Dirtbag
OH, GO, HERE I GO...
Tucked away somewhere in the back of my mind is a vague memory of my father smiling.
I try to remember it every time I see his scowling face.
“Jack,” he says after swinging the front door open, like he wasn’t expecting me. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in, boy.”
I do as he says because there is no other way.
Flashbacks. They are hitting me with every glimpse at the place I used to call home. Mostly bad, few good. Everything looks the same, except for the barren walls that were once covered with pictures. This does not surprise me.
He finally breaks the silence, taking my jacket like a true gentleman, with, “I hope salmon is alright. You like salmon, right?”
I have never heard Stephen Trenton sound nervous, but in this moment I can see right through him. Whether it is being in the same room where he slapped me that one afternoon or the stupid fucking fish, I have no idea, but something is making my father uneasy. As disgusting as it sounds, I relish in it.
“That’s fine,” I reply, even though he should know I hate fish. After twenty-some years, I am used to his forgetfulness.
“Fantastic.” [i[Fantastic. I contemplate making a shit excuse to get out while I still can. Either I am about to walk straight into a bear trap—I chuckle lightly to myself—or my father is actually attempting to make nice.
“Now about what I said…” There it is. The gnawing zigzag of a blade digging into my ankles.
I make some kind of noise that sounds something along the lines of “Mhm”. We sit down at the dining table. I stare at the fish.
“As I’ve previously stated, Victoria is very upset about your last interaction…”
I block the next five minutes out. All, except for—
“I want you to be in the wedding, Jack. You’d be my best man, of course.”
Flounder suddenly entangles itself in my throat, causing an awkward moment of hacking on my part and wincing on my father’s. Everything appears to be going in slow motion, just like the day I heard his voicemail, and I finally remember the reason of this meeting. Victoria. The Wedding.
“Now, I know this must be difficult and all, but we have to move on in life—”
“Move on?”
“—I wasn’t finished, Jack, so listen up—”
“Move on.” This time, it comes out on the tip of my tongue, hissing. Stephen Trenton is sitting before me, expecting my participation, and ignoring the existence of his wife’s son. His son. I finally can no longer take it.
I get up from the table, trip over myself over to the coat closet, and rip it open. As if listening to my father ramble on and on about his new fucking toy was enough, I cannot believe what I am seeing with my own eyes.
My mother’s jacket. Her shoes. The scarves she used to wear during winter. The sunglasses with cat-eye lenses. It’s all there. All of my dead mother’s things are hanging, dust free, as if she is about to walk down the stairs any minute and put them on.
This is fucking insane.
I try to remember it every time I see his scowling face.
“Jack,” he says after swinging the front door open, like he wasn’t expecting me. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in, boy.”
I do as he says because there is no other way.
Flashbacks. They are hitting me with every glimpse at the place I used to call home. Mostly bad, few good. Everything looks the same, except for the barren walls that were once covered with pictures. This does not surprise me.
He finally breaks the silence, taking my jacket like a true gentleman, with, “I hope salmon is alright. You like salmon, right?”
I have never heard Stephen Trenton sound nervous, but in this moment I can see right through him. Whether it is being in the same room where he slapped me that one afternoon or the stupid fucking fish, I have no idea, but something is making my father uneasy. As disgusting as it sounds, I relish in it.
“That’s fine,” I reply, even though he should know I hate fish. After twenty-some years, I am used to his forgetfulness.
“Fantastic.” [i[Fantastic. I contemplate making a shit excuse to get out while I still can. Either I am about to walk straight into a bear trap—I chuckle lightly to myself—or my father is actually attempting to make nice.
“Now about what I said…” There it is. The gnawing zigzag of a blade digging into my ankles.
I make some kind of noise that sounds something along the lines of “Mhm”. We sit down at the dining table. I stare at the fish.
“As I’ve previously stated, Victoria is very upset about your last interaction…”
I block the next five minutes out. All, except for—
“I want you to be in the wedding, Jack. You’d be my best man, of course.”
Flounder suddenly entangles itself in my throat, causing an awkward moment of hacking on my part and wincing on my father’s. Everything appears to be going in slow motion, just like the day I heard his voicemail, and I finally remember the reason of this meeting. Victoria. The Wedding.
“Now, I know this must be difficult and all, but we have to move on in life—”
“Move on?”
“—I wasn’t finished, Jack, so listen up—”
“Move on.” This time, it comes out on the tip of my tongue, hissing. Stephen Trenton is sitting before me, expecting my participation, and ignoring the existence of his wife’s son. His son. I finally can no longer take it.
I get up from the table, trip over myself over to the coat closet, and rip it open. As if listening to my father ramble on and on about his new fucking toy was enough, I cannot believe what I am seeing with my own eyes.
My mother’s jacket. Her shoes. The scarves she used to wear during winter. The sunglasses with cat-eye lenses. It’s all there. All of my dead mother’s things are hanging, dust free, as if she is about to walk down the stairs any minute and put them on.
This is fucking insane.