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I growl again, wishing that he wasn’t here right now. That something could’ve just kept him in the thrall of his bad habits for this particular afternoon, but that’s not happening. I’m going to have to get out and face him — unless I want to spend all night in my car, which I don’t.
I get out of my car, trying to stuff the envelope of money into my suit jacket before he sees anything. But he’s staring at me, drinking in every damn detail. So, it doesn’t matter how I move or how I try to hide it, he sees the envelope. Dad’s on me as soon as I get out of my car and close the door.
“I saw the envelope. A bank envelope,” he says, sounding obsessed over it. “So, don’t even try to say that there isn’t one, or that I’m seeing things.” He burps at me. It’s almost a throw-up, but not quite.
I am never taking my girlfriend home to meet you. While my heart and mind would like nothing more than to celebrate over the fact that I just called Melissa my girlfriend, I’m not in the space to enjoy that fact now. First, I’ve got to get back into my room with my money.
“I’m not giving you anything out of it,” I tell Dad, pushing past him.
He stops me, plucking the envelope out of my suit jacket like it’s a magician’s hat under his control, even though I’m wearing it. The envelope is in his hands and open before I can even blink. He whistles appreciatively at the money. Like my green money is the same as a stripping, cheap whore to him.
“Whoo, look at all this money. You’ve been holding out on me, boy,” he says, staring daggers at me. Again, it’s like it’s his money I’ve been keeping away from him or stealing from him. “Just for that.” He reaches into the envelope and takes out a giant wad of my cash, at least a thousand, maybe more — I see rage at this point, so I can’t be sure — and pockets it for himself.
“I didn’t get that money out for you,” I scream. “I got that out for myself!”
Dad raises the calculating eyebrow. “For what, boy?”
As much as I want to tell him what it’s for, I know I can’t. That will just invite more obnoxious behavior.
“Comic books?” he asks, taking out more money and pocketing it.
I don’t answer. I just start trembling.
“Video games?”
More money comes out of my envelope and goes into his pocket.
“Fat Fuckers’ Galore: The Magazine?”
This one snaps whatever self-control I have, and I go after him. I grab my envelope from him, but not fast enough to keep him from grabbing one last handful of my money.
“Shut up! I don’t ask you what you spend your money on, jerk!” In the back of my mind, I find myself wishing for someone like Vanacore. At least, if she were here, she could scare the shit out of my dad. She could intimidate him in a way Dad would take seriously.
Even with me raging at him, Dad just laughs and heads toward his beat-up truck, waving my money at me like a red cape designed to enrage a bull. He says, “I’m going to have me some fun tonight! Thanks, boy!”
Dad’s off and roaring down the street in his hunk of junk before I can do or say anything. Before I’ve even really started to chase after him and curse him out, he’s already gone. He’s waving my money out the window, though somehow, it’s not blowing out of his hand.
I turn back to the house, roaring in anger. I kick at anything I can reach that’s not nailed down, getting some satisfaction when it clings and flies off whatever handle or nail it was affixed with. But I’m still so angry, it wouldn’t surprise me if I started bleeding from the mouth. “You fucker! You fucking asshole! Stealing my money! The money I’ve saved up for years, not knowing what I was going to use it for!” I bang my way into the house, and through my entryway, though I’m still feeling way too murderous to be left alone. “That was for my date! My fucking date with Melissa,” I scream. I scream this to the empty house and in the dark stairway down to my room.
I turn on my lights and see what little of my money is left. Only a hundred or maybe two hundred between everything. From five thousand to a little more than maybe two hundred. “Well, there goes any fucking ability I have to treat Melissa. There goes any chance of having a good date: what this was supposed to be.” I growl and wander limply to my bed. “There goes my new wardrobe! There goes any good thing we were trying to go for, thanks to that fucking piece of shit!”
