Page 43 of The Man I Hate

“Leave ‘em in the drive, Son.”

A former Marine and a Vietnam War veteran, my father was cantankerous, opinionated, and argumentative. Winning an argument against him, however, was impossible. Although I disagreed with his opinion about my shoes, I knew not to express my opinion in the form of defiance.

I kicked them off at the edge of the drive. “How’s that?”

He stood and looked me over. “Other than those ugly socks, I suppose you’re fine.”

I glanced at my feet. “What’s wrong with the socks?”

“Your suit’s black,” he said. “Ought to be wearing black socks. Those blue fuckers stand out like a turd floating in a punch bowl.”

“Go to hell.”

He shrugged and took his heat. “They look like shit.”

Unwilling to be lured into a discussion about fashion with an old man who wore khaki pants and a white tee shirt regardless of his surroundings, I meandered across the yard and stepped onto the porch. He sat in the first of four chairs that were evenly spaced along the length of the covered deck. A beer cooler was situated beside him.

He removed a bottle of beer and blindly tossed it into the air. “Heads up, Dipshit”

I caught the bottle and twisted off the cap. I flipped it into his lap. “Thanks, Old Man.”

He dropped the beer cap into a half-filled gallon jar that sat beside his chair. “Kid sent me a text message,” he said, referring to the missing neighbor. “Said him and the crew are living it up. Goose is cooking fresh seafood and steaks and they’re having parties on the roof. Sounds like they’re not bothered by this much.”

I lowered myself into the chair beside him. “I think everyone’s about as bothered as they’ll allow themselves to be.”

“It doesn’t bother me much, other than fucking up my Sunday routine.” He pulled the cooler from beside his chair and pushed it in front of him. He propped his feet onto it. “Retired life has its benefits, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“Speaking of benefits.” He glanced in my direction. “How’s that curly-headed neighbor of yours?”

A week prior, I’d explained the situation with Mica, and how she’d barged in on Anna and me during sex. I’d previously shared the parking lot sex story with him as well. He assumed, based solely on the fact that we’d had sex twice, that I was interested in her beyond sex.

“Haven’t spoken to her since the last time I was here,” I said.

“It’s been, what? Two weeks?”

“Since she and I talked?” I shrugged. “Twelve days, give or take.”

“Twelve isn’t a ‘give or take’ number, Son. Twelve’s a definite.”

I scowled. “What?”

“You can’t say, ‘Twelve days, give or take.’ That’s like saying ‘roughly thirteen.’”

I glared. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You said, ‘twelve days, give or take.’ That makes you look stupid. Twelve’s not a ‘give or take’ number. You can say ‘ten, give or take’, or you could say ‘twenty, give or take.’ Not twelve. That’s like saying ‘nine, give or take’ or ‘three, give or take.’ You sound like a damned fool. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“It’s been exactly twelve fucking days since I spoke with her, Old Man,” I said snidely. “Twelve. Exactly twelve. No more, no less. How’s that?”

“That’s better,” he said. “Why’d you add the give or take part?’”

I couldn’t win with him. I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know.”

He looked me over dramatically. “You sure you’re not infected? Seems like your brain’s pickled. It happens with adults when they get a high fever. Turns their brains to mush.”

“Fuck you,” I said jokingly.