Dirty Mouth

I’d been drifting in a hazy sleep. It was one where I didn’t exactly dream. Mostly I just saw flashes of pictures in my head but none of them made sense. Maybe it was the drugs in my system, or maybe it was just me, I don’t know. Dreams never make sense to me. I think I’d rather just not have them. They’re kind of like hopes in that sense.

I felt a rough shove on my shoulder but I ignored it. The picture show in my head burnt away and I groaned. Someone was trying to wake me up. I didn’t want to be awake. I’d much rather just sleep my life away. There’s less responsibility that way.

“For Christ’s sake, Maxwell, get up!” I recognized the deep, gruff voice as my father’s.

As if someone had lit a fire under my ass I jolted awake to the sound of glass bottles clinking together. My head was pounding and the daylight filtering in through my windows made my retinas scream in protest. My nose and throat were burning. There were empty beer bottles on the floor and an empty bottle of Grey Goose in my hand. I looked up to see my father shaking his head at me. Now, me being me, I can’t keep my freakin’ mouth shut when I wake up in a situation like this. Some part of my stupid brain takes over and all it can think about is snarky comments.

“Oh hey, dad,” I said huskily. “I see you’re growing out the ’stache. I like it; impressive.”

My dad was a tall beast of a man with more hair on his face than on his head. He always impressed me with his bushy black moustache. I guess he was pretty intimidating, but I’d stopped being scared of him when I was ten. Now I didn’t much care either way if he got mad and slapped me around a little.

He rolled his black eyes at me and shoved me again. “You’re covered in your own vomit. Get out of that damn chair and clean this place up! You’re a mess.”

I examined the chest of my shirt to see it was, in fact, coated in throw-up. I made a face at it. When had I thrown up? Come to think of it, what had happened last night? All I remembered was doing lines and drinking with Emmie, begging her to be mine, and then I’m not sure what happened after that. Had Emmie stayed the night? That’d be a doozy to explain to the old man.

I got up out of the chair and scratched my greasy hair. “Did you see a blonde girl anywhere in here?” I asked.

Dad picked up some beer bottles and answered gruffly, “No. You’re lucky I didn’t, either. I would’ve told her what a waste of skin my son is.”

“Ouch,” I muttered, shoving an invisible dagger into my heart.

To be honest, the fact that Emmie’d run off hurt. But I had this thing where I refused to show emotion in front of my father. I think it was to make him think I was always strong. If he found out his son got hurt over things he’d be that much more ashamed of me. That’s just how I felt about it. Plus, sometimes I got a rise out of being a sarcastic prick around him.

I shuffled off to the bathroom and removed my soiled shirt and pants, tossing them to the floor. I’d shower later. I kicked the toilet seat up with my foot and proceeded to go about my morning business. While I completed my task, I wondered where Emmie had gone. Did I call her a cab or had I blacked out before she even bothered to leave? Christ, I’m sure that would’ve made a shitty impression on her. I pleaded silently that I hadn’t been an obnoxious prick last night. I had a tendency to go down that path when I was wasted. I’d have to wait until my father left me alone to figure things out.

I sauntered back out to the living room where good ol’ dad was muttering to himself, likely about what a shame his son was.

“So, daddy dearest, what brings you to my neck of the woods today?” I asked.

Dad cut me a nasty look. “I was in for business. I guess I learned to never give you a surprise visit. You might as well take this apartment key back.”

“No, no, keep it,” I muttered. “I like these reality checks. They make for nice bonding time, don’t you think?”

Dad sighed. I could hear that familiar scratchy sound as he rubbed his face.

“What are you doing with yourself, Max?” he said. “I thought you had a job. I thought you were going places out here. Yet you’re still just sitting in that ugly chair like you’re being sacrificed. You do nothing but get black-out drunk.”

Sid came into the kitchen. His nails clicked on the tile and he took a firm, protective stance by my feet while I started some coffee. Even he could sense the parental rift coming.

“I do have a job, dad,” I said smartly. “But just because I have a job doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself from time-to-time.”

“You’re not enjoying yourself, you’re killing yourself!” he yelled. Sid whimpered by my legs. “All the money you’re making you’re blowing on alcohol and drugs and it’s pathetic. I didn’t raise you like that.”

I snorted. “Well who’s fault is it, dad? You can’t blame it on mom; I barely ever saw her growing up.”

“It’s your own fault,” He shook his head sadly. “This is no one’s fault but your own. You’re the only one who can fix yourself.”

“Now why would I want to do that?” I asked, picking at an overripe banana. “I don’t think there’s anything I need to fix about myself.”

“You’re dead wrong, kid,” Dad said. “If you don’t make some changes, I—well, I’m scared of what might happen to you, Max.”

I looked up at him through my limp hair and raised an eyebrow. I didn’t like his tone, for one thing. I didn’t like when people worried about me like that. No one had cared about me for a long time. I didn’t know how to feel when someone reminded me that they cared. So I just felt uncomfortable. I wanted him to stop.

“I’m scared your bad choices will be the end of your life, son.” He clarified. I winced. “Parents aren’t supposed to bury their kids, Max. Don’t keep digging your own grave.”

I sucked my teeth. I didn’t think I was killing myself. I mean yeah, the pot and cigarettes and cocaine and shit was no good for me, but it was a part of me. I refused to believe they were weapons used to kill me. Dad was just being a parent. He was too old for this shit.

“What happened to that kid with the blonde hair that stuck out in every direction, huh?” he asked. “What happened to my little boy, Max? Where’d he go? This rebel without a cause thing you’ve got going on now…that’s not my boy. I know it’s not.”

I smirked sardonically. Was he going to try and tell me it’s a phase? I was in my 20’s. It was no phase. It was me. He just couldn’t accept it.

“Wanna know where that kid went?” I asked, cutting him a glare. “He’s dead, dad. Your ‘little boy’ died a long time ago. My condolences.”

My dad was silent. He knew I was right. He hadn’t been expecting me to be so blunt about it. Personally I think it’s better if he knows the truth. Chances are he is going to have to bury his son. He might as well be prepared for it.

“Are you going to clean up?” He finally muttered. “I can take you for dinner. It doesn’t look like you’ve got a lot to eat here besides alcohol and tobacco.”

“Au contraire, father,” I shook a finger at him and pulled open my pantry. “Sid and I are living the high life. Let’s see, we’ve got…mac and cheese, stale chips, and—oh! What’s this? Is that a couple pistachios I see back there?”

Dad only shook his head and shut the pantry door for me. “Go shower and get dressed, Max.”

“Are you sure you want to take your ‘rebel without a cause’ son out on the town? Or is this a last supper kind of deal?” I asked in my smart-aleck voice. He didn’t like that voice and I knew it.

“Stop yappin’ and go get ready.”

I looked down at poor ol’ Sid and told him to stay while I shuffled off to the shower and stripped down. I hopped in under the uneven stream that was either scolding hot or freezing cold with piss-poor pressure or the kind that’ll strip the skin off your back, there was no in between. I didn’t stand in there for long; just long enough to shampoo my hair and pressure wash some dirt out from under my nails. When I was out and dry I grabbed the best-smelling clothes from my laundry basket and slipped them on, made my hair stand on end, and rejoined my father in the tiny kitchen. He was petting Sid and muttering something under his breath. I had a feeling I didn’t want to know what he was on about.

“Ready to go, old man?” I yawned, scratching my ribs.

He looked at me and sighed. “You don’t have any normal clothes, do you?” he asked, gesturing to my ripped black pants and holy Woodstock t-shirt. “And do you have to make your hair look like someone just scared the bejesus out of you?”

“It’s called alternative fashion, dad,” I lipped, making myself sound like some of Tad’s boy-toys.

Father figure said no more about it and we sauntered down the dirty steps of my low-rent apartment into his ’87 Chev truck with the peeling paint job and cracked side mirror. I clearly got my choice of automobiles from my dad. I rolled down the window with the creaky lever and rested my arm on the ledge. I sat there in silence, just watching the buildings and people go by as dad sought out a cheap restaurant somewhere. I don’t know how many father/son pairs I saw, but I’ll admit I got a bit jealous when I saw them. Those boys’ fathers were hanging out with them because they genuinely wanted to. My father was taking me out for dinner because he pitied me. It seemed like a pretty piss-poor excuse for bonding to me. But, who was I to complain? I was getting a free dinner out of the deal so I just shut my trap and went with it.

When we got to our table in the restaurant I could practically feel my dad’s discomfort radiating off of him. People were staring. Heaven forbid they put two and two together and realize I was related to him. Yeah, I tended to make a spectacle out of myself, but I didn’t care what these people thought when they saw me. That was the whole point! I mean, people are going to judge you even if you look normal. People will judge the one stray hair you have on your slicked head and the majority of them won’t think twice about it. So why bother worrying about a clean, normal image, when it doesn’t matter anyway? I look the way I feel and all these strangers pretending to mind their own business in the corner can talk about me all they want. It doesn’t bug me, but it sure as hell bugs my dad.

“Can you not chew with your mouth open?”

“Max, swallow before talking.”

“Keep your voice down, for god’s sake. The entire establishment doesn’t need to take part in our conversation.”

“Is that really appropriate dinner talk?”

“Quit shaking your leg. You gotta pee or something?”

It was all a part of his itinerary. Honestly I wondered why he even bothered ever taking me out in public. I bet he asked himself the exact same question every time we got somewhere. At least I knew he pitied me, just a little bit, right at the start; just enough to get me out of the house with him. It faded quickly, but it was there. That was all I was going to get from him so I figured I better treasure it.

“I don’t suppose you have any spare change for a tip,” dad muttered.

I shook my head, eyeing our waitress as she tended to another table. She was alright. She was a bit on the nerdy side, but hey, I wasn’t picky.

“I could tip her with somethin’ else,” I smirked.

“Max! For god’s sake!”

I think those were some of dad’s favourite words: ‘for god’s sake.’ He used them a lot but they were lost on me. I didn’t think I owed god very much, not after all the shit I’d been dealt. So I really didn’t feel like I had to compensate myself for god’s sake. If I wanted to change my behaviour I’d do it for my own sake, not some invisible man who lives in the clouds and only shows himself to meth addicts on the high of their life.

We exited the restaurant and dad’s charm had worn off. He unlocked the driver’s side door of his truck and I just stood there on the sidewalk with my hands shoved deep in my pockets. He turned around to stare blankly at me, like he was expecting me to whip out flaming bowling pins and start juggling them for him.

“Well? Are you getting in?” he asked, jabbing a hand towards his truck.

I shook my head. “No, I think I’ll take a walk.” I said. It was for the best, really. One more minute with him and I might really ruin his day.

“Fine,” he sighed, ripping open his wallet and pulling out a fifty. He shoved it towards me. “Take this. And for the love o’ Christ, don’t spend it on booze and cigarettes. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear, pop,” I saluted him and snatched the coloured paper from his fleshy mitt.

“Call once in awhile, alright? I don’t want to have to come out here all the time just to make sure you’re still alive.” He grumbled, climbing into his truck.

“Right-oh,”

He always told me to call. I never did.

With a loud pop and roar he was off down the road. I watched him go for awhile and as soon as he was around the corner I headed straight for the liquor store.

I bought a pack of beer and shoved the change back in my pocket. Dad should really know by now that if he tells me not to do something, it immediately heightens the chance of me doing it. It’s been that way since I was six and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

I hauled the pack down to the nearby park. I liked to go there sometimes and just sit on the bleachers and watch things. On this particular occasion there was a group of about five guys playing a game of baseball in the field. I didn’t care if I would be intruding on their private bro-venture, so I just sat down on the middle bleacher and cracked a beer. The sound of the can opening must have echoed because all five of them froze and looked at me. I really hoped they didn’t feel some crazy sense of self-entitlement to the public park, so to ward off any of their delusions I tipped my can in their direction and winked before taking a sip and staring off at the horizon. It was kind of a cocky move, but I was feeling it. I knew they were still looking at me but I didn’t pay them much attention. It’s not like they deserved it.

I got through my first beer and as I sat there drinking it a bad mood really started to weigh on my shoulders. Everything my father had said that day came back to me and slapped me across the face. He really thought I was worthless. I mean, I’d always known it, but when I see him he likes to make it very realistic for me. It sucked, especially after all those years of living with the guy in Toronto. I could’ve gone to live with mom but I’d willingly gone with him when my parents divorced. And now he seemed to hate me. I remembered when I was younger he’d take me out to the garage and teach me how to make birdhouses from all kinds of wood. He even taught me how to weld and make things out of wrought iron. Every time we’d have a garage session he’d pass me a Coca-Cola and he’d sit down with his Molson Canadian and a cigar and we’d just talk. We’d talk about cars and women and business. He’d always slip little life lessons into our talks, too. But I listened to every word that man said to me.

I remember one particular July day we were sitting out in the garage in just our greasy jeans and he’d looked me dead in the eye and said “You’re gonna make a lot of mistakes in your life, Max. You can’t avoid that. But through those mistakes you’ll find your success, you will. Now, some people won’t see it that way. Some people will get real upset with you when you screw up. But no matter what, no matter who’s yellin’ at you, don’t you ever feel like you have to change who you are to please them. See, they’ll always blame your faults on who you are as a person. Change what you do in the situation, but don’t ever change who you are. Got that?” His advice had stuck with me obviously, and led me to be who I am today. Looking back on it now it was a total contradiction to the things he said to me nowadays. Now he was the one blaming everything on who I was as a person. Luckily for me he’d given me that advice way back when. I wasn’t going to change to please him, no matter what.

It pissed me off, thinking about all of that. So I was in a pretty sore mood when I was cracking open my second beer and I finally tuned in to the hushed voices that were getting closer to me. It was the same guys who’d been playing baseball a few minutes ago. They were edging closer to me, one with an aluminum bat in hand, and whispering while watching me out of the corners of their eyes. I watched them right back, but I kept my composure. I even put my feet up. I thought, you know, if these guys pick a fight that could be just what I need. Even if I get the shit kicked out of me, I’ll be letting off some steam.

“Hey, boys,” I yelled. “Who won?”

“Does it matter?” A short one replied. He had brush-cut red hair and freckles on every inch of his pale skin. His burgundy vintage Coca-Cola t-shirt was way too tight, accentuating muscles he didn’t really have, and the way he was wearing his jeans made him look straight out of the 1950’s. For a split second I felt like I was in The Outsiders, Socs against the lone Greaser. I didn’t have a switchblade on me, either.

“Just a question, my friend,” I said. “No need to get your knickers in a knot.”

“What are you doin’ here, anyway?” This one was a lot taller and skinnier. His skin was surprisingly dark and his mouth seemed to be carved into a permanent scowl.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Was I supposed to notify someone that I was coming here? Are there delegated time-slots for people in this park now?” I raised my eyebrows in mock innocence. I wanted to rile these guys up with my bullshit a bit. It was always more fun that way and this certainly wasn’t my first smack down.

“Screw you,” Little Orphan Annie snapped at me. I still couldn’t get over how high he had his jeans pulled up. I wondered if he even had a scrotum left. “You some sort of homo? You watchin’ us?”

I stood up gracefully, twisting around to crack my back quickly before stepping down the bleachers with nimble steps to join them on the ground. Their eyes looked me over at once, all five pairs of them. I smirked at them arrogantly, knowing it’d anger them.

“Now, why would I waste my time watching a bunch of prudes like you hit a ball around?” I asked.

“You tell me, Sid Vicious.”

I spat out a laugh. “Woof, that was a harsh one.”

Red-head cracked his knuckles and licked his lips. If I wasn’t 90% sure he wanted to kill me, I would’ve thought he was hitting on me.

“You know, my dad taught me to beat the living shit out of punks like you,” he growled.

I nodded pensively. “Mhm. Did he also teach you to pull your pants up to your nipples or is that your own sick preference?”

It was the nipple jab that did it. They all tore after me but I was quick, even on scrawny legs. I took off running back down the street, weaving in and out of parked cars and ducking under low-hanging branches of trees that lined the sidewalk. I could hear them chasing after me and they were getting closer so I took a harsh left into an alleyway. There was a brick wall in front of me and I came to a halt. It all felt very Hollywood for a minute: a gang of angry guys stalking up on helpless little me and blocking my only way to freedom.

“So this is it?” I asked. “You’re gonna beat me up because your daddy told you to?”

Red-head crept closer, sneering at me. “No, I’m gonna beat you up because I don’t like you.”

“What merits you to think that?” I asked. “You didn’t even try to get to know me. At least take me out for dinner before you fight me.”

“Shut your mouth!”

His fist came hard and fast into my jaw. It made me stumble backwards a little bit and my head snapped to the right from the impact. But then I just paused, and when his fist didn’t come back for more right away I laughed. I wiped the blood from my lip and turned to face him. We locked eyes for a minute and I grinned. I could taste the blood that was filling up my mouth and no doubt coating my teeth but I just grinned anyway. He gave me a confused look for a moment and his cronies tensed up for battle, but instead of making a move at him I only said two words:

“Make me.”

Their fists came down like hail on my body. At first it hurt and I kind of just laid there on the dirty ground like a dead animal. But then my body went numb and I no longer felt anything when their shoes connected with my gut or when their fists beat my face. So I just laughed this crazed, sputtering laugh while I was on the ground. I sounded real nuts. Blood flew out of my mouth but I kept laughing and I couldn’t stop. Eventually they stopped and dismissed me with some spit and mutterings of how I was crazy. That was how these situations always ended.

It took a long time before I got up. Every part of me ached and I could feel the hot, slippery sensation of blood everywhere. But like I said, it wasn’t my first time getting the shit kicked out of me. I always managed to stumble on home and bandage myself up. One would think I’d learn my lesson but I never did. I got angry and I got in fights. Half the time, like this particular instance, I didn’t even try to fight back. I just let my attackers beat me up until they got tired and left me alone. And for some reason I didn’t mind. It’s not that I liked getting beat up, per se, I think it’s mostly that I liked it when I became numb and impervious to their attack. Not only did I stop feeling the pain but I stopped feeling anything at all, including rage. It all just…stopped.

So I managed to get up and hobble a few steps back towards the street. I had to stop to spit out blood every now and again. The third time I stopped I was close to the sidewalk and I paused to look down at my stained shirt when I was done, cursing to myself. Suddenly a voice startled me.

“Max?”

I looked up through my one good eye—my other one was watering like hell—and it took a moment for the blurry outline of a girl to become solid. Immediately I froze up and became painfully aware of how I looked. I was covered in my own blood and someone else’s saliva and bruises were starting to flower on my exposed skin. I probably looked like I got into a car accident. I wondered what Emmie was thinking as she stared at me wide-eyed.

I smiled and my split lip ripped apart again, dripping blood. “You just missed it,” I said. “I just got beat up by Little Orphan Annie.”