Dad decided he wanted to eat out after he’d been drinking, and for whatever reason I didn’t insist that I drive. I think I needed to believe in the way he naturally climbed into the driver’s side. It was one of those days where I was dreading the cold seats before my hand reached the door handle. The cold air hurts a little more, pushes you around a little more. And then you hope for his sake that you don’t get pulled over.
He wonders why the Cadillac isn’t a very smooth ride anymore and I suggest it’s because he has become too cheap to fill it with the correct gasoline. He hasn’t caught on, with his disorder, that the more pennies he pinches the worse things are becoming for him.
We settle into a booth at the Chinese restaurant.
I’m twirling the ice around in my drink, wondering what it is about high school dropouts and their theories. My brother has these questionable friends who live from one drug to the next, the fattest one insisting that not all crop circles are fake. Another one sat down next to Chris the other day, explaining how happiness is really just seratonin – a drug the brain releases that fools you into love. He told my impressionable brother that the drug wears off in four years.
I know better.