I didn’t really have a lot of good memories growing up. My mom was a drug addict and my dad gambled away what he didn’t drink. When they weren’t engaging in their respective vices, they were arguing and/or taking out their frustrations on me.
I got used to wearing long-sleeved shirts and jeans, even in the summer, to hide the bruises. I was a literal punching back for them. Of course, it was always worse when mom was high or dad was drunk. On those nights, I did my best to make myself scarce or lock myself up in my room and blast the TV to drown out their yelling.
There was one solace I had in all of this: Mr. Knock Knock. I don’t know if you ever saw his show, but it almost definitely something I shouldn’t have been watching. Mr. Knock Knock was an good-looking individual. I’ll never forget his crooked nose. It looked like the cartilage underneath had been destroyed and then hastily pieced back together. He was an old man: wrinkled and bald. He had these fuzzy-caterpillar eyebrows. His eyes were narrow and hard, but he never scared me.
Mr. Knock Knock was my hero. You see, his show, “Mr. Knock Knock’s Family Renovations” were a fantasy of mine. Mr. Knock Knock, followed by a silent and uncaring camera crew (I assumed) would go to a new house each episode. He had this signature knock—ratta-tat-tat—tat-tat-tat—that he used on every door without fail.
The parents would open the door and he would introduce himself.
“Hello, I’m Mr. Knock Knock and you’re on Mr. Knock Knock’s Family Renovations. Can I come in?” He would ask. His voice was harsh and gruff, but it seemed to be more along the lines of ‘he’s just an old man’ rather than ‘he’s angry.’
Mr. Knock Knock never got angry.
Anyways, he would enter the house and give them the rundown: “You’re shitty parents. I’m giving you one chance to fix that. Right here, right now, you need to make a choice.”
Then came my favorite part. One of the things I learned from dealing with my own parents—as well as watching Mr. Knock Knock—was that abusers rarely responded positively to being called out. There was something about Mr. Knock Knock, though. People couldn’t seem to lie to him. I remember seeing the look in some of those parents’ eyes when they told him they had no intention of stopping their behavior. The words were being forced out of them. It was their true self, I guess. So, Mr. Knock Knock would turn to the camera and, for one of two times on the show, he would smile. “It’s time for some family renovation.”
It was always different. Dismemberment, bludgeoning— one time, he had some wolves come and attack the parents. After the violence and screaming had stopped, he would find the kid or kids, holed up in their room. And then, he would smile for the second time. “You’re gonna be okay, kid.” Then, he would leave.
Honestly, I thought it was all staged. How in the world was someone going around murdering people and televising it without it making the news? It seemed like an old man’s sick wish fulfillment. But… I wanted that wish to be fulfilled, too.
Then, one night, when dad decided that my left eye needed to match the black eye on the right, I heard it. And my breath hung in my throat.
Ratta-tat-tat—tat-tat-tat.
My dad let go of me and stomped over to the door. “Hello, I’m Mr. Knock Knock and you’re on Mr. Knock Knock’s Family Renovations. Can I come in?”