Dad must be okay, I decide.
When I go inside, he’s sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand and a plate of nachos in the other. “Hey,” he says, nodding at me as I walk by.
“Hey,” I say back. Nice and calm, and he won’t get upset.
Sometimes I wish we’d get him some help. Send him to a rehab center or something. But unlike most of the privileged assholes I go to school with, my parents aren’t loaded. We have a decent three-bedroom brick home that looks nice on the outside. It’s a remnant of the days when both of my parents were happier and Dad worked in the oilfield making a ton of money. But as his alcoholism got worse, he got laid off more and more, and ended up getting a job with a small roofing company, that doesn’t pay much at all. Mom had to start working again when I was about twelve, and she chose to work nights because it pays more.
I got a job the day I was legally allowed to work, and together we stay afloat as a family. I just wish there was more money to get Dad some help, not that I’ll ever say it. He’d really lose his shit then.
I shower and make a sandwich. Dad’s phone rings, and from the other room, I can hear him talking to what sounds like my Uncle Chase.
Shit.
Sure enough, Dad’s voice goes from a little annoyed to full out angry. Uncle Chase is the only family member who isn’t afraid to call dad on his shit. I hear Dad cursing on the phone, calling his brother every name in the book.
Slowly, I grab another soda from the fridge, and slip off to my room undetected. But the yelling only gets worse. When Dad hangs up the phone with a few choice expletives, I hear him pacing around the living room, still muttering about his brother, not that anyone is there to listen.
“Thinks he’s better than me,” Dad mutters.
I stand by my bedroom door, wondering if I should do something. But from past experience, I know it’s better to just keep my mouth shut.
The fridge opens and I hear the clank of another beer bottle opening. Another metal cap clinking to the counter top.
Dad cranks the music louder.
Eventually, the music is so loud it’s shaking the walls, and I know the cops will probably roll up at any moment, and my dad will curse at them too. They’re all pretty good with people like my dad, taking his insults in stride, but I’m not the only one worried that one day his stupidity will land him in jail.
If he’s not working, then we’re not getting all the bills paid. Mom and I would be screwed.
Sure enough, red and blue lights flash through my window a few minutes later. Shit. I throw on a shirt and some flipflops and run out the front door past my dad who is drinking on the couch, swaying to the music.
“Officers, I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as they get out of their cars. “I’ll make him turn down the radio.”
One of the officers, a short woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, gives me a sad smile. She’s been here before, and she probably remembers it. “Why don’t we go inside and help you?”
I know there’s no point in arguing.
As soon as Dad sees the cops enter our house, he stands up and throws his beer to the floor where it spills out all over the rug.
“Fucking narc!” he yells at me. “Worthless!”
“I didn’t call the cops on you, Dad. The neighbors did.”
He glares at me like he doesn’t believe it. An officer reaches behind the stereo and pulls the plug, then holds it up so my dad can see it. “No music after seven p.m. You understand?”
“That ain’t no fucking law,” Dad spews.
“It is for you,” the female officer says. “Noise complaints are made about this house several times a week. I don’t want to take you to jail. I don’t even want to write you a ticket. Just keep the music off.”
They leave, and Dad doesn’t put up a fight.
He just waits until the two cop cars drive away and then he glares at me. “You’re a useless piece of shit,” he says, his words slurring together so badly that if I hadn’t heard him say that so many times before, I might not have understood it.
“I know,” I say, not in the mood to argue with him. “You should take a hot shower. Maybe go to bed.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He picks up the beer bottle from the rug and flings it at me. Luckily his aim is so bad it just crashes against the wall, leaving drops of beer on the paint.
“You’re the worst son on the planet.”
