Jake rolled in around two a.m. and parked his truck in the driveway. Yawning, he hopped out and wandered into the neighbor’s yard where he found a nice patch of azaleas to piss on. After a brief conversation with a garden gnome (Jake did most of the talking), he staggered back across the driveway and entered the house. The old man was right there, on the couch; in nothing but socks, boxer shorts, and a Metallica T-shirt from back when he had hair, he was drinking beer and watching TV.
+++++“Where the fuck you been?” he said.
+++++“Out,” Jake said back.
+++++“Out where?”
+++++“Out wherever I wanted to be.”
+++++“Is that how you answer me?”
+++++“Guess so.”
+++++The old man set his beer down, got up, came over, and seized his son by the collar. He shook him until his—Jake’s—head began to wobble.
+++++“You’re drunk,” he said. “You’re stoned.”
+++++Jake grinned and scratched his crotch. “I ain’t drunk.”
+++++The old man dragged him into the kitchen and forced him into a chair. He stood over him and leaned in close.
+++++“You stupid son of a bitch. Ain’t you got any sense? You could have killed someone driving home in your condition.”
+++++Jake used his hand to waft the old man’s breath away. “I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
+++++“Listen, you little sh—”
+++++“Go fuck yourself.”
+++++“What did you say?”
+++++“I said go fuck yourself.”
+++++“Fuck myself?”
+++++“You heard me.”
+++++The old man stood up straight. He made a fist, then another, but kept them at his sides. “Well we’ll just see about that,” he said, and he turned and disappeared down the hallway.
+++++Jake got up and grabbed the milk out of the fridge. He opened a cabinet to grab a cup but changed his mind and drank straight from the carton. He thought about the party he’d gone to, the weed he’d smoked, the friends he’d laughed with, and the girl who’d let him squeeze her tits. And while he was thinking about all this, the old man returned with his guitar.
+++++“Hey,” he said, pointing, “that’s my guitar.”
+++++“Yup,” the old man said, then opened the front door and walked outside.
+++++Curious, Jake set the milk on the counter and followed the old man out. He looked on from the front step as the old man carried the guitar across the lawn and placed it into the bed of the truck. The old man paused for a second to burp, then came back to the house.
+++++“Hey, what’s that about?” Jake asked him. “Why’d you put my guitar in my truck?”
+++++“You still want it, don’t you?”
+++++“Yeah.”
+++++“Well then, you’ll want to take it with you when you move.”
+++++“Move? Who said I’m moving?”
+++++“You did.”
+++++“When?”
+++++“When you stopped respecting me, that’s when.”
+++++Jake laughed. “But that was years ago.”
+++++The old man gave him a shove and walked inside. Jake waited for him to go back into his room, then scampered over to the truck and removed the guitar. He flipped the strap over his shoulder and strummed the strings to make sure they were still intact. For a second, he forgot what was happening and began to play his favorite song. The old man returned with a couple of pillows and an amp. He went straight for the yard and set them down on the grass, the amp first and then the pillows on top like a tower. He waited for his son to stop.
+++++“Still can’t play a chord, can you?” he said, and went back inside.
+++++Jake spat on the concrete and cursed. He walked to the end of the driveway and looked up and down the dimly-lit street. From his pocket he took out a quarter and flipped it in the air. Heads he moved, tails he’d stayed and apologized. When it struck his hand it came up tails, so he flipped it again, and then a third time, until he got the result he was looking for. He walked back to his truck, opened the passenger door, and carefully placed his guitar on the seat.
+++++Then he waited, waited until the old man had brought out all his stuff—his clothes, his skateboard, his fantasy and science fiction novels, his lava lamp, his laptop, his posters of Bob Marley and Emma Stone—he waited until everything was all piled up and made a nice big heap on the lawn.
+++++The old man brushed his hands together. “See you around,” he said, and again, went inside.
+++++Now Jake made his move. He came forward and began loading his things into the truck, using his clothes and the sheets from his bed to wrap up whatever was fragile. Every once in a while he glanced at the house and saw the old man standing by the window, frowning, one hand on his hip, the other holding his beer, but it wasn’t until he’d finished that the old man finally came out and had something to say to him.
+++++“You ain’t got no chance of making it,” he said. “You’ll be back here before sunrise.”
+++++Jake jumped down from the truck and slammed the endgate shut. “Guess we’ll see.”
+++++He walked up the driveway, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The old man came around the front of the truck and tapped on the driver’s side window.
+++++“Where you going?” he said.
+++++Jake rolled down the window. “What?”
+++++“I said where you moving to?”
+++++“Wherever I want to move.”
+++++“Like hell. You ain’t going nowhere.”
+++++“Oh yeah? Who’s stopping me?”
+++++The old man walked to the back of the truck and stood behind the rear bumper. He rested his free hand on the endgate, took a sip of his beer, and stared up at the sky.
+++++“What are you doing?” Jake said, sticking his head out the window. “You want me to leave or don’t you?”
+++++“Like you said. Who’s stopping you?”
+++++“You are.”
+++++“I ain’t doing nothing. I’m just standing in my driveway admiring the view.”
+++++“Don’t make me run you over.”
+++++“You ain’t got the guts.”
+++++Jake turned back to the wheel and fired up the engine. He placed his hand on the shifter but was unable to bring himself to take it out of park.
+++++“That’s what I figured,” the old man said. “You ain’t never had the guts to do nothing, ‘cept run your mouth. Same as when you were a child. Always whining, never doing.” He finished his beer off, crushed the can, and tossed it into the bed of the truck. “Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it easier for you,” and he got down onto the ground, onto the concrete, and laid himself behind the tires. He smiled, placed his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “Now run me over. Go on, do it. I’m just a speed bump now. Do it.”
+++++Jake stared at him in the side view mirror. He honked the horn and revved the engine, but the old man wouldn’t budge.
+++++“Damnit,” he said, “I thought you wanted me gone.”
+++++“And you’re free to go. Or you can stick around and respect me for once in your life. Those are your options. You choose.”
+++++“Those ain’t no kind of choices.”
+++++“Well they’re all you’ve got.”
+++++Jake gave it some thought. “Then I guess I’ve got to move,” he said, and threw the truck into gear.
+++++The old man opened his eyes. “Say what?” and afterward felt the pressure of the tires on his chest.

[Image Credit : Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash ]

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Wolfgang Wright

Wolfgang Wright is the author of the carnivalesque, Me and Gepe, and the forthcoming science fiction novel Being. His short fiction has appeared (or will shortly be appearing) in Waccamaw, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Fleas on the Dog, among others. Recently, he underwent an Eastern-style awakening, putting him on the path to full enlightenment. He lives in North Dakota.

Latest posts by Wolfgang Wright (see all)

• Out Of Hand - December 3, 2022