still a coffee virgin? I’d never live that down.”
Seventeen? When did that happen? He grins like a total goober. Oh. That’s right. Today’s your birthday, isn’t it? Well, happy, happy, Ari Fairy.
“Dad!” Inevitable laughter spills from the mouths
of my so-called friends.
Nothing to do but laugh
along with them. “God, Dad, I’m not, like, four anymore.”
Too bad, too. You were such an adorable little girl. He watches Zelda pour coffee and put two spoons of sugar in each mug. What the hell do you think you’re doing?!
All Laughter
And pleasant conversation
brake to a complete standstill.
Zelda freezes. What do you
mean? What did I do now?
You put all that goddamn sugar
in my coffee. What the fuck for?
Zelda’s jaw drops. But Mark,
you always put sugar in your coffee.
Only in the sludge they serve
in town. I told you before . . .
Her head is twisting side to side.
Are you saying no milk, either?
That’s exactly what I’m saying.
I don’t know why you’re acting like this is some big surprise.
It’s not like we haven’t had coffee at home before. Brew Folgers right, no need to make it fucking sweet.
“Here, I’ll take the one with sugar,”
I offer, mostly to make them shut up.
What a Strange Exchange
It’s unsettling, and I really wish they’d stop. Monica and Syrah
are trying not to participate as
spectators, but that’s pretty hard.
“Eggs are done. You guys want
to eat outside?” I don’t wait for them to answer because I know
they must be as uncomfortable
as I am. I divide the omelet into three portions, put them on paper plates, and hand them out. “Don’t forget your coffee.” I grab my own syrupy cup, and we head off for
our alfresco dining experience.
We’ve barely cleared the door
when Monica says, What was that all about? How long have they been together? Like, six months?
You’d think she’d know how your dad likes his coffee by now, right?
I settle into a chair, take a bite before I answer. “No one said
she’s the brightest bulb, but yeah, seems like she ought to by now.”
Well, I’m not positive, but it looked like your dad wanted to pick a fight, says Syrah. Is he always so argumentative?
And what about that Ari Fairy thing?
My face ignites. “He hasn’t called me that since I was really little.
He just wanted to embarrass me.
And yes, he enjoys a good argument.”
Saying it out loud makes me realize just how true the statement is.
Sometimes he insists things are
honest-to-God facts, when I know they’re not. It’s like a big game for him. Regular entertainment.
The point is to make his opponent question her beliefs. Maybe even her sanity. I use the feminine
pronoun because it’s almost
always a female he coerces
into playing. That includes me.
I take a sip of coffee, now cooled to lukewarm. “Hey. This isn’t bad. I don’t get what Dad was griping
about.” Actually, now I consider it, I think Zelda was right. I remember sneaking a sip of his coffee a couple of times. It was always sweet.
And milky. It reminded me of hot cocoa, only made with coffee ice
cream. Has he really changed
the way he drinks his Folgers?
Never mind. I already know
the answer. But why mess with
Zelda, and why exactly then?
I wish I could figure out the rules to Dad’s confounding games.
What I do know is if you call him on his bullshit, first thing he does is deny he ever said it in the first place. If that doesn’t work, he’ll swear you misunderstood. And if you still hold your ground, he’ll go all-out verbal attack, doing his best to
convince you that you’re victimizing him. If you don’t back off then, things can progress quickly to physical
violence. I learned the hard way
to zip it sooner rather than later.
But Then Comes
The inevitable apology, and it’s always so sincere there’s no possible way not to forgive him.
He swears everything he does, he does for me, and how can I not
believe him, when
he loves me more
than life itself—
another regular vow.
Up to a point,
I understand where his cruel streak began.
As a soldier, he saw things that, God willing, I’ll never see— flesh-chewed corpses and people left living, but missing limbs
or lacking intact brains.
So, yeah, I cut him a lot of slack, and anyway, he’s been around the block a time or two, as the saying goes. He knows things I’ve yet to learn, so I listen to his advice, even when it confuses me.
Omelet Finished
We’re still sitting outside
in my pj’s, warmed by tepid
October sunshine,
when Garrett and Keith
go chug-chugging by,
headed toward town.
Garrett honks, Keith opens
his window long enough to
give us the finger, and Syrah
says, Hell yeah! Now I can say those assholes saw me in lingerie.
I still have a chance at popularity.
That cracks me up, and Monica
actually spits out a mouthful
of coffee. Lingerie! Oh, baby, these are some sexy jammies.