Last night, after a long day where my supervisor, whom I thought was cool, basically ripped all of us new one, and after I needed to blow off steam after retrieving the car I spent too much for and wasn't repaired to my specifications (and had this extremely frightening incident where the car was not able to accelerate past 10 miles per hour until I stepped on the gas for 15 seconds), and after I saw Draft Day on special Tuesday prices (verdict: Kevin Costner slowly gets better as the Cleveland Browns General Manager deciding who to pick on the day of the NFL Draft; it's a low-grade fever version of High Noon, but I liked it, even if I'm sure the NFL footed much of the budget), I go home.
Get a phone call, around 10 in the evening. Guess who it is? My Fucking Father. He never just calls me just to say hi; he never gives a shit about anyone, he just asks for something. I no longer dilly-dally either; I just start in with, "What do you want?"
"I need you to send me my pills," My Fucking Father said. When he and Mother packed up for Las Vegas a few weeks ago he forgot his Ambien. This in spite of the fact that he cannot function without his Ambien. He's addicted to Ambien, I know it. A couple weeks ago he told me to send over his pills. I didn't know what to do; I've never sent pills through the mail before. Plus, I didn't want the bottle to be crushed and he told me the pills needed to be as secure as possible and wrapped in a bag (Walgreen's preferably).
This was a Saturday. I was starting my night shift job on Monday, so unless I wanted to go after hours all the way to the post office at the airport at 11 o'clock at night, I was going to do it that afternoon, in the next two hours. So I improvised. He wanted only a month's worth, but I poured all but ten of those pills (in case he needed some when he comes back) into an old bag that was mine, folded that up tightly, taped it to the inside of a regular envelope, and sent it through the mail. You could hear the sound of pills if you shake it and listen closely, but I thought that would be good enough.
Well, apparently the United States Post Office confiscated it or something because Father was pissed off. I could tell that as he accused me of "not listening. I told you to put it in a big envelope, and you didn't!"
Before I dissect his rant, I should say that he accuses people all the time. What he likes to do is degrade other people (usually family members) whenever he's talking to other people. My Fucking Father, for example, told me in a phone call when he was in Vegas that he asked my brother to do something and he didn't do it to his liking and so he described him as "stupid." I'm sure that he's said the same of me when My Fucking Father calls him.
OK. I said, "You never said anything about a big envelope!" Actually, now that I think about it, he probably did. I don't understand how a big envelope changes things, though, and besides, how in the hell would he know if I didn't send it in a big envelope? Maybe I did send it in a big envelope and the post office still saw something suspicious and opened it up? (After his juvenile meltdown I looked up sending prescription medication through the mail; some people suggest sending the whole bottle to let the USPS know it's being sent to the same name while others recommend Federal Express or UPS, but a lot of people say to just send it however you want -- which is what I did.) While I allow for, considering the overall war I need to continue to wage against him, a little white lie, I nevertheless still contend that he has absolutely no fucking idea what he's talking about.
So as I gallop down the stairs to grab the bottle containing the rest of the Ambien I would need to send the next day (which is Thursday, today) I, from the safety of wireless signals and almost 2,000 miles, and tell him as such. "OK," as I summoned up my courage, "I will send you the rest of your Ambien pills in a big envelope, but you did not say send it in a big envelope." He tried to interject in order to take control of the converstation, but I dodge his parries to the side and go for what really is at the bottom of all of his verbal abuse: His addiction to his sleeping pills.
"Wow, I don't understand what kind of bullshit you're talking out of your mouth again, but you said nothing about an envelope. I sent the pills, I have no control over what happens to them once I send it, but you said nothing about no envelope. Once again, you have no idea what you're talking about. This is all in your head. This is in your head, again."
To which My Fucking Father replied, "Fine!" That usually means that he's going to angrily end the call, so I just looked at my phone and saw that, yep, he ended the call. I was wrong, but he didn't know it. And for the first time in a long time -- maybe ever -- I shouted him down in a conversation.
And yet I couldn't help but think about that call all day through work. And my eyes got watery a little.
---
Now I wonder if he's going to get back at me once he comes home. Then again, maybe he just wants his Ambien. I went to the downtown Minneapolis post office to drop off the rest of his stash. There's your fucking Ambien, old man, it'll be there Saturday. I guess. Oh, and a piece of advice: If you need something this badly, you probably should remember to pack it in your luggage. One to grow on, motherfucker.
No comments:
Post a Comment