Chapter 1 #3
We separate after a little while, Joey going toward the food truck, and Beau and I heading out to check on the farm. I assume these outings will be far and few between as Beau takes on more of the bigger decisions, leaving the day-to-day tasks to me.
I’m exhausted by the time I climb into the truck to head home.
The sun is low in the sky, and I’ve been working since I woke up with the moon.
All my muscles ache and I’m starving. Food is a complicated thing for me.
Growing up fat, I started to hate food at some point because no matter what I did, I always gained weight.
At some point I started to love myself though.
I’ll never be like Beau, tall and broad, muscles brought on from hard work.
I’ll never be like Joey, the kind of muscles from working out and eating a well-rounded diet.
I’ll always be a fat kid inside, and I’ve made peace with that.
I love my body for what it does for me, but it took me a long time to get there.
Doesn’t mean I have the greatest relationship with food though. Maybe that’ll come with time.
I’m halfway home when my cell phone rings. Caller ID shows the bar on the other side of town and I let out a deep, heavy sigh. It’s not even dark out yet.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lee, I’m sorry to do this, man, but I had to cut your pops off. He says he can drive but I don’t think he can. I either had to call you or the cops.”
Great. “I’m on my way.”
By the time I arrive at the bar, I’m halfway wishing I’d let them call the cops.
My dad has been steadily getting worse the past few months.
Almost to the point that I think maybe I need to drag his ass to the doctor.
Sometimes he forgets my name, forgets where he lives, forgets the day of the week, but I’ve written it off as a symptom of his alcoholism.
Not like the man likes being cared for anyway.
I park next to my father’s car, knowing I’ll have to find a way to pick it up for him tomorrow.
He’s retired now, so he doesn’t work, just spends his Social Security check on booze.
I stock his fridge with groceries the best I can, but he barely eats anything besides a grilled cheese, and I’m constantly worried he’s going to catch his kitchen on fire when he cooks drunk.
The bar has an overwhelming smell of beer and stale peanuts.
David waves at me from behind the bar, pointing in the direction of my father, who appears to be crumpled to the ground, his head resting on a barstool.
Epic. I head toward my dad and grab him under the armpits, lifting him up until he’s leaning heavily against me.
I toss some bills onto the bar, hoping that’s enough, and drag my father out the door.
He smells like a few days’ worth of body odor and beer.
He appears to wake up a little as I shove him into the back of my truck, a little too hard probably, but I’m honestly just fucking tired. He blinks slowly up at me, eyes glazed from alcohol, white beard scraggly and wet from beer.
“Who are you?”
“It’s Lee.”
He blinks slowly again. “Where am I?”
“I picked you up from the bar again.” I slam the door shut and make my way over toward the driver’s door, only to climb into the truck to find my dad freaking the fuck out.
He’s trying to get out of the truck, screaming like he’s seen a fucking ghost. Jesus hell.
He’s usually an angry drunk, not a crazy drunk.
“Jesus, Dad, calm the fuck down.”
He reaches forward and punches me in the face.
Fuck. I rear back and jump out of the truck, rubbing my bleeding nose.
God. I hope he didn’t break it again. He calms down when I get out of the truck.
I watch as he falls asleep, then climb back in to make the slow drive back toward his house.
When I try to unload him, he seems more like himself, but he also doesn’t seem to recognize me.
Gone are the days of me helping him shower and showing him any ounce of kindness, so I dump his ass on the couch and leave him be.
I grab some paper towels from his messy-ass kitchen and press them hard against my throbbing nose.
My hands are tight around the steering wheel the entire drive back to my place, the familiar leather creaking under my grip.
He’s sure got some nerve. I need to stop bailing his loser ass out.
Unfortunately, I live in a small town. If I stop helping my drunk dad, I’ll surely be met with scorn, so this is the lot I’ve been left.
By the time I get home, the sun is set, and I don’t have the time or energy to plant like I’d planned.
I spend a few minutes with the goats, giving them pets and making sure they’re good on food and water for the evening.
They must sense a shift in my energy because they don’t egg me on to stay like they usually do.
I take a shower, drag on a pair of old sweatpants, and fall into my bed. I curl around the pillow, tugging it close, and inhale the scent of Joey’s faded cologne. Despite the war of worry waging in my head, I’m finally lulled to sleep by the soft scent on my cool pillow.