OK, so this is what happened last week when I was supposed to pick up my parents from the airport. ...
They were coming in on Spirit Airlines. You know, that ultra-cheap airline that makes you sit on chairs that don't recline. I swear that the one time I flew it the seats weren't totally vertical and instead were at an angle so that for my whole flight I was partially on my feet -- and since I was "sitting" at an angle, I was holding my weight on my feet very, very poorly. I still feel my bad back from that fucking flight. I hate Spirit Airlines, and anybody who works for them (and apparently they're enthralled by how creative they are in carving out every single amenity so that they could shave a dollar off a price of a ticket going from, say, Las Vegas to the Twin Cities, which is the flight I had to take). Do you remember learning about slavery in American history when you were in elementary school, and you saw that famous illustration of the top view of the floor of a slave ship packed with slaves shoved into every nook and cranny like sardines? If Spirit had its way, they would cram passengers in like that -- no chairs, no seat belts. They probably have that illustration on their office walls and masturbate to it.
Anyway, one way they cut costs is to fly on less crowded and expensive times, such as the early morning. Such as 5:45, when their flight was supposed to come in. That was really early, but I could wake up, pick them up, bring them home, then go back to work to start my day. One day of being excessively tired is doable. So I bit my tongue, went to bed at my usual time rather than earlier, and sucked it up.
Got up about an hour earlier than I usually would. But then I saw that my phone received a text message that their flight was delayed by more than an hour, pick them up at 7. Problem: I go to work at 7. They know this from the time they came home from Vegas without telling me. I couldn't just wait around and come in to work whenever I felt like it. Moreover, now I would get down to the airport right at the start of the bad morning rush; going down and up and down again could take a lot of time. I could have stayed later to make up for not being there on-time, but Wednesday is the day of the week I see my shrink. And on top of all that, I couldn't tell my parents my conundrum because they were already in the air by the time I got the messages. If this were a decent hour of the day, they would have seen it fit to call me and let me know what's going on (although in retrospect they should have woken me up and called me about the delay anyway), and I would have been able to call people (at decent hours) to tell them I was going to be late. But that option was not possible.
This really didn't turn out to be the reprieve I thought it would be.
So I was at a crossroads. Do I go pick them up and risk being late to work by at least an hour, and maybe even 90 minutes? Or do I risk (what am I saying, receive) the wrath of my folks as I go to work?
I decided to go to work. For several reasons. One, I'm pretty sure they could fend for themselves. Two, remembering that they knew how to get home using public transportation or a taxi when they blindsided me that one time makes think that they can be left to their own devices again -- "You didn't need me the last time you came home -- why start now?" Yes, I'm still bitter. And finally, I thought they would understand, if not know, that their new arrival time was the start of my work day. They went to work seven days a week, many of them early. I learned industriousness from them. Surely my parents would understand that I would have to go to work instead of picking them up, right?
---
At around 7 I was driving to work when the inevitable phone call came. It was Father: "Where are you?"
"I'm going to work."
"Work?!?!" he said, incredulity rising through his veins. I could hear it through the phone.
"Yeah. This is the time I had to work. I couldn't just pick you up when I couldn't tell anybody so early in the morning." (I think I said this in so many words.)
And then this prick, My Fucking Father, actually said this: "Do you expect me to use the bus in this cold weather?!" Granted, one of the big problems I was struggling with in making the decision not to pick them up is that it was about -15 outside. But just as quickly he said "Fine, fine." And I hung up on him because hey, I was driving.
---
They came home in one piece. I called Mother during the day because, naturally, I had to keep the peace. I still can't afford to live out on my own. She seemed calm a couple hours later when said they were at home.
But ever since, My Fucking Father has not spoken to me. I've confined our close proximity to dinner; I usually stay in my room whenever he comes upstairs. But he has barely made eye contact with me, at all. And it's weird that we have not spoken to each other, not a word, in over a week.
However, that is not as weird my feelings toward My Fucking Father's silent treatment: One of peace. I am, oddly, not stressed out about. Really, I'm not! I've thought that I would be cowering, just waiting for the moment where I would let my guard so he could pounce, that sadistic asshole. But I haven't been worried, mostly because I've either been too tired from work or too occupied doing other stuff, like alumni club stuff. In its place is an environment strangely devoid of any yelling. Really, other than the time Mother nagged at me for, like, not writing down receipts or something the night they came home, no one has raised his or her voice, least of all My Fucking Father, who should have been lecturing me at least four times by now about something. But he hasn't. Maybe he's given up on me. If that's the case ... well, if this is what I get for him finally giving up on me, I'll take it.
I don't know how long this can last. Much of my success to this silent treatment is that our paths cross as little as possible. He has yet to wake up early in the morning or late at night and sit and watch TV in the dining room. Meanwhile I still have work (and by the way, I've been extended at least through next week. I think that's a good thing) which gets me out of the house early in the morning until some time in the afternoon. If this keeps up (fingers crossed) there will be less opportunity for him to break this speaking drought and say something either hurtful or stupid. Weird as it is, I hope he keeps this up.
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