It took My Fucking Father two days to completely burn through the high of being in Las Vegas before reverting back to his whiny self. This is the guy who, after I came home from watching the University of Minnesota soccer team get upset and eliminated in their NCAA Tournament game, was back to being a whirling dervish of cleaning parts of the house that didn't need cleaning and sticking his nose into business that wasn't his to mess around with.
I still can't forget him walking around complaining about Grandmother doing this or not cleaning that. Then, while I was "busy working" on their desktop, he comes in and asks me, in his stupid, abusive way, when am I going to get my shit out of my sister's room before she comes. In mid-December. It's typical of him to get on my case for something that's not going to happen for another goddamn month. I told him, in my asshole way, that I'd get it out of there just before she comes, to which he replies, "lazy," as he turns away. It would have hurt my feelings, but I was still frostbitten from my two hours out in the cold and blinding wind, so I can honestly say I didn't give a flying fuck that he called me lazy because I was numb. I did stammer out a "I'll get it done, don't you worry about it," though. That's the best comeback I can come up with.
So anyway, today, after I got home, My Fucking Father didn't speak to me, like he didn't the night before, which was the night just after I picked him up from the airport. I could tell from his body language that he was angry about something and that he wanted to take it out on me. And on Grandmother -- he was complaining to her about something or other she did that he didn't like.
Father and Mother are having a fight. I didn't see her all night. That was the source of My Fucking Father's percolating disdain. It's probably the reason he just went all out and tore into the rest of the family.
He was walking down the stairs when he called for me. He said, in staccato style, as if he's trying to warn me: "You ... have ... sixteen ... days ... until ... your ... sister ... comes ... home ... when ... are ... you ... going ... to ... clean ... up ... her ... room?"
Has that motherfucker seen her room??? Goddamn, I've already moved most of my stuff out of there. (It's in storage, but that's what I need to do, you know?) A pile of clothes that no longer fit me, my PCA stuff, a box of tapes and a box of unopened shoes -- that's it. If he's going to pitch a fit over that shit, I can't help him. Asshole.
When he called out for me I knew it wasn't good. After a stern yes to his call, I answer his stupid and loaded question with: "I did. Have you seen it?" To which his bluster turned into a shrinking violet mien. He also turned back into being Father Two-Times and repeating, "OK, OK, OK," as he continued down the stairs. He turned down to the second set of stairs, but I wasn't done with him. I wasn't going to have this conversation now that I did what he ordered me to do: "Have you?!" He looked at me, winced dejectedly, then walked out of sight.
We didn't talk during dinner. He wasn't a dick, he just waved me off when I volunteered to help him clear the dinner table because Mother wasn't joining us tonight.
So I don't know what the fuck the fallout's gonna be after I went down the creaky stairs not once, not twice, but three times to check on the modem. I wanted to start surfing early, but the modem I know I plugged in was unplugged by My Fucking Father. I don't know if he wanted me not to be online, if the modem wasn't working (that's the reason I went down the stairs twice more), or if he just plain forgot I was going to use it. But it's clear that, once again, a fight with Mother means he's in a grouchy mood.
I need to wake up early. It's recycling day, and I think he's going to get revenge on me by throwing things away I don't want thrown away. Asshole.
No comments:
Post a Comment