Page 107 of The Man I Hate

Hap looked at me. “Us?”

I nodded. “Anna and me.”

Hap chuckled. “Did hell freeze over while I was sick?”

“I’ve got a woman in my house, and you’re coming to stay with me,” I replied. “It must have.”

Anna

Braxton may have been frustrated with his father’s presence, but I wasn’t. Hap had only been around for an hour and I could claim that I’d never been so entertained in all my life. He and Braxton were like Laurel and Hardy, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, or Cheech and Chong. Their love was undeniable and the chemistry between them was irrefutable.

Hap didn’t look—or act—like he was in his mid-seventies. His arms were bulging with muscles, his chest was broad, and his waist was trim. He walked like Braxton, expressing confidence with each step he took.

The similarities between the two men stopped there. Braxton was quiet, choosing to talk when spoken to. Hap never stopped talking. He seemed to enjoy choosing subjects that got beneath Braxton’s skin. He’d then talk about them until they ended up in an argument.

It seemed that each argument had purpose, at least to Hap. That beneath all the “fuck you, Son” and “dipshit” jabs he made, there was a deeper meaning. If nothing else, the subject matter he chose to argue about was worth listening to.

Hap strolled past the living room wearing a clean pair of khakis and a white tee shirt that we picked up from his home.

I looked up from season four, episode six of Mad Men. “Feel better?”

“I needed that shower,” he replied, pausing in the doorway. “All that hospital doled out were whore baths.”

“Whore baths are good when there’s no other option.”

He scowled. “Are you always so upbeat?”

I smiled. “Most of the time.”

He disappeared. In an instant, he returned. “Dipshit go to get my meds?”

“Yes, he did.”

He vanished. His footsteps went from room to room, opening and closing every door, closet, cupboard, and drawer. Fifteen minutes into his quest, the slamming of doors ceased.

He peeked into the living room. “Have you been here long enough to know where he keeps things?”

“I know where some things are,” I replied. “You’re supposed to stay out of the refrigerator, though. There’s a surprise in there.”

“He already warned me about the fridge,” he grunted. “Where’s he keep his hammer?”

It seemed like an odd request. There wasn’t anything in the house that I could think of that Braxton would want his father beating on.

I turned to face him. “I know he has a hammer, but I don’t think he wants you working on anything. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“I’m going to smack something once, and then I’ll be done,” he said. “Do you know where he keeps it?”

“He used it to tenderize chicken the other day. He said he kept it in the garage.”

He looked at me like I was out of my mind. “He used a hammer on a piece of chicken?”

“A rubber mallet,” I replied. “He tenderized a chicken breast with it. It was covered with plastic.”

“A rubber mallet?” His face lit up. “That’s exactly what I need.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

He disappeared for a moment without responding. When he returned, he was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.