I thought My Fucking Father and I were going to talk about bringing the car in to fix the hood. Well, I came back, left arm limp and heart palpitating over worrying about what is coming once I got home, and ... nothing. Literally nothing.
I come up on the driveway and see my parents' minivan, but no SUV that I thought My Fucking Father have prepared and ordered me to use from now on. When I opened the front door, he told me just to turn off the sprinkler. And as we ate dinner, me anticipating him to ask me something innocuous, like how was my day, before launching into a fight over bringing the car into the repair shop. But he didn't ask. We did talk, nicely even; for example, he asked me if Germany still has a monarchy. (I had to look it up, but once I went through the encyclopedia I should have known that they haven't for centuries.)
So I figured he would wait until the end. I hate that. I knew a talk about the car was coming, and every minute we didn't talk about it made me more and more anxious. He always says something innocent to lull me into a false sense of security before dropping the hammer. That it didn't happen immediately gave me time to think how he was going to screw me over. All I kept thinking was, "OK, he isn't saying anything over dinner, but I remember when he started yelling at me right after I wiped up the table -- that's when he's gonna get me! Get ready for it!!" That builds over time, so after I got done eating I was a goddamn nervous wreck.
Well, it finally happened when My Fucking Father came upstairs holding something with our insurance company logo on it. He talked about insurance for the car, so now he's going to ... do something bad that I can't handle. So he said ... "I need you to type a letter."
A letter? Yes, a letter. Well, actually an e-mail, to management in Las Vegas because they didn't get a monthly statement for one of their properties. Oh, and the insurance is a home insurance policy that they want me to cancel. Type a letter sending the cancellation, both of my parents said. And I immediately did. And I did it, and it was done, and ... My Father did not talk about the car at all.
OK.
On the one hand maybe this means he's maturing, or at least he's decided (possibly with the help of Mother) that this isn't something to fight over and he's just going to let me do this. But there is nothing stopping him from dropping the bomb on me tonight, when I come home via the bus. Is there a chance he would actually be surprised that the car isn't there, and then confront by saying that he thought we agreed that we would not get the hood of my car fixed? I'm not going to put it past him.
But ... well, maybe I'm paranoid and he won't confront me. So why aren't I happy that he's just letting me do what I think is best? Is he just avoiding me and/or the subject? Well, on one hand the silence is kind of killing me. But on the other hand I ... I don't know, but I wonder if he cares anymore. Is he so fed up with me not doing what he wants that he just, for lack of a better word, gave up -- fighting with me over the car, and/or talking to me? Look, I want him to leave me alone. No, no -- better yet, I want him to talk to me, plainly, calmly, supporting my decision, even if he disagrees with it. But if he's not going to talk about this, he might be so upset that he thinks it's not worth arguing over. And if that's the case, if he's disappointed instead of angry ... well, shit, I feel a bit guilty about that. I don't want him to be disappointed, I just want him to calm down and leave me alone as I get this fixed the way I want it.
I don't know. I'm typing this at the coffeeshop right next to the auto body shop. What's done is done; the car is theirs now. I hope to Buddha they do this right. And then, I hope my parents don't make a big deal out of this, and I hope Father doesn't use my decision to come down on me for something else in the future, like he's apt to do.
The big question: How am I going to answer my parents' obvious question about what am I going to do tomorrow? I thought I would just say I am taking the day off. Will they accept that? And what would I do tomorrow? I thought I'd just go to, say, the Mall of America. But maybe that brings up more questions. But, as I said, it's done. The car's in the shop, and I don't have it till they say they're done with it.
---
One other thing. As long as the car is in the shop, and as long as they are working on the outside of the car, this morning I asked one of the guys if they can remove all the rust from my car. They said they could -- for an extra $200. Don't tell my folks; I agreed to it -- to a point. The problem is that the guy I talked to said that now there's a chance I won't get the car back till Saturday. That complicates a lot of things, not least of which is my plan to tell my parents that I'm immediately driving the car to work after I pick it up Friday morning. It'd be so easy for them to insist they take me to the auto body shop to pick it up if it's on Saturday. Then they'll see how much I really paid for it and get pissed off all over again.
Is the new date because I asked them to clean up the rust? If so, I should tell them not to do it. In fact, I should do that now.
No comments:
Post a Comment