I don't know a whole lot about my dad. There are some pictures, but not too many. There is one that that's just his legs because I was four and my parents asked me to hold the camera, so you see my mom in a tie-died jumper and a pair of dadfeet. There's a box of my dad's stuff in the attic that I've slowly dissected through the years and made his things mine- an ashtray, a pair of sunglasses, a business card that says, "This card has been chemically treated. In thirty seconds, your prick will fall off." Not really any pictures, so it's hard to guess where I came from when the memories I have are almost thirty years-old. I know he was a 'character.' I know he hated working for anyone else. I know his funeral was standing-room only. I know when he was dying, he told me my aunt had a voodoo doll of him in her closet and that I should find it, so I went looking at the next birthday party, moving around shoes and breathing in gemsweaters until somebody came in to get a coat and asked me what I was doing.
I have spent the last few weeks in New York, hanging out with my parents, thinking about my life, and trying to make money to do a second printing of my book. I am an obvious weirdo in a weirdoless family of people who work hard, are very good at crossword puzzles, and are incredibly supportive to this nomadic, nocturnal, jobless breeze that blows in every few months. There are a lot of missing pieces, and I get a sense that my dad was a lot like me, but there is no way of really knowing, because the evidence is fading and few.
Today, I heard a loud crash in the diningroom, and a bunch of stuff fell out of the closet. On top was my dad's 1969 yearbook. He was fourteen. I have never seen this before today.
Best name for a yearbook ever.
I think I would be friends with Toad. I like his outlook.
And this is my dad, Keith Elliott Sneider. I think I would be friends with him, too.