limp for a day or two after.

The second time, a few years later, was the time he was hit by a police car: He was crossing the street, during the appropriate time, when a cop car suddenly put on its lights and darted forward, flipping Dad up onto the windshield. The police officer told Dad, “You’ve got to be more careful”. Dad was mostly okay after that one, surprisingly.

The third time, a few years after that, he was on the sidewalk in an area where the road and sidewalks are narrow, and a massive pickup that was far too large for the street in question came speeding up it and clipped Dad in the back of the shoulder with its side view mirror. That was a bad one; he had a livid bruise for a month. The pickup never stopped.

The final time, many years later, he was also on the sidewalk, waiting for his time to cross, when a car bumped up over the curb and cut across the corner on the sidewalk, knocking dad down. The window rolled down, and it was the same man who flipped Dad onto the hood while driving a police car, older and now dressed as a civilian. He shouted at Dad, once more, “You’ve got to be more careful,” and drove on.

After that, Dad stopped walking to work and started driving. He’s already gotten into two car accidents that were determined by insurance not to be his fault, but importantly, he wasn’t injured as much in them.

Author of these three stories here. Here’s another story about how dumb my dad was when I was growing up.

In late high school, I had permission to drive Dad’s car pretty much whenever I wanted to. I drove it way more than he did, and I was the primary mode of transport for my group of friends.

A few days before the fourth of July, I was driving on the highway with my friends in the car, and someone in the car ahead of us started throwing lit explosives out their window.

BANG! POP! BANG!

The loud noises bothered my autism.

Then, I heard a loud pop from under the car. I thought maybe it was one of the explosives. After that, the car started driving funny; it now had a distinct pull to the left. So, after I was done hanging out with my friends and I brought the car home, I told my dad about it.

The exact words I said were important because he took offense to them and refused to listen. I was too autistic to rephrase myself, and he was too autistic to listen. What I said every time was:

Me: “When I was driving on [Street], someone in the car in front of us started throwing firecrackers out the window. I heard a pop from under the car, and the car started driving differently; there’s a strong veer to the left.”

And every time, this was his response:

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

Me: “Nevertheless, there was a pop under the car, and the car started veering left.”

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

At that point, I gave up.

We had that exact conversation multiple times that summer. Dad eventually took the car to the mechanic for routine maintenance and found that something underneath was bent or broken, causing the car to veer to the left.

Dad: “[My Name], why didn’t you tell me the car was driving funny?”

Me: “I’ve already told you many times. You just never listened to me. A few days before the fourth of July, when I was driving on [Street], someone in the car in front of us started throwing firecrackers out the window. I heard a pop from under the car, and the car started driving differently; there was a strong veer to the left. Every time I’ve told you this, you’ve said, ‘Firecrackers can’t do that,’ instead of listening to me.”

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

Me: “Yeah, that.”

Dad: “But why didn’t you tell me?”

Frustrated, I walked away into my room, locked the door, and read fiction until I calmed down.

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I am the author of this story.

When I was young, one of my responsibilities was to set the table in preparation for dinner. I had the typical struggles of a small child confusing the different forks and knives and their correct locations, but eventually, I learned.

However, one thing that always bugged me was that, even though I got the water from a pitcher with ice in it, Dad would often complain to me that the water I gave him was “hot” and demand another glass.

It took far too long for me to realize the problem: when I was getting the glasses hot (and I do mean hot) out of the dishwasher, he was simply feeling the surface temperature of the glass and not the water.

So, the next time, I grabbed water for him I warned him.

Me: “Dad, we’re getting the glasses straight out of the dishwasher. They are going to be hot. Are you sure you want me to get glasses from the dishwasher and that you don’t want a mug?”

Dad: “Yes. I want a glass for my water.”

Me: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I brought him a glass with ice water.

Dad: “The water’s hot! Go back and get me a glass of cold water.”

Me: “For f***’s sake, Dad, the glass is hot, not the water!”

Dad: “The water is hot!”

Me: “Put your fingers in the water and feel it.”

Dad: “It’s hot!”

I grabbed his hand and put his finger directly into the water.

Dad: “Oh. Can I get another glass of water, please? This water’s been touched.”

Me: “…That’s the last of the iced seltzer water. We don’t have any more ice until more cubes set. It will be still water. Are you sure?”

Dad: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay.”

I got him more water

Dad: “This water is warm!”

Me: “We’re out of ice! Just drink your water and stop being a baby about it.”

That worked, and he stopped complaining.

I still can’t believe how much of a picky baby my father was sometimes, given that I was more mature than him at such a young age. We’re both autistic, but jeez!

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A customer comes up wearing an old denim “battle jacket” with patches ironed onto it. One of them says, “Taxation is theft.” Another says, “Supreme.” He’s carrying scented candles.

Customer: “So, if these are 10% off, if I get ten, does that mean I get them for free?”

Me: “No. You just get 10% off.”

Customer: “No, look. If I get one, I get 10% off, right? So if I get two, it’s 20%…”

Me: “No. It’s just 10% for two, as well.”

Customer: “So, if it’s three, it’s 30%, right?”

Me: “No. Still 10%.”

Customer: “But at four, surely it’s more?”

Me: “No. Still 10%.”

Customer: “But that doesn’t make sense.”

Me: “It is how it is. It doesn’t matter how many you get per transaction; the computer makes sure it’s 10%.”

Customer: “Can I do more than one transaction?”

Me: “Sure. Why not?”

Customer: “Okay. I want to get ten of these, one transaction each, each 10% off. That way I’ll get my hundred percent off.”

Me: “Okay.”

We did ten transactions, each 10% off. Here’s the catch, though: here in Iowa City, we have what’s called a penny sales tax, which is an extra cent added to each transaction, no matter how large or how small. This is sometimes called a “regressive” tax because it taxes the poor more than the rich; the rich can afford to bundle more items per transaction.

We actually have about fourteen cents’ worth of penny sales taxes, so each individual transaction has fourteen extra cents. This guy paid around an extra dollar and a half because he couldn’t understand that 10% of two is more than 10% of one.

Since his jacket said, “Taxation is theft,” I enjoyed watching him get hit with the stupid tax: the penny taxes go specifically to the school district.

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I’m the same person whose rock broke in Iowa City in this story.

When I was a child, doing laundry was one of my chores. One day, my dad purchased a pair of “pre-distressed” jeans that were dyed to look like they had mud on the knees.

At some point, after we had both forgotten about this event, I washed them and brought them back to Dad. He said they were still dirty and insisted I rewash the entire load. So, I did, and once more, he insisted that the load was dirty and that I rewash it.

It took three repetitions of this before I started trying to figure out which specific item was doing it, and I found the jeans.

I returned the load without the jeans, and Dad accepted it. Then, I gave him the jeans, and he said they were dirty and that I had to rewash them.

I tried repeatedly to wash those jeans, including getting spot remover and scrubbing, but Dad would not accept them as clean. Finally, I threw them out without telling him.

Later, when shopping, I saw the same jeans with the exact same “stains” in the store and remembered Dad bragging to me about how he had bought jeans with fake stains on them to be more “hip”.

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