Immaculate Mess: His Rags Are My Riches

Fighting my father is like punching an elephant. It hurts you in the end but during the fight you feel as if you’re making fractional progress. The bottom line, though, is that you’re not. My father, Frank Iero Sr. is the most respected man in Northern New Jersey. Respected by everyone but his son.

No, I do not respect my father in any way, shape, or form. Would you respect someone who was an “upstanding citizen” in direct public eye, but when they were just with their family they couldn’t be more bitter? I don’t.

My father loves the company he keeps and the illusions he creates for himself and for other around him.

My mother isn’t a mother, more like a nanny that hates her job but stays because the pay is so fucking fantastic.

I see her occasionally, but never really enough to say I spend time with her.

The “shittiest parent” award indeed would be a hard decision to make.

On one hand, my father is a self-centered bastard with the almighty dollar as his main obsession. But hey, at least he takes me places and tries to act like he gives a fuck about where I am or what I’m doing.

On the other hand, my mother is a spoiled bitch with no regard for anyone but herself, and no interest in ever knowing who I am or what I’m even about.

Yeah, a really fucking hard decision to make.

My room is big and my car goes fast, but all of that shit is just bribes to shut me up and keep me out of their perfect, climate-controlled lives of parties and spending obscene amounts of money.

My house is in a constant state or readjustment. My parents can never just be content with what we have and how beautiful our “masterpiece” of a house is. They always have to have more. And then still more. I never understood the apparent delusion my parents were impressed under. “More, more, more and you know what? We still need fucking more.” They can’t just let alone and live a quiet life.

From below I hear my father scream my name, and I reluctantly get up and drag my ass to the stairs to look down from the balcony and scream/ask him what the fuck he wanted.

“Come to town with me, we need to pick up your mother’s prescription and put another down payment on the building we’re getting hauled in next month” he yelled, shrugging into a tasteful Armani blazer.

I just sighed and rolled my eyes, sick to death, already, of having to spend time with him.

I quickly pull on a pair of tennis shoes and my old black zip-up, and take the two story journey down to the bottom floor of my house. Yes, as if it’s not surprising; my family lives in a four story “mansion.”

The ride to town was quick, and we first stopped into the doctor’s office to get my mother’s “prescription” for her “anxiety and stress” disorder. Which I can totally understand. I mean, who wouldn’t have too much stress if they had to sit on their goddamn ass all day, telling other people what to do and loving their selves too fucking much.

I sighed disgustedly and my father cut me a sharp glance, warning me to be on my best behavior. Annoyed further, I sighed again, loud enough to draw attention to us. Tightly, almost painfully, my father grabbed a hold of my forearm and jerked roughly, pulling me out the front entrance and to the car.

“Frank, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your damn mouth shut when we’re in a doctor’s office like that? I know all of the things that we have given you have caused you to lead a terribly burdensome life, but try to repress your teen angst for when you’re not around me. “ my father spat, slinging me against the side of the car.

“Fuck you, you over –paid piece of SHIT. I don’t need to hear that from you when all you’ve done is kiss ass your whole life to get where you’re at. I’d do just fucking fine with no money and no fucking expensive car. I only have it because you bought it. Did you see me begging you to take me to the fucking car dealership? No the fuck you did not.” I raged, slamming his Charger’s door harshly.

He winced at my slam, but didn’t reply to my outburst, mainly because the fucker knew I was right.

Silently, we drove over to the next destination to put the down-payment on the superfluous building, and then parked a few blocks over, because the parking lot near the firm was full.

Walking towards the building, we passed a young boy, who kind of looked to be mind age, walking and asking people if he could work for them. I knew he was homeless, and it broke my heart. Mainly because I was so “well-off.”

“Excuse me sir, is there anything you need help with around the house? I do simple tasks for a low rate,” he said, his eyes bright and pleading. My already broken heart cracked further when I realized that he desperately needed a shower and food.

“No, thank you” was my dad’s asshole reply, and infuriated, I objected.

“But dad, we’re working on putting the new flooring down and we could use the extra hands,” I protested, jerking him to a hault and turning back towards the boy. “Quiet, Frank, we can handle this ourselves,” his voice lowered in an attempt to keep the boy from hearing, but I could tell he didn’t succeed.

“Besides, guys like them, they’re trash. They must’ve done something to land them selves on the streets because good people don’t end up like him. Keep walking.”

Pissed beyond belief, I turned to give the kid a sorry look and then turned back around, letting my anger consume me completely.

“Fuck you, and fuck this. I’m going back to the car; you can make your own goddamn deal your fucking self. I don’t want anything else to do with you. Never in my life have I met a more selfish person. Fuck. You.” I spat at him, crossing the street and heading back the way we had came.

Looking over, I checked to see if the boy was still here.

He wasn’t.