Page 23 of Rough

With my plate in one hand, and my fork in the other, I stepped to the side. Leaving an opening between my hip and the side of the doorframe almost big enough for her to pass through, I waited for her to walk by.

She wedged herself between me and the doorway, thrusting her hip against me as she passed by. “I said excuse me.”

“Jesus. You don’t have to be a--”

I caught myself before I said it.

I didn’t bother turning around, I could feel her eyes burning holes into my back. Plate in hand, I walked to the living room, sat down, and shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth.

My father pressed the button on his chair’s remote control and tilted it forward. As it reached the end of its travel, he lowered his chin and locked eyes with me. “If you want to take her on a date, I’d suggest tossing that attitude,” he whispered.

I coughed, almost losing my mouthful of eggs in the process. “What? I don’t want anything to do with that little bitch. She irritates me.”

“You remind me of Tom Blakenship. In second grade he decided he liked this little blonde girl, Karen. So, he walked up to her and pushed her down while we were on recess. That was his way of telling her. You know why little kids do dumb shit like that?”

I swallowed my food. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“Because they don’t know how to communicate,” he said. “You’re either a damned sight dumber than I’m giving you credit for, or you’re just plain stupid.”

“I don’t like her,” I said. “Not even a little bit.’

And, I didn’t. I just wanted to buttfuck her for what she did to my bike. And, if things went well, I’d come on her pretty little face. After the dirty Sanchez, that is.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “The last time you were here at 6:45 in the morning, you were in tenth fuckin’ grade. You telling me you rode that little turd of a scooter over here from Oceanside to check on me? What’d it take you, an hour to get here?”

I finished my omelet and then looked at him. “Forty minutes. I told you the little fucker was fast.”

He pressed the button on his remote and reclined the chair until it was almost flat, and then tilted his head to the side.

“You come here to check on my well-being or to try and sweet talk my nurse?”

“Check on your well-being,” I said, almost believing it.

“Good.” He reached under his robe and pulled out his catheter bag. “Dump this, then.”

I looked at the opaque bag filled with piss. I once cut off a rapist’s cock with a straight razor and it didn’t bother me, but the thought of dumping a bag of day-old urine made me feel ill. Jalapeno flavored bile rose in my throat. “She’ll be here in a minute, she can--”

“Show me you love me. Dump the bag, Son.”

“You know I love you, Pop.”

“I know you’re full of shit.”

Tegan stepped into the room with a plate in each hand. I knew him well enough to know if I didn’t dump the bag, he’d make a huge production of everything. When he did, it’d give Tegan the wrong impression about why I was there.

I swallowed hard, stood, and shot him a glare.

As he lifted the bag of piss, his mouth curled into a smirk. With the top of the bag clenched in his hand, he shook it, causing the previous night’s urine to sway back and forth.

My stomach churned, but I did what any good son would have done. I set my plate down and reached for the bag. As I switched the valve and pulled on the hose, it burped piss out onto my hand.

The urine ran down my forearm and dripped off my elbow. My belly full of early-morning jalapenos rumbled in protest. I struggled to hold them down, but it wasn’t easy.

Bag of piss in hand, I swallowed the rapidly rising hot pepper-infused bile.

My father, aware I had a weak stomach for things like a leaking bag of urine, looked at me. My head started spinning. He grinned, raised his clenched fist to his mouth, and began faking like he was barfing.

Repeatedly.