(no subject)
So. Here's the deal.
A while back, I'd been trolling my brain for story ideas having to do with a particular interesting dynamic I like writing, that being 'Frank Vs. Zeke'. I simply LOVE making situations where they clash, argue, even fist-fight. Because. ;) Out of nowhere, this idea starts hitting me between the eyes, and I'm thinking, "Dude, this sounds like fun!" I figured eh, a lil' mini-series thingee, a few chaps long, nothing huge. So I started writing it about three to four weeks ago, while planning to keep it on the down-low due to my long absences/multi-multi-parters sitting in the dust, starving and waiting for me to return to them/etc.
320 pages and 99,093 words later, it's done. I can't even express how this one FLOWED out. I'd go to read it to Pan when he'd get back from work, saying "I wrote" with him chortling and sarcastically saying, "uh huh. How many pages?" Because I was getting it wrong every time; I'd say, "Maybe ten?" then check and amend it to, "Uh, 29, actually?" I don't feel time or the space I take up when I write, and I think, 'well, it's only been an hour, so it can't be THAT mu--wait, eleven pages?' lol. Can't essplain it. Just happens. :D
So now I shall post it. It's unedited for the most part, just for fun and frolic. After this first post, I'm gonna set up each chapter in livejournal to be posted in advance if I can. Dole 'em out, on time and for the fun. :D And since this one sucked the writing-life outta me, forcing my devotion toward it in the last 3 or so weeks, I'm dedicating it to one sweet prisca1960, the only Christmas-fic=requester who got shafted on my list. While it's not *exactly* what you asked for, I had you in mind as I wrote it. Love you punky!! I hope you, and ALLA-you, enjoy!
Title: So You Think You Can Tell (Pt. 1)
Pairing: Casey/OMC, C/Z (past)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Frank wants to trade-up for how things USED to be, damn it.
Frank knew what the smile on his wife’s face meant. He himself had worn it a few hours before when she’d let him know that Casey was bringing a ‘friend’ over for dinner. With empty plates sitting on the table and his dessert untouched (Meredith’s award-winning strawberry-rhubarb pie, something that the man usually gobbled down in nanoseconds-not tonight, however), they sat in silence together as Casey and Jeremy, the new guy, got their winter-wear together at the front of the house.
“That scarf… with that hat?”
“Hey, I love this scarf. It’s warm enough to let me go out without a coat.”
There was that wry chuckle again. Jeremy had made it countless times tonight; whether it was how ‘darling’ their dinnerware was or how bemused he’d been over the dinner itself, Meredith’s other prize dish of rice-crispy chicken, Jeremy may as well have come out and said, “How quaint you little people are!” Going by his blathering on and on about his own home life, involving boarding school in Denmark in his early years, servants at his beck and call and his family tree involving a Kennedy or two, Frank could only stare blankly at his dinner, nodding and humming along without actual listening.
“I’ve got a whole section of my closet full of Gucci I’m not going to use anymore. I’ll let you ransack it all you want tomorrow after photo-club,” Jeremy was telling Casey.
‘God, no…’ Frank thought with deep misery. He felt a little better when Casey chuckled and said, “No-o-o, seriously… I like this thing, like I said,” but still. What did Casey, a happy, homegrown, modest and want-for-nothing young man as he was, have in common with this ‘Richie Rich’ douchebag?
Casey appeared in the dining room archway, tying his scarf and grinning. Of course he loved that thing; he loved his aunt, Frank’s sister Debbie, and how she always made the family homemade, from-the-heart gifts at the holidays. That’s what THIS family valued, while Jeremy, surrounded by Egyptian cotton and Parisian model-wear probably had no idea what a ball of yarn looked like. “So… it’s Friday?” Casey said, his grin growing impish and bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Fri… oh.” Frank felt super insecure, now. While their family wasn’t poor or in want, if he heard Jeremy’s stupid little chuckle over Casey’s allowance, Frank would end up in lock-up for assault for the night. Though Meredith would probably bail him out. Maybe. Nonetheless, he dug his wallet out of his pocket, opened it and paused a moment. Instead of taking out a ten, he flicked over to the twenties and drew one out. Smiling, he handed it to the boy. “You kicked butt, helping me clean the garage last Sunday. Here.”
“Hey, thanks!”
He still got excited over little surprises. Before Frank could put on a warm smile, Jeremy joined Casey’s side, sighing and smiling. “I told you not to worry about it…”
“And I told you I’d buy my own drinks, at least,” Casey replied with a smirk.
“That’ll barely cover one, silly. And that’s without the booze.”
What eighteen-plus club sold Shirley Temple’s like they were made of molten gold? Jeremy’s choice, apparently. Still, Casey shoved the bill in his wallet, gave his parents a big smile and said, “Home by midnight, promise,” before setting off, Jeremy staying close while turning to look back at the adults.
“Thanks for having me over for dinner! It was really nice,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Have fun, boys,” Meredith called back.
The moment the front door opened and closed, leaving the pair alone at the table, Mr. Connor huffed and brought his folded hands up to his chin. His eyes were set on his pie, staring at the fluffy white dollop of Cool Whip sitting on top. Meredith, looking unbothered and comfortable with everything that had gone on, hummed as she took her last bite. She still had an appetite, somehow.
“I outdid myself this time, gotta say. I think it was the small pinch of nutmeg I threw in at the last second. I’ll have to remem-“
“Just say it, Mer.” Frank spat out, still gazing blankly at the pie. A small moment of silence swelled between them before the woman put her fork down in a small tink!, sat back and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“What would I have to ‘say’?” she asked, though her growing grin said it all.
“Isn’t it a rule that a parent isn’t gonna like anyone their kid brings home as their ‘new thing’? You can’t BLAME me for being picky, but go on, say it. Go ahead.”
Meredith cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t your rule before the boys got home, though. The only rule I remember you yammering about since you found out about Jeremy coming around was… what was it again? Hmm, let me think…”
Frank loved his wife. But he was ready to snatch the pie plate from the middle of the table and shove the three-quarters-full dish straight into her smug expression. Instead, he waited through her fake thoughtful murmuring until she finally snapped her fingers and said, “Ah, I remember now… ‘anyone but Zeke’,” she said.
“Okay then, as I said-my role here? Hate everyone Casey brings home. Never think they’re good enough. Want him to live out his life as a humble, happy spinster, whatever,” Frank rambled.
“God’s sake, Frank…”
“The only reason you liked Zeke was for his hot car and hot… hot. Don’t think I didn’t notice you drooling all over yourself the time he borrowed the drive to wash his stupid car when HIS street had that water main break. God, whatta baby he was over that, his whole ‘car washing routine’ being threatened, begging Casey to ask us if he could raise our water bill to make sure his cock-rocket was made perfect…”
Meredith looked more mischievous than ever, her arms tucked tightly over her stomach and she beamed a grin at her husband. “At least I was honest to you about how nice it WAS to drool over such a good-looking guy. Oh, and was he ever. Still is, I’m sure.” She sighed and untucked an arm to fuss over her thumbnail, staring at it as if it was the most interesting thing ever. “Anyway, he bought us that huge pizza as a ‘thank you’, letting him do that. He hadn’t needed to. Letting me see him all sopping-wet and shirtless was payment enough…”
“Pfft, why don’t you marry him, then?” Frank said in an overly-snotty tone. No matter his wife’s openness over how she was rather enjoying the fact that it was young, attractive men being brought home instead of the cheerleaders and prom princesses Frank had just as openly teased her about during Casey’s early years (“I hope he’s into blondes,” had been one comment he’d made in their history as parents, which had earned him a spoonful of mashed potatoes to the face), he couldn’t help from smirking as her musical laugh filled the room.
“How Pee-Wee Herman of you, honey,” she said. Her smile sobered a little as she nodded to the untouched dish in front of Frank. “That’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”
“Being around that stupid little twat killed my appetite.”
“Ooh, ‘twat’. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard that come outta your mouth.”
“It’s reserved for anyone who says, ‘I’ve never been to a Goodwill before, but I’m glad there are charities for those who need it,’” Frank said. He looked to his wife, who was shrugging and staring at the dinnerware, the very items she’d gushed over finding at the second-hand shop she adored casing-out every Monday. Monday was their ‘yellow tag fifty-percent off’ day, after all. “He acted like we’re cheap, poor bastards scheming money from the state with fake disability claims and shit.”
“Oh, Frank, he did not…” she said. “He just…”
“That’s how it felt, is what I’m saying. Sitting there, making cute little comments when all I heard was ‘what destitution you poor little people suffer through.’ You KNOW that if you wanted to throw all these things out and replace it with some… antique, super expensive, designer Fiestaware or… whatever, I’d be able to DO that…”
“Frank… of course I do.” The woman leaned forward to place a hand over her husband’s fisted one. “You know how I love a bargain. Frugal to the end, even if we had that boy’s family finances kicking around. This set, here? Bought new at Penney’s, it’d be about eighty bucks! I was thrilled, finding it, no cracks, practically new outta the box.”
It was true. This was why Frank loved his family, and why he wanted to keep anyone he saw as an uninvited intruder away from it. Casey, especially; he’d grown into a fine young man, never complaining when he’d have to put up with new school clothes bought between Kmart, Penney’s and Goodwill, instead of the Calvin Klein crap that was slapped onto every chest, butt and foot at his school. The guilt that’d hit Frank over his being bullied, always wondering if any of it was tied to Casey’s wardrobe… however shallow that was, that was what so many kids Casey’s age were. Shallow.
As Meredith sighed, said, “Eat that pie before it starts to mold,” and began clearing the table, Frank huffed out a breath and picked up his fork. Meredith set off for the kitchen to load the dishwasher, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
It’d been the thunderous roar of a muscle car’s engine that’d served as Frank’s ‘introduction’ to the boy Casey hadn’t been able to shut up about for over a week. Frank had his issues with boys altogether, but the promise he’d made to Casey the first time he’d held him after Meredith’s suffering through almost twenty hours of childbirth-“Gonna love you no matter what, my lil’ man,” spoken aloud and making the nurses, his wife and doctor beam-steamrolled any and all else. If his son was gay, then his son was gay, and he’d found ways to bond with him over it despite the initial uneasiness after finding out.
“Thought you didn’t get into red-heads,” he’d said a few weeks before at the mall, where he’d chosen to reward his son’s straight-A report card with a small splurge at his favorite game store. Casey had spluttered and gone pink in the cheeks as his father outright giggled over how obvious Casey had been, talking with ‘Dragon’s Den’s stockboy about their love affair with Magic cards and game tournaments. More comments to further embarrass his boy, like, “But he WAS cute. A bit older, but cute,” and “You’d probably score a bit in getting to use his store discount, though?” had turned Casey into a stammering mess, making the word, “D-A-A-AD!” come out in three or eight extra syllables. But they’d shared smiles over it all, even when the commentary would come up out of nowhere during their shopping fun. In the end, Frank knew how valuable it was for Casey to have his dad’s support-how he’d get the traditional parental teasing over whoever Frank’s son fancied, gender not mattering. Anyway, Casey’s revenge came at their final stop together at the Bath & Body Works shop, where Meredith’s lone request of a new bottle of ‘Cucumber-Melon’ body wash was fulfilled. While there wasn’t a straight man alive who could resist staring at the set of double-D’s and perfect hourglass figure that ‘Charly’, the helpful sales associate with a sunshine smile who’d helped Frank traverse the endless rows and shelves full of lady-like toiletries, it’d been obvious that Casey had been waiting to catch him at his weakest moment.
“You sure like ‘em bouncy, huh, Dad?” being muttered to Frank while Charly rang them up had made his face go red-hot and his voice three octaves higher, making his, “Th-Thanks for t-the help,” he gave the girl sound prepubescent.
‘That goddamned car…’ Frank’s thoughts shifted back to his memory of first meeting Zeke in a neck-breaking shot. He chewed a bite of pie slowly, remembering the next set of first impressions he received when his son and brand-spanking new boyfriend got into the house. The smell of cigarette smoke hit him first, even before looking up at them-an instant no-no when it came to what he wanted his son around, him being seventeen at the time or no. At Casey’s quick, nervous, “Dad, Zeke-Zeke, Dad,” introductions before waving for Zeke to follow him to the kitchen, all Frank got for his saying,
“Hello, Zeke. Nice to meet you,” was a…
“’Sup?”
’Sup. Then the strange, cool and unbothered slow swagger of his steps, just three of them before he disappeared with Casey to meet the matriarch of the family. As her cooing voice filled the air, offering them “chocolate chip cookies, fresh baked!”, Frank had sniffed and continued trying to read the ‘Saturday Herald’, though every brain cell was now devoted to how much he already hated Casey’s taste in men.
Thing was-he didn’t want to hate whoever Casey brought home, despite the usual fatherly-protective nature every dad possessed. Frank hadn’t liked meeting HIS father-in-law, before he was that father-in-law, decades before. He’d instantly adored Meredith’s mom, who-like Meredith had been with Casey and Zeke, offering sweet treats in the kitchen-had made her daughter and her new ‘beau’ a pan of lemon bars. They’d eaten them together on her back porch facing the stunning gardens Mrs. Brooks slaved over, ensuring a few spots in the ‘Herrington Herald’s Local-Life section a few times over the years. Frank hadn’t known the difference between dahlias and dandelions himself, but the woman’s sweet demeanor as she joined them on the porch, going on to describe every sprig and bloom she tended to had made Frank feel welcome… valued, even. He’d almost asked Meredith if they could scrap their movie-date plans to stick around longer, he’d enjoyed her company that much. But the drive-in was having their last night showing of ‘Star Wars’, and with Meredith so excited to see it, they’d thanked Mrs. Brooks for the delicious treats, gardening education then Frank was all but yanked away from the hall leading to the front door by a stern-faced Thomas Brooks.
Even in the present, at forty-five years of age, Frank’s knees felt tingly and numb in recalling the warnings given to him, Mr. Brooks voice gone low and monotone. While he’d made no mention of his hunting prowess and how unbothered he’d be practicing on a human rather than the usual deer he’d bring home every other weekend, his rifles were on proud display over the fireplace. Frank’s eyes had darted over the man’s shoulder every now and again and swallowed nervously at the sight of them. “Be good to my girl, is all I’m saying,” Mr. Brooks had left him with, along with a heavy clap to Frank’s shoulder. The only reason they’d hit second base for the first time in his beat-up truck that night was by Meredith’s insistence-and like hell he’d been able to resist the soft feel of her sweater and teasing, girlish giggling.
Still couldn’t.
So Frank had slapped his paper down, turned on the TV and called the boys in. Hands full of cookies and cans of soda, they joined him in sitting on the couch next to his favorite chair. Frank tried-he’d honestly tried. “So, same grade as Casey, huh?”… “It’s my second try at being a senior, but-looks like it’ll work out…”
’Oh God…’ “Well, lots of college choices’ll be on the table, I’m sure.” … “Eh, bartending school for me, probably.”
’Oh dear God…’ “A little young for that though, huh?” Nervous chuckling, Casey’s sudden coughing fit… “My uncle’s given me a bit of practice at his bar on the weekends-the dive there, on Elm.”
’He must leave this goddamned house, now!’ Frank had nodded, kept nodding, gone wordless and fearing everything this young man represented. Instead of a young man sharing his son’s awkward but sweet geeky nature, showing off his collection of Magic card rarities and eager to trade with his new sweetheart, THIS had shown up, instead. Zeke was every parent’s wide-awake nightmare, where career choices drowned in booze and bar fights, the importance of getting a good education wasn’t seen as important at all and it’d all been spoken about as if Zeke expected his boyfriend’s father to hold a parade in his honor, just for the simple act of gracing him with his presence.
Even if he had given very polite thanks to Meredith over the “kickass cookies”, he’d said it just like that. Kickass cookies. Casey swore sometimes, something expected-nothing worth being grounded over, in Frank nor Meredith’s view. But Zeke, sitting in the Connor living room for the first time, didn’t see anything wrong in taking liberties in how he spoke. Not that Meredith herself seemed to mind. The woman even chuckled and said, “Well, I AM known for my ‘kickass desserts’,” which made Frank give her a look that screamed, ’The FUCK, Mer??’ She hadn’t noticed, however, too busy giving Zeke the most ridiculous smile Frank had ever seen on her face.
Seeing as it’d been a Saturday-a day Zeke had implied was sometimes set aside for gaining ‘work experience’ at ‘Packy’s-Frank had made sure to give the warning of, “And uh, skip any bartending lessons or thereabouts, yeah?” when the boys readied to leave for their afternoon and night out. He should have found relief when Casey explained that they’d be heading to Willow Park to feed ducks and mess around on playground equipment, but he didn’t. Everything this new boy got within a few yards of could end up a disaster in his view; ‘feeding ducks’ and Zeke didn’t compute, making Frank paranoid that Monday’s Herald would have a front page news story about police investigating row upon row of curb-stomped fowl discovered by a family of churchgoers that past Sunday.
“Now HE… is quite a fine specimen,” Meredith had said. Frank would’ve been able to come up with an array of foul-mouthed retorts, if not for the muscle car’s engine roaring to life and making him jump and turn in his seat.
“Jesus Christ! He’d BETTER not kill our friggin’ kid in that thing!” he’d said as he pealed away from the curb. “SLOW DOWN!”
“Like he can hear you,” Meredith had giggled out.
“No one can hear anything, now! Is he trying to deafen the entire neighborhood?”
Nothing good came, after that. It only grew worse and worse with every honking horn, instead of Zeke showing respect in coming to the door; those ugly hickeys Casey tried saying were the result of his being a klutz when he couldn’t hide them; the casual swearing, even if the potty-mouthed dirtbag somehow managed to keep the f-bomb at bay; the metal music not being turned down between the impatient honking, making their nosy, grouchy neighbor Mrs. Millford complain every damned time Mr. Connor made a trip to the mailbox…
The sound of the phone ringing startled Frank from his deep-thinking. “I’ll get it!” Meredith called before grabbing it up and saying, “Hello?”
Wherever the thought of, ‘Maybe it’s Zeke?’ came from, Frank didn’t know. Hadn’t he just been musing over every last shred of hatred he’d harbored toward the boy for the five months he and Casey dated? As he heard Meredith greeting her sister happily-the woman called every Saturday to go over their Sunday flea-market trip plans-Frank sat back and shifted his thoughts back to tonight.
Zeke’s car was the annoying representation of his budding manhood-but he honestly loved the thing, took care of it. Even if Frank kept earbuds in the drawer of the side table by his favorite chair to use when Zeke’s honking and death metal arrived at the curb, Frank had once surprised himself in tapping his foot to the pounding, erratic guitar solo coming out in blistering sound waves throughout all of Majorie Circle. The week before the sudden, unexpected end to the relationship Frank had tried his best getting used to, he’d actually sided with Zeke against his own son, when that son had come home angry and complaining about Zeke’s refusal to take him to the school dance. While Mr. Connor understood that Casey was getting sick of ‘staying in the closet’, that was ALL the kid needed-a return to the bullying, something that hadn’t reared its ugly head since Casey had started ‘hanging out’ with Zeke, that’d be ten times worse with the kind of ammunition people would gain in getting to use Casey’s… AND Zeke’s… true sexuality. “He sits there saying he ‘doesn’t give a sh…’ darn about what people think of him, when he’s really a chicken-shitted coward!” had been Casey’s angry declaration before shutting himself in his room, stomping around and loudly grumbling for a good hour before Frank heard his Nintendo beeping and bleeping to life.
If he’d had the chance, he would’ve given Casey a good, solid fatherly talk. He’d show sympathy for how Casey felt-but also try to get him to see reason. There was only one more semester until graduation, they’d get to enjoy their last summer before college together, they could be ‘out and proud’ then when they weren’t having to face the ever-present dangers that lurked in every footballer’s fist and horrible, soul-killing bathroom graffiti. However torn Casey was, he’d need the reminders that, according to what he’d told Meredith at the start of his and Zeke’s getting-together, he’d started things with Zeke knowing they’d be in hiding. Zeke had made that clear before cementing anything, and it was his right to stick by that. Fair or not, what was done was done.
And so was Casey, not long after that fight. Frank had gotten the news in answering the doorbell, only to find the GTO pealing away from the curb-as fast and as loud as always-along with a box full of Casey’s things on the porch. Three shirts, folded with care, the history book Zeke had borrowed two months before when his fell into a sewer (“He swears it wasn’t on purpose, but…” Casey had said with a sly grin), a few greeting cards with ‘Sweet-Zeke’ written on each in Casey’s handwriting, a pair of underwear (the thing HAD been open, but Frank regretted any nosiness with that discovery, especially since it’d been tucked into one of the shirts’ pockets as a hiding place) a stack of pictures Casey had taken on one of their park trips with those ducks, and a blank tape with Casey’s handwriting again, the title being, ‘Our Songs’. It’d broken Frank’s heart in a way he hadn’t expected, especially when Casey had arrived home and said, “Pfft, whatevs,” in Frank letting him know what he’d find on his bed.
It’d been that moment Frank had thought, ‘When did you get so cold?’ Casey’s way, but wiped it all away in an instant. His son was still a good boy-this was just a typical teenager’s reaction to a bitter breakup. A week later, Frank had breathed easier when Casey had come home from school and let his parents know over dinner that he and Zeke had talked things out enough to become friends again. When Meredith had cooed, saying, “Aw… I was hoping you were gonna say you’d patched things up enough to hook-up again, I actually miss that boy sometimes!”, Casey had smiled.
“You miss the low-slung jeans, Ma.”
No matter Frank’s feelings on the matter, he’d belted out a few hundred belly laughs as his wife had struggled to not spit the mouthful of juice she’d unwisely sipped at that moment. It ended with a wistful sigh from Casey and his saying, “But yeah, I miss him, too. SOME-times,” before chuckling his way to the kitchen to help with dishes.
Now, a month later, and… Jeremy. Jeremy, the walking advertisement for every high-priced, name-branded clothes designer; the owner of a shiny, straight-off-the-lot Audi he treasured enough to ask Casey, “Can I check your shoes before getting in?” to spare the floormats of the passenger side of any speck of dirt or debris as if they were made of the finest porcelain; a young man who was either proud of being rude or hopelessly oblivious in comparing every aspect of Meredith’s dinner to whatever high-priced concoction his family’s Paris-trained chef had served upon glittering-gold platters; the one who, right now, was probably trying to impress Casey in whatever exclusive, rich-boy club he’d taken him to…
“Frank?”
The man blinked furiously and looked up, finding Meredith in the doorway to the kitchen holding her purse. “Uh, yeah?”
“My sister needs some help unloading stuff from her van, to make room for our flea-marketing tomorrow. The hand-washables are ready for you,” she said with a wink.
“Oh. ‘K, sorry…”
“And good, you ate the pie.” Meredith smiled as he picked up his emptied cup and crumb-covered plate. He made his way over to her; she gave him a peck to his cheek, said, “I shouldn’t be too long!” and made her way out the back door to the driveway. Frank rolled up his sleeves, turned the radio on and began filling one side of the sink. The tradition of his dishwashing chore along with the classic rock station’s ‘Into the Floyd’, an hour-long radio play of his favorite band, was warm and comfortable most nights. But as ‘Comfortably Numb’ began to play, his thoughts wandered back to his ‘son situation’.
Casey also harbored a love for Pink Floyd, which was another father-son bond they shared. Many nights had been spent in the living room with Frank’s record collection from college, joking about how Frank had passed his love of classic rock through not just everyday exposure, but their very DNA. Casey was all about the most delicate of details, and handled them that way-delicately. He’d open every record, inset and booklet with a reverence, go over listed lyrics and studio notes, whatever history resided within the world his father had lived in that he’d missed out on. On one night with Meredith out with her friends, Frank had gone so far as to open the windows to let fragrant, warm Spring air in, the cigar smoke from both of them out. He’d admitted that of course there’d been a few clouds of weed-smoke in his dorm room while listening to these very records, not that he’d ever roll one between the two of them. Ever. “And you’d better steer-clear from that when I ain’t looking, too,” he’d said. The last thing he’d expected was for Casey to blush, look away and dart his eyes around the room as if looking for something.
Maybe it was the idea that the mood-with the music, clouds of blue, fragrant smoke and a loving-but-fussy Mom being away-was perfect for more than just father and son, but two guys, that made Casey feel safe enough to confide in his father that he had, in fact, had one, lone experience with ‘the wacky weed’. The initial flare-up of parental, SHIT, NO! came to Frank in one moment, but was suddenly snuffed-out the next. Instead of his son getting piss-drunk at a keg party every Friday, he was here with his Dad instead, feeling safe enough to admit that he’d dipped his toes in a little deviance despite appearances. When Frank had asked, “Do I need to ask who you’d been with?”, Casey had snorted and furrowed his brow.
“Nope.”
Zeke it was, of course-the young man two-weeks gone then, but with enough friendship between them that Casey spoke about it with a smile. A few more sparks of fatherly annoyance went off throughout Casey’s giving details, even if it was hard to believe the boy when he said, “He’s not a huge pothead or anything; it’s more his ‘weekend escape’.” Despite whatever truce Frank had conjured up between he and Zeke in his mind, it wasn’t hard to picture Zeke as a drugged-out idiot, smoking himself into missing days upon weeks of school over his bad habits. But in Casey’s descriptions of how ridiculous it’d been that one night-how they’d plowed through three bags of cheese puffs in one go, the decision to waltz together while listening to Metallica’s ‘Ride The Lightning’, having a push-up contest with Zeke trying to involve clapping his hands doing so and ending up face-planting himself into a bloody nose… where most fathers would holler out ‘Just Say NO!’ slogans and order their son to his room and stay there for a few weeks, he’d chortled and shared a few of his own blurry tales at Ohio State. After a solid hour of laughing as if they HAD passed a pipe together, he made one last reminder of, “But… y’know, don’t make it a habit or anything, ‘k? You’re still my kid.”
“So I ain’t grounded, huh?” Casey’s smile was both devious and boyish, letting his father know that as a dad, he’d done all right.
“Nope. And no worries, Mom won’t know. This is a ‘you and me’ thing,” he said, cementing his role as a guy who could be a really cool dad. Sometimes.
There was no vinyl-scented, classic rock memory-making in Jeremy’s world, no doubt. That and Meredith’s Sunday digs with her sister was probably something too dusty, dirty and smelly to the little twerp. And weed? Probably MORE dirt and grime to Jeremy, who Frank could picture at that club sneaking off to the bathroom for a quick bump of Columbia’s finest. He shuddered at the thought, no matter how paranoid that thought, at heart, was. But when rich boys got bored, when trips to Europe on Daddy’s Leer Jets could be one big yawn-fest-what else was there?
Everything stopped when ‘How I Wish You Were Here’ arrived on the radio. It brought him back to the night Zeke spent at the house, and no fuss was made over their wanting to stay up late watching TV together. With Meredith able to sleep through any disaster, natural or man-made, Frank had gotten in a few chapters of his new Western novel read by the low lamplight on his bedside table while she softly snored away. It wasn’t until his eyes started feeling heavy and a look to the clock revealed the time at one-thirty when he realized two things; one, he was ready to pass out for the night, and two, the boys were still downstairs and probably needed a ‘checking-on’. A reminder that it was getting late would be in order, as well. Yawning heavily, he’d pried himself from the bed, threw his robe on and left the room to head to the stairs. Halfway down, he peered toward the living room and realized…
‘That’s not the TV…’ He stopped dead in the middle of the stairs as the all-too-familiar, fuzzy white noise of a record along with the very song Frank listened to now echoed up to his ears in that moment, all while Casey and Zeke swayed in soft, circular steps with each other. From his vantage point, faces were hidden-but instead of barging in to make sure they were leaving room for the Holy Ghost, he made careful, quiet steps backwards until he was back on the second floor. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and settled into bed, unsure as to where the feeling of complete and total peace with the world had come from. But he’d enjoyed the way it settled him straight into sleep, not a worry or care interrupting his path to dreamland.
Perhaps his ‘anyone but Zeke’ had been rooted more into the first-impression stage, a father’s need to simply hate, hate, hate any guy who didn’t meet impossible standards. But he began regretting having that take for so long in the here and now of things, when he had a real example of what he didn’t want for his son show up as Jeremy had, and was. He didn’t curse, kept things orderly, neat and way too expensive for a nineteen-year old young man to want or expect, and-whether Jeremy knew it or not-made sure everyone around him knew of those rich tastes he had, creating comparison and contrast to all the things Frank, his wife and their son found value and love for.
”…one of Floyd’s best, most nostalgic for our Friday night Floyd-fest. We’ll be back after the break with a few B-side rarities, bringing back those ‘good times’ for those who remember…”
The DJ’s soft voice suddenly stoked an idea deep down in Frank’s gut. He found himself scrubbing the last pan with a quickness, rinsing then unplugging the sink. With a quick wash to rid his hands of suds, Frank grabbed the dishtowel and unrolled his sleeves at the same time. Without another thought, he was grabbing the pen and pad of paper from its spot on the fridge to jot a quick note to his wife:
Went out for a drive, don’t wait up for me, love you… -Me
It was stuck back on the fridge in plain sight before he went to the front door, shoved his shoves, coat and hat on and grabbed his keys. If the GTO wasn’t parked at ‘Tacky’s, he’d call it a lost cause. If it was… ‘I’ve kinda lost it, haven’t I?’ he thought as he locked the house up then jogged to the driveway.
~*~
‘Yes. I’ve lost it,’ was Frank’s only thought as he sat in the driver’s seat. The engine had been off a few minutes now and the chill was getting deeper, but he felt the need to question himself on what he was about to do-apply some thought. Convince himself that sometimes, ‘losing it’ could be a GOOD thing, ending with good results.
Either that, or having the entire world crash in on the person who maybe should’ve stayed home and gone about his daily life without taking this weird, where did this come from, anyway? risky idea into reality.
He looked back through the window a few spots down. There the familiar GTO sat between a motorcycle and truck, the latter being a lot like Frank’s from his high school and college days. How many times had he yearned for a cool car back then? The sparkling blue, gorgeous Chevelle he’d spotted at ‘Bernie’s’, the old used lot at the edge of town-decades-ago dead, now, replaced with yet another Dunkin’ Donuts-had sat waiting for his seventeen-year old self for almost a year, until one day, it was gone. Sold off to someone not named Frank Connor, causing a few days’ worth of misery and moping. Staring at Zeke’s ‘lucky day’, he wondered if he’d ever get to see the inside of it. RIDE in it.
That thought alone had Frank finally open the door, step out and lock things up before heading toward the bar. Unlike the few places around town which catered to the college-crowd, complete with annoying techno and other so-called modern “music”, Tacky’s was meant more for the working man to spend his time over a beer, an old jukebox and quarter-fed pool tables. Smoky, dim and nostalgic for those who needed a place to simply grab a drink and wander around with both friends and strangers. Not the busiest spot in town, which was just fine for Frank. Approaching the door, he heard The Who’s ‘My Generation’ playing, muted by windows and stone walls. It swelled out in a wave to Frank when he opened the door, making him smile past his growing apprehension at what he was planning to do.
He paused once inside to get his hat and coat off, placing them on one of the provided hooks on the wall by a classic yet empty cigarette vending machine. Frank had never smoked, but the urge to jump back thirty years to grab a pack of Camels brought a pang of ‘how things used to be’ straight to his core. He had a mission to tend to, however; he started it by sauntering over to an empty stool at the bar, sitting down and nodding to the nearest bartender. “Hey,” he said.
The older man smiled and came closer; he had to be Zeke’s uncle, going by the dark hair, tall stature and smirk quality of his grin. “What’ll you have, buddy?”
Definitely Zeke. Frank nodded to the taps to the man’s left. “Make it a Guinness,” he said.
The man went to work, grabbing a glass and filling it with the deep, dark brew. It’d been a while since Frank had gone for something richer than his usual Budweiser, making him lick his lips in anticipation. ‘I need to do this shit more often,’ he thought as the large glass was placed on a napkin and slid his way.
“Five-fifty, buddy,” the man said.
Frank was tempted to snort in derisive-amusement; the twenty he’d handed Casey was chump-change, wherever he’d ended up, for nothing more than soda and syrup. Relishing this place’s fair beer price, he put a ten and two ones on the table. “Can I get back four bucks in quarters, please?” he asked.
“Sure.”
It was while waiting for the change that Frank twisted his head around, slowly, to scan the platform that served as the place’s billiards room. He finally rested his eyes on the darkened, smoky but easily-recognizable tall young man, standing by one of the pool tables by himself. Two of the other three tables were occupied; Frank appreciated the quiet, relaxing state of his surroundings more and more. He turned back in hearing coins on the bar, said, “Thanks,” and left, getting a happy-sounding, “Thanks!” back as the bartender collected his hefty tip.
‘You can do this…’ Frank thought as he took the two steps up to the tables in a relaxed gait. He paused for one moment to watch Zeke set up a game. With no one else with him, Frank hoped he wouldn’t mind someone joining in. The ‘Hey now, waitaminnit…’ thought was something he’d expected when it came to seeing Zeke take a quick sip from a bottle of Sam Adams before he stepped back to his table, set it down, turned and stopped dead in seeing Frank coming over.
“Well, well… getting some of that ‘bar experience’ tonight, huh?” Frank made sure to wear a grin and cock an eyebrow, making the comment come out as a fatherly tease rather than severe admonishment.
“Uh… hi?” Zeke said, obviously wary. On guard. That needed to vacant the premises, pronto.
“It’s been a while since I’ve left the house for a nice, cold brew. Fuck knows I can’t take the club-kid crap for it,” Frank said. He leaned back against the railing near Zeke’s table; his legs felt stiff, but he didn’t want to intrude on any space Zeke had set aside for himself, and himself alone.
Though he still looked cautious, Zeke began to make a slow nod, saying, “Yeah. Me neither.”
“Is that because it’s not your scene, or because your fake ID isn’t good enough to get into ‘The Jam’?” Frank said, referring to the one club name he’d managed to remember reading about in the newspaper’s crime logs. Again, he’d said it with a teasing grin, which Zeke seemed to read as a smirk was clearly tugging at a corner of his lips.
“Like I said… my Uncle Tommy owns the joint. I’m his fave nephew, and…” Zeke nodded past Frank toward the bar. “…Herrington’s finest over there love the place too much to take any ‘lawful action’.”
Frank glanced over to where Zeke had motioned, finding three men watching the football game playing on the old set above the rows of bottles. Tommy, Frank presumed, was enjoying the small lull in business in watching with them, chatting in a businesslike way about whatever team doing whatever play… Frank liked taking a game in from time-to-time, but not tonight. He turned away from the group and nodded to the table. “You lookin’ to be alone, or do you wanna take turns feeding this thing quarters with me?” Frank asked.
Another skeptical look, this time sticking around longer than before. “You wanna play a game?”
“Sure.”
“With… me.”
“Why not?”
Though Zeke’s smile returned, he darted his eyes down to the table. He grabbed a square of chalk to ready his cue, focusing on his prep-work. “I could think of one or fifty-thousand ‘why not’s…” he said, but sighed and looked back to Frank, saying, “Grab a cue, I guess.”
The invitation now officially given, Frank smiled, took a sip from his glass and went to survey his choices. It’d been a while since he’d played pool, as well, but recalled that the number ‘18’ had served him well, back in his bar-with-the-buds days. He plucked his weight choice from the group and turned back to chalk his cue. “What’re we gonna bet?” he asked.
“Uhh…” Zeke paused in his lifting the grid from the triangle of balls, blinked then chuckled. “I ain’t that good, enough to slap any bills down.”
“Neither am I. Well… okay, whoever wins pays for the next game?”
“Thought you said we were gonna take turns feeding this thing…?”
“You chicken, boy?”
It was good to see Zeke’s smile go goofy, more chuckles erupting from his chest. “Wow, taking this shit back to grade school, huh?” he said. At Frank’s shrug, Zeke shook his head, reached into his pocket and brought out a stack of quarters. They were put on the edge of the table nearest to the coin slots. “Slap ‘em down with me then, Mr. C.,” he said.
~*~
“You’re one helluva fibber, Tyler.”
“How so?”
“’Oh, I’m no pro, let’s not make bets, well okay…’”
“I had screwed up and SET you up about ten times in a row and you kept missing, not my fa-hold up, go back one…”
Frank stopped flipping through the jukebox’s catalog of CDs to go back a spot. Though the machine was a newer, more modern variety instead of something with neon bubbled décor and vinyl singles, there were no pop princesses or boy bands here. Besides a few spots being taken up by Linkin Park, Staind, and a few other favorites on Zeke’s end of town, this music machine was meant for the baby-boomer crowd. It made Frank smile.
“Uh, 17-B,” Zeke said, pointing to his choice. Frank hummed in appreciation.
“Never took you for a Joplin fan,” he said as he set their second-to-last song on ‘Me and Bobby McGee’.
“Duh. Okay, last choice’s yours. I’ll go rack the next round.”
Frank nodded and glanced to the boy, who sauntered back to their table in his usual long strides. Now alone, Frank slapped back quickly to the first few selections, where a whole three CD spots were taken up by his ultimate favorite. He’d already chosen a few Floyd’s for their listening pleasure, but was saving the best for last. Without another thought, he punched in ‘C-5’, smirked then went back to the table where Zeke was waiting for him.
“You break,” Zeke said.
“But you won the last game, so you break, right?”
“Eh… ain’t that skilled with it. Take it, go ahead,” Zeke said.
“Okay,” Frank said. He took his spot at the head of table, leaned down, aimed carefully then sent the cue ball flying. It smacked into his favorite spot-one down from the first, right side-and whistled low and long as they all scattered but remained on the table, for now. “Set you up good in that corner,” he said, motioning to the three-ball he should have sunk, with how precariously close to its goal that it was.
“Eh, like I said… Minnesota Fats, I ain’t,” Zeke replied with another smirk. Frank smirked back, watching the young man go for the three. Sure enough, one whack and it was sent into the table’s depths.
“Sure you ain’t,” he said. As Zeke now scanned the table for his next shot, Frank made a long sigh, grabbed the chalk and tried looking unbothered in the task as he said, “Me and the Missus were talking about you tonight, after dinner.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She misses ya, y’know,” Frank said. He raised his eyes in a snap to try and gauge Zeke’s expression; he showed nothing, besides raised eyebrows. Needing to up the ante and get conversation going, without it being obvious as to what direction he wanted that conversing to take, he made an amused snort and said, “You realize that she’s added a few recipe cards to her collection, using ‘Kickass’ in front of at least three recipe titles, right?”
That definitely brought out a clear reaction from Zeke; he burst with a few loud chuckles and leaned down to take his next shot. As he tried a complicated shot to get around a group of balls to the twelve, side pocket, he said, “That’s friggin’ awesome. Glad I left a ‘family legacy’ there at your place.”
He missed, but stayed smiling. Frank took advantage of the chipper mood he’d created and made his next shot selection last, all to continue discussing, “That woman loves cooking, that’s for sure. And she loved cooking for someone dating her son who’d be bold enough to swear like a sailor to describe her food… in a GOOD way, of course.”
“’Couldn’t help myself. Sorry,” Zeke replied, grabbing up his bottle to take a slug from.
“No need for apologies, she loved you for it.” Frank sniffed, leaned down and went for the four; not an easy shot, but in re-familiarizing himself with the game, he somehow managed to sink it. Zeke nodded in approval.
“Nice shot. See, you’re gonna get your mojo back and steal my glory soon enough,” he said.
‘Get off the game, get OFF the GAME…’ Frank thought as he again paused to chalk up. “You and Casey mended fences enough, drop by sometime. She’d be thrilled,” he said, again watching Zeke carefully. He noted his stillness and the slight turn of his head, looking at Frank edgewise.
“Not to make out like I ain’t having a good time here with you, cos’ I am. But having this good time’s a bit of a shocker, considering,” he finally replied.
“A shocker?”
“Ye-e-ea…” Zeke drawled. Frank began another shot-hunt as the boy went on, “…Things were-civil. Enough. But my being your every ‘dream come true’ for your son to be with, I wasn’t.”
Frank’s jaw went tight as he leaned down for his next shot. He predicted a miss with how tense his arms were feeling. Sure enough, the ball was sent too far to the right, hitting the wall and bashing into the largest group of balls still gathered together, far away from the ball he’d wanted to sink. Before he could reply, the first of their jukebox choices came on. He couldn’t help from snorting and rolling his eyes. “What good timing,” he said.
“Oh… love this song,” Zeke said, nodding with approval.
“A Tull fan, too, huh?” Frank said while ‘Thick as a Brick’ swelled through the speakers and Zeke circled the table for his turn. “The title’s apt-the reply to what you just said, really.”
“Thick…” Zeke said. He went to bend down but stopped halfway and stood straight again. After a full ten seconds of staring blankly at the man, a molasses-slow, ever-widening grin spread over Zeke’s face. “…C’mon now, Mr. C. Not regrets.”
“Eh, pains me to admit it.” Frank took a step back to the table, grabbed his almost-empty glass and sipped before continuing on, “You were good to my boy. Good for him.”
“Think so, huh?” Zeke said. With a shrug, he bent down and stared ahead at his choices. Frank almost jumped at the sudden force he put behind this shot, which sent his choice of ball straight to its goal in a loud clack! and roll into the table. Without noting his success, Zeke strode over to the other side and leaned down again. “So you say I was ‘good’ to him, knowing I wasn’t proud enough OF him to come the hell out to everyone, huh?”
“Believe it or not, Zeke? I had to take your side on that one.”
Though Zeke took his next shot, it was weaker than the last. The cue merely brushed against the eight then came to a rest on the other side in a slow crawl. He stood, frowning Frank’s way. “And you call me a fibber,” he said.
“Ask yourself, why the heck would I lie about that to you? Admit that?”
“I… dunno. You’re his dad. He’s your son. He coulda shot me point-blank in the face at any point, on surveillance cams in front of fifty people and you’d stand up in his defense in court. You’d go to some city council meeting shit and propose my day of death be declared a holiday,” he said.
“Oh, for… really…” Frank scoffed, even smirked as he remained standing, not bothering with the game for the moment. “Being Casey’s dad allows me to see everything he does wrong, every stupid mistake he makes. Turning everything around on you, wanting to switch from keeping things hush-hush to a pride parade on the school’s front lawn? C’mon, now.”
“Never… thought…” Zeke shook his head, seemingly confused but smirking again; he nodded to the table. “Your shot, man.”
Frank suddenly hated the game of pool. It was too distracting, the table still so full, ensuring more time spent dancing around taking shots when that hadn’t been his plan. He sighed his way to the side Zeke was standing at, grunted then paused; there. The perfect shot was sitting in front of him, waiting for him. Trying his best to look decisive, he mumbled, “Too much of a clusterfuck…”
“Who-o-oa… another ‘never thought’, right there…”
As Zeke chuckled over Frank’s cursing, the man curled one corner of his lips into a sly smirk, aimed then fired. Zeke gasped as the eight ball was smacked into and made its way to the side pocket. It dropped down, putting an early, official-rules end to this game. “Aw damn,” he mocked dismay and held up his arms. “Was going for the stupid thirteen…”
“Let’s just play through, not waste the quarters,” Zeke said.
No-he needed a refill, as did Zeke. Frank went over to the cues on the wall and put his back. “Screw the game, I wanna take a seat with your uncle over there. What’ll you have?”
Zeke looked around the game Frank wanted to leave behind, shrugged and said, “Another Sammy, I spos’,” he said.
“On me,” Frank said with a grin.
~*~
A while back, I'd been trolling my brain for story ideas having to do with a particular interesting dynamic I like writing, that being 'Frank Vs. Zeke'. I simply LOVE making situations where they clash, argue, even fist-fight. Because. ;) Out of nowhere, this idea starts hitting me between the eyes, and I'm thinking, "Dude, this sounds like fun!" I figured eh, a lil' mini-series thingee, a few chaps long, nothing huge. So I started writing it about three to four weeks ago, while planning to keep it on the down-low due to my long absences/multi-multi-parters sitting in the dust, starving and waiting for me to return to them/etc.
320 pages and 99,093 words later, it's done. I can't even express how this one FLOWED out. I'd go to read it to Pan when he'd get back from work, saying "I wrote" with him chortling and sarcastically saying, "uh huh. How many pages?" Because I was getting it wrong every time; I'd say, "Maybe ten?" then check and amend it to, "Uh, 29, actually?" I don't feel time or the space I take up when I write, and I think, 'well, it's only been an hour, so it can't be THAT mu--wait, eleven pages?' lol. Can't essplain it. Just happens. :D
So now I shall post it. It's unedited for the most part, just for fun and frolic. After this first post, I'm gonna set up each chapter in livejournal to be posted in advance if I can. Dole 'em out, on time and for the fun. :D And since this one sucked the writing-life outta me, forcing my devotion toward it in the last 3 or so weeks, I'm dedicating it to one sweet prisca1960, the only Christmas-fic=requester who got shafted on my list. While it's not *exactly* what you asked for, I had you in mind as I wrote it. Love you punky!! I hope you, and ALLA-you, enjoy!
Title: So You Think You Can Tell (Pt. 1)
Pairing: Casey/OMC, C/Z (past)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Frank wants to trade-up for how things USED to be, damn it.
Frank knew what the smile on his wife’s face meant. He himself had worn it a few hours before when she’d let him know that Casey was bringing a ‘friend’ over for dinner. With empty plates sitting on the table and his dessert untouched (Meredith’s award-winning strawberry-rhubarb pie, something that the man usually gobbled down in nanoseconds-not tonight, however), they sat in silence together as Casey and Jeremy, the new guy, got their winter-wear together at the front of the house.
“That scarf… with that hat?”
“Hey, I love this scarf. It’s warm enough to let me go out without a coat.”
There was that wry chuckle again. Jeremy had made it countless times tonight; whether it was how ‘darling’ their dinnerware was or how bemused he’d been over the dinner itself, Meredith’s other prize dish of rice-crispy chicken, Jeremy may as well have come out and said, “How quaint you little people are!” Going by his blathering on and on about his own home life, involving boarding school in Denmark in his early years, servants at his beck and call and his family tree involving a Kennedy or two, Frank could only stare blankly at his dinner, nodding and humming along without actual listening.
“I’ve got a whole section of my closet full of Gucci I’m not going to use anymore. I’ll let you ransack it all you want tomorrow after photo-club,” Jeremy was telling Casey.
‘God, no…’ Frank thought with deep misery. He felt a little better when Casey chuckled and said, “No-o-o, seriously… I like this thing, like I said,” but still. What did Casey, a happy, homegrown, modest and want-for-nothing young man as he was, have in common with this ‘Richie Rich’ douchebag?
Casey appeared in the dining room archway, tying his scarf and grinning. Of course he loved that thing; he loved his aunt, Frank’s sister Debbie, and how she always made the family homemade, from-the-heart gifts at the holidays. That’s what THIS family valued, while Jeremy, surrounded by Egyptian cotton and Parisian model-wear probably had no idea what a ball of yarn looked like. “So… it’s Friday?” Casey said, his grin growing impish and bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Fri… oh.” Frank felt super insecure, now. While their family wasn’t poor or in want, if he heard Jeremy’s stupid little chuckle over Casey’s allowance, Frank would end up in lock-up for assault for the night. Though Meredith would probably bail him out. Maybe. Nonetheless, he dug his wallet out of his pocket, opened it and paused a moment. Instead of taking out a ten, he flicked over to the twenties and drew one out. Smiling, he handed it to the boy. “You kicked butt, helping me clean the garage last Sunday. Here.”
“Hey, thanks!”
He still got excited over little surprises. Before Frank could put on a warm smile, Jeremy joined Casey’s side, sighing and smiling. “I told you not to worry about it…”
“And I told you I’d buy my own drinks, at least,” Casey replied with a smirk.
“That’ll barely cover one, silly. And that’s without the booze.”
What eighteen-plus club sold Shirley Temple’s like they were made of molten gold? Jeremy’s choice, apparently. Still, Casey shoved the bill in his wallet, gave his parents a big smile and said, “Home by midnight, promise,” before setting off, Jeremy staying close while turning to look back at the adults.
“Thanks for having me over for dinner! It was really nice,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Have fun, boys,” Meredith called back.
The moment the front door opened and closed, leaving the pair alone at the table, Mr. Connor huffed and brought his folded hands up to his chin. His eyes were set on his pie, staring at the fluffy white dollop of Cool Whip sitting on top. Meredith, looking unbothered and comfortable with everything that had gone on, hummed as she took her last bite. She still had an appetite, somehow.
“I outdid myself this time, gotta say. I think it was the small pinch of nutmeg I threw in at the last second. I’ll have to remem-“
“Just say it, Mer.” Frank spat out, still gazing blankly at the pie. A small moment of silence swelled between them before the woman put her fork down in a small tink!, sat back and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“What would I have to ‘say’?” she asked, though her growing grin said it all.
“Isn’t it a rule that a parent isn’t gonna like anyone their kid brings home as their ‘new thing’? You can’t BLAME me for being picky, but go on, say it. Go ahead.”
Meredith cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t your rule before the boys got home, though. The only rule I remember you yammering about since you found out about Jeremy coming around was… what was it again? Hmm, let me think…”
Frank loved his wife. But he was ready to snatch the pie plate from the middle of the table and shove the three-quarters-full dish straight into her smug expression. Instead, he waited through her fake thoughtful murmuring until she finally snapped her fingers and said, “Ah, I remember now… ‘anyone but Zeke’,” she said.
“Okay then, as I said-my role here? Hate everyone Casey brings home. Never think they’re good enough. Want him to live out his life as a humble, happy spinster, whatever,” Frank rambled.
“God’s sake, Frank…”
“The only reason you liked Zeke was for his hot car and hot… hot. Don’t think I didn’t notice you drooling all over yourself the time he borrowed the drive to wash his stupid car when HIS street had that water main break. God, whatta baby he was over that, his whole ‘car washing routine’ being threatened, begging Casey to ask us if he could raise our water bill to make sure his cock-rocket was made perfect…”
Meredith looked more mischievous than ever, her arms tucked tightly over her stomach and she beamed a grin at her husband. “At least I was honest to you about how nice it WAS to drool over such a good-looking guy. Oh, and was he ever. Still is, I’m sure.” She sighed and untucked an arm to fuss over her thumbnail, staring at it as if it was the most interesting thing ever. “Anyway, he bought us that huge pizza as a ‘thank you’, letting him do that. He hadn’t needed to. Letting me see him all sopping-wet and shirtless was payment enough…”
“Pfft, why don’t you marry him, then?” Frank said in an overly-snotty tone. No matter his wife’s openness over how she was rather enjoying the fact that it was young, attractive men being brought home instead of the cheerleaders and prom princesses Frank had just as openly teased her about during Casey’s early years (“I hope he’s into blondes,” had been one comment he’d made in their history as parents, which had earned him a spoonful of mashed potatoes to the face), he couldn’t help from smirking as her musical laugh filled the room.
“How Pee-Wee Herman of you, honey,” she said. Her smile sobered a little as she nodded to the untouched dish in front of Frank. “That’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”
“Being around that stupid little twat killed my appetite.”
“Ooh, ‘twat’. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard that come outta your mouth.”
“It’s reserved for anyone who says, ‘I’ve never been to a Goodwill before, but I’m glad there are charities for those who need it,’” Frank said. He looked to his wife, who was shrugging and staring at the dinnerware, the very items she’d gushed over finding at the second-hand shop she adored casing-out every Monday. Monday was their ‘yellow tag fifty-percent off’ day, after all. “He acted like we’re cheap, poor bastards scheming money from the state with fake disability claims and shit.”
“Oh, Frank, he did not…” she said. “He just…”
“That’s how it felt, is what I’m saying. Sitting there, making cute little comments when all I heard was ‘what destitution you poor little people suffer through.’ You KNOW that if you wanted to throw all these things out and replace it with some… antique, super expensive, designer Fiestaware or… whatever, I’d be able to DO that…”
“Frank… of course I do.” The woman leaned forward to place a hand over her husband’s fisted one. “You know how I love a bargain. Frugal to the end, even if we had that boy’s family finances kicking around. This set, here? Bought new at Penney’s, it’d be about eighty bucks! I was thrilled, finding it, no cracks, practically new outta the box.”
It was true. This was why Frank loved his family, and why he wanted to keep anyone he saw as an uninvited intruder away from it. Casey, especially; he’d grown into a fine young man, never complaining when he’d have to put up with new school clothes bought between Kmart, Penney’s and Goodwill, instead of the Calvin Klein crap that was slapped onto every chest, butt and foot at his school. The guilt that’d hit Frank over his being bullied, always wondering if any of it was tied to Casey’s wardrobe… however shallow that was, that was what so many kids Casey’s age were. Shallow.
As Meredith sighed, said, “Eat that pie before it starts to mold,” and began clearing the table, Frank huffed out a breath and picked up his fork. Meredith set off for the kitchen to load the dishwasher, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
It’d been the thunderous roar of a muscle car’s engine that’d served as Frank’s ‘introduction’ to the boy Casey hadn’t been able to shut up about for over a week. Frank had his issues with boys altogether, but the promise he’d made to Casey the first time he’d held him after Meredith’s suffering through almost twenty hours of childbirth-“Gonna love you no matter what, my lil’ man,” spoken aloud and making the nurses, his wife and doctor beam-steamrolled any and all else. If his son was gay, then his son was gay, and he’d found ways to bond with him over it despite the initial uneasiness after finding out.
“Thought you didn’t get into red-heads,” he’d said a few weeks before at the mall, where he’d chosen to reward his son’s straight-A report card with a small splurge at his favorite game store. Casey had spluttered and gone pink in the cheeks as his father outright giggled over how obvious Casey had been, talking with ‘Dragon’s Den’s stockboy about their love affair with Magic cards and game tournaments. More comments to further embarrass his boy, like, “But he WAS cute. A bit older, but cute,” and “You’d probably score a bit in getting to use his store discount, though?” had turned Casey into a stammering mess, making the word, “D-A-A-AD!” come out in three or eight extra syllables. But they’d shared smiles over it all, even when the commentary would come up out of nowhere during their shopping fun. In the end, Frank knew how valuable it was for Casey to have his dad’s support-how he’d get the traditional parental teasing over whoever Frank’s son fancied, gender not mattering. Anyway, Casey’s revenge came at their final stop together at the Bath & Body Works shop, where Meredith’s lone request of a new bottle of ‘Cucumber-Melon’ body wash was fulfilled. While there wasn’t a straight man alive who could resist staring at the set of double-D’s and perfect hourglass figure that ‘Charly’, the helpful sales associate with a sunshine smile who’d helped Frank traverse the endless rows and shelves full of lady-like toiletries, it’d been obvious that Casey had been waiting to catch him at his weakest moment.
“You sure like ‘em bouncy, huh, Dad?” being muttered to Frank while Charly rang them up had made his face go red-hot and his voice three octaves higher, making his, “Th-Thanks for t-the help,” he gave the girl sound prepubescent.
‘That goddamned car…’ Frank’s thoughts shifted back to his memory of first meeting Zeke in a neck-breaking shot. He chewed a bite of pie slowly, remembering the next set of first impressions he received when his son and brand-spanking new boyfriend got into the house. The smell of cigarette smoke hit him first, even before looking up at them-an instant no-no when it came to what he wanted his son around, him being seventeen at the time or no. At Casey’s quick, nervous, “Dad, Zeke-Zeke, Dad,” introductions before waving for Zeke to follow him to the kitchen, all Frank got for his saying,
“Hello, Zeke. Nice to meet you,” was a…
“’Sup?”
’Sup. Then the strange, cool and unbothered slow swagger of his steps, just three of them before he disappeared with Casey to meet the matriarch of the family. As her cooing voice filled the air, offering them “chocolate chip cookies, fresh baked!”, Frank had sniffed and continued trying to read the ‘Saturday Herald’, though every brain cell was now devoted to how much he already hated Casey’s taste in men.
Thing was-he didn’t want to hate whoever Casey brought home, despite the usual fatherly-protective nature every dad possessed. Frank hadn’t liked meeting HIS father-in-law, before he was that father-in-law, decades before. He’d instantly adored Meredith’s mom, who-like Meredith had been with Casey and Zeke, offering sweet treats in the kitchen-had made her daughter and her new ‘beau’ a pan of lemon bars. They’d eaten them together on her back porch facing the stunning gardens Mrs. Brooks slaved over, ensuring a few spots in the ‘Herrington Herald’s Local-Life section a few times over the years. Frank hadn’t known the difference between dahlias and dandelions himself, but the woman’s sweet demeanor as she joined them on the porch, going on to describe every sprig and bloom she tended to had made Frank feel welcome… valued, even. He’d almost asked Meredith if they could scrap their movie-date plans to stick around longer, he’d enjoyed her company that much. But the drive-in was having their last night showing of ‘Star Wars’, and with Meredith so excited to see it, they’d thanked Mrs. Brooks for the delicious treats, gardening education then Frank was all but yanked away from the hall leading to the front door by a stern-faced Thomas Brooks.
Even in the present, at forty-five years of age, Frank’s knees felt tingly and numb in recalling the warnings given to him, Mr. Brooks voice gone low and monotone. While he’d made no mention of his hunting prowess and how unbothered he’d be practicing on a human rather than the usual deer he’d bring home every other weekend, his rifles were on proud display over the fireplace. Frank’s eyes had darted over the man’s shoulder every now and again and swallowed nervously at the sight of them. “Be good to my girl, is all I’m saying,” Mr. Brooks had left him with, along with a heavy clap to Frank’s shoulder. The only reason they’d hit second base for the first time in his beat-up truck that night was by Meredith’s insistence-and like hell he’d been able to resist the soft feel of her sweater and teasing, girlish giggling.
Still couldn’t.
So Frank had slapped his paper down, turned on the TV and called the boys in. Hands full of cookies and cans of soda, they joined him in sitting on the couch next to his favorite chair. Frank tried-he’d honestly tried. “So, same grade as Casey, huh?”… “It’s my second try at being a senior, but-looks like it’ll work out…”
’Oh God…’ “Well, lots of college choices’ll be on the table, I’m sure.” … “Eh, bartending school for me, probably.”
’Oh dear God…’ “A little young for that though, huh?” Nervous chuckling, Casey’s sudden coughing fit… “My uncle’s given me a bit of practice at his bar on the weekends-the dive there, on Elm.”
’He must leave this goddamned house, now!’ Frank had nodded, kept nodding, gone wordless and fearing everything this young man represented. Instead of a young man sharing his son’s awkward but sweet geeky nature, showing off his collection of Magic card rarities and eager to trade with his new sweetheart, THIS had shown up, instead. Zeke was every parent’s wide-awake nightmare, where career choices drowned in booze and bar fights, the importance of getting a good education wasn’t seen as important at all and it’d all been spoken about as if Zeke expected his boyfriend’s father to hold a parade in his honor, just for the simple act of gracing him with his presence.
Even if he had given very polite thanks to Meredith over the “kickass cookies”, he’d said it just like that. Kickass cookies. Casey swore sometimes, something expected-nothing worth being grounded over, in Frank nor Meredith’s view. But Zeke, sitting in the Connor living room for the first time, didn’t see anything wrong in taking liberties in how he spoke. Not that Meredith herself seemed to mind. The woman even chuckled and said, “Well, I AM known for my ‘kickass desserts’,” which made Frank give her a look that screamed, ’The FUCK, Mer??’ She hadn’t noticed, however, too busy giving Zeke the most ridiculous smile Frank had ever seen on her face.
Seeing as it’d been a Saturday-a day Zeke had implied was sometimes set aside for gaining ‘work experience’ at ‘Packy’s-Frank had made sure to give the warning of, “And uh, skip any bartending lessons or thereabouts, yeah?” when the boys readied to leave for their afternoon and night out. He should have found relief when Casey explained that they’d be heading to Willow Park to feed ducks and mess around on playground equipment, but he didn’t. Everything this new boy got within a few yards of could end up a disaster in his view; ‘feeding ducks’ and Zeke didn’t compute, making Frank paranoid that Monday’s Herald would have a front page news story about police investigating row upon row of curb-stomped fowl discovered by a family of churchgoers that past Sunday.
“Now HE… is quite a fine specimen,” Meredith had said. Frank would’ve been able to come up with an array of foul-mouthed retorts, if not for the muscle car’s engine roaring to life and making him jump and turn in his seat.
“Jesus Christ! He’d BETTER not kill our friggin’ kid in that thing!” he’d said as he pealed away from the curb. “SLOW DOWN!”
“Like he can hear you,” Meredith had giggled out.
“No one can hear anything, now! Is he trying to deafen the entire neighborhood?”
Nothing good came, after that. It only grew worse and worse with every honking horn, instead of Zeke showing respect in coming to the door; those ugly hickeys Casey tried saying were the result of his being a klutz when he couldn’t hide them; the casual swearing, even if the potty-mouthed dirtbag somehow managed to keep the f-bomb at bay; the metal music not being turned down between the impatient honking, making their nosy, grouchy neighbor Mrs. Millford complain every damned time Mr. Connor made a trip to the mailbox…
The sound of the phone ringing startled Frank from his deep-thinking. “I’ll get it!” Meredith called before grabbing it up and saying, “Hello?”
Wherever the thought of, ‘Maybe it’s Zeke?’ came from, Frank didn’t know. Hadn’t he just been musing over every last shred of hatred he’d harbored toward the boy for the five months he and Casey dated? As he heard Meredith greeting her sister happily-the woman called every Saturday to go over their Sunday flea-market trip plans-Frank sat back and shifted his thoughts back to tonight.
Zeke’s car was the annoying representation of his budding manhood-but he honestly loved the thing, took care of it. Even if Frank kept earbuds in the drawer of the side table by his favorite chair to use when Zeke’s honking and death metal arrived at the curb, Frank had once surprised himself in tapping his foot to the pounding, erratic guitar solo coming out in blistering sound waves throughout all of Majorie Circle. The week before the sudden, unexpected end to the relationship Frank had tried his best getting used to, he’d actually sided with Zeke against his own son, when that son had come home angry and complaining about Zeke’s refusal to take him to the school dance. While Mr. Connor understood that Casey was getting sick of ‘staying in the closet’, that was ALL the kid needed-a return to the bullying, something that hadn’t reared its ugly head since Casey had started ‘hanging out’ with Zeke, that’d be ten times worse with the kind of ammunition people would gain in getting to use Casey’s… AND Zeke’s… true sexuality. “He sits there saying he ‘doesn’t give a sh…’ darn about what people think of him, when he’s really a chicken-shitted coward!” had been Casey’s angry declaration before shutting himself in his room, stomping around and loudly grumbling for a good hour before Frank heard his Nintendo beeping and bleeping to life.
If he’d had the chance, he would’ve given Casey a good, solid fatherly talk. He’d show sympathy for how Casey felt-but also try to get him to see reason. There was only one more semester until graduation, they’d get to enjoy their last summer before college together, they could be ‘out and proud’ then when they weren’t having to face the ever-present dangers that lurked in every footballer’s fist and horrible, soul-killing bathroom graffiti. However torn Casey was, he’d need the reminders that, according to what he’d told Meredith at the start of his and Zeke’s getting-together, he’d started things with Zeke knowing they’d be in hiding. Zeke had made that clear before cementing anything, and it was his right to stick by that. Fair or not, what was done was done.
And so was Casey, not long after that fight. Frank had gotten the news in answering the doorbell, only to find the GTO pealing away from the curb-as fast and as loud as always-along with a box full of Casey’s things on the porch. Three shirts, folded with care, the history book Zeke had borrowed two months before when his fell into a sewer (“He swears it wasn’t on purpose, but…” Casey had said with a sly grin), a few greeting cards with ‘Sweet-Zeke’ written on each in Casey’s handwriting, a pair of underwear (the thing HAD been open, but Frank regretted any nosiness with that discovery, especially since it’d been tucked into one of the shirts’ pockets as a hiding place) a stack of pictures Casey had taken on one of their park trips with those ducks, and a blank tape with Casey’s handwriting again, the title being, ‘Our Songs’. It’d broken Frank’s heart in a way he hadn’t expected, especially when Casey had arrived home and said, “Pfft, whatevs,” in Frank letting him know what he’d find on his bed.
It’d been that moment Frank had thought, ‘When did you get so cold?’ Casey’s way, but wiped it all away in an instant. His son was still a good boy-this was just a typical teenager’s reaction to a bitter breakup. A week later, Frank had breathed easier when Casey had come home from school and let his parents know over dinner that he and Zeke had talked things out enough to become friends again. When Meredith had cooed, saying, “Aw… I was hoping you were gonna say you’d patched things up enough to hook-up again, I actually miss that boy sometimes!”, Casey had smiled.
“You miss the low-slung jeans, Ma.”
No matter Frank’s feelings on the matter, he’d belted out a few hundred belly laughs as his wife had struggled to not spit the mouthful of juice she’d unwisely sipped at that moment. It ended with a wistful sigh from Casey and his saying, “But yeah, I miss him, too. SOME-times,” before chuckling his way to the kitchen to help with dishes.
Now, a month later, and… Jeremy. Jeremy, the walking advertisement for every high-priced, name-branded clothes designer; the owner of a shiny, straight-off-the-lot Audi he treasured enough to ask Casey, “Can I check your shoes before getting in?” to spare the floormats of the passenger side of any speck of dirt or debris as if they were made of the finest porcelain; a young man who was either proud of being rude or hopelessly oblivious in comparing every aspect of Meredith’s dinner to whatever high-priced concoction his family’s Paris-trained chef had served upon glittering-gold platters; the one who, right now, was probably trying to impress Casey in whatever exclusive, rich-boy club he’d taken him to…
“Frank?”
The man blinked furiously and looked up, finding Meredith in the doorway to the kitchen holding her purse. “Uh, yeah?”
“My sister needs some help unloading stuff from her van, to make room for our flea-marketing tomorrow. The hand-washables are ready for you,” she said with a wink.
“Oh. ‘K, sorry…”
“And good, you ate the pie.” Meredith smiled as he picked up his emptied cup and crumb-covered plate. He made his way over to her; she gave him a peck to his cheek, said, “I shouldn’t be too long!” and made her way out the back door to the driveway. Frank rolled up his sleeves, turned the radio on and began filling one side of the sink. The tradition of his dishwashing chore along with the classic rock station’s ‘Into the Floyd’, an hour-long radio play of his favorite band, was warm and comfortable most nights. But as ‘Comfortably Numb’ began to play, his thoughts wandered back to his ‘son situation’.
Casey also harbored a love for Pink Floyd, which was another father-son bond they shared. Many nights had been spent in the living room with Frank’s record collection from college, joking about how Frank had passed his love of classic rock through not just everyday exposure, but their very DNA. Casey was all about the most delicate of details, and handled them that way-delicately. He’d open every record, inset and booklet with a reverence, go over listed lyrics and studio notes, whatever history resided within the world his father had lived in that he’d missed out on. On one night with Meredith out with her friends, Frank had gone so far as to open the windows to let fragrant, warm Spring air in, the cigar smoke from both of them out. He’d admitted that of course there’d been a few clouds of weed-smoke in his dorm room while listening to these very records, not that he’d ever roll one between the two of them. Ever. “And you’d better steer-clear from that when I ain’t looking, too,” he’d said. The last thing he’d expected was for Casey to blush, look away and dart his eyes around the room as if looking for something.
Maybe it was the idea that the mood-with the music, clouds of blue, fragrant smoke and a loving-but-fussy Mom being away-was perfect for more than just father and son, but two guys, that made Casey feel safe enough to confide in his father that he had, in fact, had one, lone experience with ‘the wacky weed’. The initial flare-up of parental, SHIT, NO! came to Frank in one moment, but was suddenly snuffed-out the next. Instead of his son getting piss-drunk at a keg party every Friday, he was here with his Dad instead, feeling safe enough to admit that he’d dipped his toes in a little deviance despite appearances. When Frank had asked, “Do I need to ask who you’d been with?”, Casey had snorted and furrowed his brow.
“Nope.”
Zeke it was, of course-the young man two-weeks gone then, but with enough friendship between them that Casey spoke about it with a smile. A few more sparks of fatherly annoyance went off throughout Casey’s giving details, even if it was hard to believe the boy when he said, “He’s not a huge pothead or anything; it’s more his ‘weekend escape’.” Despite whatever truce Frank had conjured up between he and Zeke in his mind, it wasn’t hard to picture Zeke as a drugged-out idiot, smoking himself into missing days upon weeks of school over his bad habits. But in Casey’s descriptions of how ridiculous it’d been that one night-how they’d plowed through three bags of cheese puffs in one go, the decision to waltz together while listening to Metallica’s ‘Ride The Lightning’, having a push-up contest with Zeke trying to involve clapping his hands doing so and ending up face-planting himself into a bloody nose… where most fathers would holler out ‘Just Say NO!’ slogans and order their son to his room and stay there for a few weeks, he’d chortled and shared a few of his own blurry tales at Ohio State. After a solid hour of laughing as if they HAD passed a pipe together, he made one last reminder of, “But… y’know, don’t make it a habit or anything, ‘k? You’re still my kid.”
“So I ain’t grounded, huh?” Casey’s smile was both devious and boyish, letting his father know that as a dad, he’d done all right.
“Nope. And no worries, Mom won’t know. This is a ‘you and me’ thing,” he said, cementing his role as a guy who could be a really cool dad. Sometimes.
There was no vinyl-scented, classic rock memory-making in Jeremy’s world, no doubt. That and Meredith’s Sunday digs with her sister was probably something too dusty, dirty and smelly to the little twerp. And weed? Probably MORE dirt and grime to Jeremy, who Frank could picture at that club sneaking off to the bathroom for a quick bump of Columbia’s finest. He shuddered at the thought, no matter how paranoid that thought, at heart, was. But when rich boys got bored, when trips to Europe on Daddy’s Leer Jets could be one big yawn-fest-what else was there?
Everything stopped when ‘How I Wish You Were Here’ arrived on the radio. It brought him back to the night Zeke spent at the house, and no fuss was made over their wanting to stay up late watching TV together. With Meredith able to sleep through any disaster, natural or man-made, Frank had gotten in a few chapters of his new Western novel read by the low lamplight on his bedside table while she softly snored away. It wasn’t until his eyes started feeling heavy and a look to the clock revealed the time at one-thirty when he realized two things; one, he was ready to pass out for the night, and two, the boys were still downstairs and probably needed a ‘checking-on’. A reminder that it was getting late would be in order, as well. Yawning heavily, he’d pried himself from the bed, threw his robe on and left the room to head to the stairs. Halfway down, he peered toward the living room and realized…
‘That’s not the TV…’ He stopped dead in the middle of the stairs as the all-too-familiar, fuzzy white noise of a record along with the very song Frank listened to now echoed up to his ears in that moment, all while Casey and Zeke swayed in soft, circular steps with each other. From his vantage point, faces were hidden-but instead of barging in to make sure they were leaving room for the Holy Ghost, he made careful, quiet steps backwards until he was back on the second floor. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and settled into bed, unsure as to where the feeling of complete and total peace with the world had come from. But he’d enjoyed the way it settled him straight into sleep, not a worry or care interrupting his path to dreamland.
Perhaps his ‘anyone but Zeke’ had been rooted more into the first-impression stage, a father’s need to simply hate, hate, hate any guy who didn’t meet impossible standards. But he began regretting having that take for so long in the here and now of things, when he had a real example of what he didn’t want for his son show up as Jeremy had, and was. He didn’t curse, kept things orderly, neat and way too expensive for a nineteen-year old young man to want or expect, and-whether Jeremy knew it or not-made sure everyone around him knew of those rich tastes he had, creating comparison and contrast to all the things Frank, his wife and their son found value and love for.
”…one of Floyd’s best, most nostalgic for our Friday night Floyd-fest. We’ll be back after the break with a few B-side rarities, bringing back those ‘good times’ for those who remember…”
The DJ’s soft voice suddenly stoked an idea deep down in Frank’s gut. He found himself scrubbing the last pan with a quickness, rinsing then unplugging the sink. With a quick wash to rid his hands of suds, Frank grabbed the dishtowel and unrolled his sleeves at the same time. Without another thought, he was grabbing the pen and pad of paper from its spot on the fridge to jot a quick note to his wife:
Went out for a drive, don’t wait up for me, love you… -Me
It was stuck back on the fridge in plain sight before he went to the front door, shoved his shoves, coat and hat on and grabbed his keys. If the GTO wasn’t parked at ‘Tacky’s, he’d call it a lost cause. If it was… ‘I’ve kinda lost it, haven’t I?’ he thought as he locked the house up then jogged to the driveway.
~*~
‘Yes. I’ve lost it,’ was Frank’s only thought as he sat in the driver’s seat. The engine had been off a few minutes now and the chill was getting deeper, but he felt the need to question himself on what he was about to do-apply some thought. Convince himself that sometimes, ‘losing it’ could be a GOOD thing, ending with good results.
Either that, or having the entire world crash in on the person who maybe should’ve stayed home and gone about his daily life without taking this weird, where did this come from, anyway? risky idea into reality.
He looked back through the window a few spots down. There the familiar GTO sat between a motorcycle and truck, the latter being a lot like Frank’s from his high school and college days. How many times had he yearned for a cool car back then? The sparkling blue, gorgeous Chevelle he’d spotted at ‘Bernie’s’, the old used lot at the edge of town-decades-ago dead, now, replaced with yet another Dunkin’ Donuts-had sat waiting for his seventeen-year old self for almost a year, until one day, it was gone. Sold off to someone not named Frank Connor, causing a few days’ worth of misery and moping. Staring at Zeke’s ‘lucky day’, he wondered if he’d ever get to see the inside of it. RIDE in it.
That thought alone had Frank finally open the door, step out and lock things up before heading toward the bar. Unlike the few places around town which catered to the college-crowd, complete with annoying techno and other so-called modern “music”, Tacky’s was meant more for the working man to spend his time over a beer, an old jukebox and quarter-fed pool tables. Smoky, dim and nostalgic for those who needed a place to simply grab a drink and wander around with both friends and strangers. Not the busiest spot in town, which was just fine for Frank. Approaching the door, he heard The Who’s ‘My Generation’ playing, muted by windows and stone walls. It swelled out in a wave to Frank when he opened the door, making him smile past his growing apprehension at what he was planning to do.
He paused once inside to get his hat and coat off, placing them on one of the provided hooks on the wall by a classic yet empty cigarette vending machine. Frank had never smoked, but the urge to jump back thirty years to grab a pack of Camels brought a pang of ‘how things used to be’ straight to his core. He had a mission to tend to, however; he started it by sauntering over to an empty stool at the bar, sitting down and nodding to the nearest bartender. “Hey,” he said.
The older man smiled and came closer; he had to be Zeke’s uncle, going by the dark hair, tall stature and smirk quality of his grin. “What’ll you have, buddy?”
Definitely Zeke. Frank nodded to the taps to the man’s left. “Make it a Guinness,” he said.
The man went to work, grabbing a glass and filling it with the deep, dark brew. It’d been a while since Frank had gone for something richer than his usual Budweiser, making him lick his lips in anticipation. ‘I need to do this shit more often,’ he thought as the large glass was placed on a napkin and slid his way.
“Five-fifty, buddy,” the man said.
Frank was tempted to snort in derisive-amusement; the twenty he’d handed Casey was chump-change, wherever he’d ended up, for nothing more than soda and syrup. Relishing this place’s fair beer price, he put a ten and two ones on the table. “Can I get back four bucks in quarters, please?” he asked.
“Sure.”
It was while waiting for the change that Frank twisted his head around, slowly, to scan the platform that served as the place’s billiards room. He finally rested his eyes on the darkened, smoky but easily-recognizable tall young man, standing by one of the pool tables by himself. Two of the other three tables were occupied; Frank appreciated the quiet, relaxing state of his surroundings more and more. He turned back in hearing coins on the bar, said, “Thanks,” and left, getting a happy-sounding, “Thanks!” back as the bartender collected his hefty tip.
‘You can do this…’ Frank thought as he took the two steps up to the tables in a relaxed gait. He paused for one moment to watch Zeke set up a game. With no one else with him, Frank hoped he wouldn’t mind someone joining in. The ‘Hey now, waitaminnit…’ thought was something he’d expected when it came to seeing Zeke take a quick sip from a bottle of Sam Adams before he stepped back to his table, set it down, turned and stopped dead in seeing Frank coming over.
“Well, well… getting some of that ‘bar experience’ tonight, huh?” Frank made sure to wear a grin and cock an eyebrow, making the comment come out as a fatherly tease rather than severe admonishment.
“Uh… hi?” Zeke said, obviously wary. On guard. That needed to vacant the premises, pronto.
“It’s been a while since I’ve left the house for a nice, cold brew. Fuck knows I can’t take the club-kid crap for it,” Frank said. He leaned back against the railing near Zeke’s table; his legs felt stiff, but he didn’t want to intrude on any space Zeke had set aside for himself, and himself alone.
Though he still looked cautious, Zeke began to make a slow nod, saying, “Yeah. Me neither.”
“Is that because it’s not your scene, or because your fake ID isn’t good enough to get into ‘The Jam’?” Frank said, referring to the one club name he’d managed to remember reading about in the newspaper’s crime logs. Again, he’d said it with a teasing grin, which Zeke seemed to read as a smirk was clearly tugging at a corner of his lips.
“Like I said… my Uncle Tommy owns the joint. I’m his fave nephew, and…” Zeke nodded past Frank toward the bar. “…Herrington’s finest over there love the place too much to take any ‘lawful action’.”
Frank glanced over to where Zeke had motioned, finding three men watching the football game playing on the old set above the rows of bottles. Tommy, Frank presumed, was enjoying the small lull in business in watching with them, chatting in a businesslike way about whatever team doing whatever play… Frank liked taking a game in from time-to-time, but not tonight. He turned away from the group and nodded to the table. “You lookin’ to be alone, or do you wanna take turns feeding this thing quarters with me?” Frank asked.
Another skeptical look, this time sticking around longer than before. “You wanna play a game?”
“Sure.”
“With… me.”
“Why not?”
Though Zeke’s smile returned, he darted his eyes down to the table. He grabbed a square of chalk to ready his cue, focusing on his prep-work. “I could think of one or fifty-thousand ‘why not’s…” he said, but sighed and looked back to Frank, saying, “Grab a cue, I guess.”
The invitation now officially given, Frank smiled, took a sip from his glass and went to survey his choices. It’d been a while since he’d played pool, as well, but recalled that the number ‘18’ had served him well, back in his bar-with-the-buds days. He plucked his weight choice from the group and turned back to chalk his cue. “What’re we gonna bet?” he asked.
“Uhh…” Zeke paused in his lifting the grid from the triangle of balls, blinked then chuckled. “I ain’t that good, enough to slap any bills down.”
“Neither am I. Well… okay, whoever wins pays for the next game?”
“Thought you said we were gonna take turns feeding this thing…?”
“You chicken, boy?”
It was good to see Zeke’s smile go goofy, more chuckles erupting from his chest. “Wow, taking this shit back to grade school, huh?” he said. At Frank’s shrug, Zeke shook his head, reached into his pocket and brought out a stack of quarters. They were put on the edge of the table nearest to the coin slots. “Slap ‘em down with me then, Mr. C.,” he said.
~*~
“You’re one helluva fibber, Tyler.”
“How so?”
“’Oh, I’m no pro, let’s not make bets, well okay…’”
“I had screwed up and SET you up about ten times in a row and you kept missing, not my fa-hold up, go back one…”
Frank stopped flipping through the jukebox’s catalog of CDs to go back a spot. Though the machine was a newer, more modern variety instead of something with neon bubbled décor and vinyl singles, there were no pop princesses or boy bands here. Besides a few spots being taken up by Linkin Park, Staind, and a few other favorites on Zeke’s end of town, this music machine was meant for the baby-boomer crowd. It made Frank smile.
“Uh, 17-B,” Zeke said, pointing to his choice. Frank hummed in appreciation.
“Never took you for a Joplin fan,” he said as he set their second-to-last song on ‘Me and Bobby McGee’.
“Duh. Okay, last choice’s yours. I’ll go rack the next round.”
Frank nodded and glanced to the boy, who sauntered back to their table in his usual long strides. Now alone, Frank slapped back quickly to the first few selections, where a whole three CD spots were taken up by his ultimate favorite. He’d already chosen a few Floyd’s for their listening pleasure, but was saving the best for last. Without another thought, he punched in ‘C-5’, smirked then went back to the table where Zeke was waiting for him.
“You break,” Zeke said.
“But you won the last game, so you break, right?”
“Eh… ain’t that skilled with it. Take it, go ahead,” Zeke said.
“Okay,” Frank said. He took his spot at the head of table, leaned down, aimed carefully then sent the cue ball flying. It smacked into his favorite spot-one down from the first, right side-and whistled low and long as they all scattered but remained on the table, for now. “Set you up good in that corner,” he said, motioning to the three-ball he should have sunk, with how precariously close to its goal that it was.
“Eh, like I said… Minnesota Fats, I ain’t,” Zeke replied with another smirk. Frank smirked back, watching the young man go for the three. Sure enough, one whack and it was sent into the table’s depths.
“Sure you ain’t,” he said. As Zeke now scanned the table for his next shot, Frank made a long sigh, grabbed the chalk and tried looking unbothered in the task as he said, “Me and the Missus were talking about you tonight, after dinner.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She misses ya, y’know,” Frank said. He raised his eyes in a snap to try and gauge Zeke’s expression; he showed nothing, besides raised eyebrows. Needing to up the ante and get conversation going, without it being obvious as to what direction he wanted that conversing to take, he made an amused snort and said, “You realize that she’s added a few recipe cards to her collection, using ‘Kickass’ in front of at least three recipe titles, right?”
That definitely brought out a clear reaction from Zeke; he burst with a few loud chuckles and leaned down to take his next shot. As he tried a complicated shot to get around a group of balls to the twelve, side pocket, he said, “That’s friggin’ awesome. Glad I left a ‘family legacy’ there at your place.”
He missed, but stayed smiling. Frank took advantage of the chipper mood he’d created and made his next shot selection last, all to continue discussing, “That woman loves cooking, that’s for sure. And she loved cooking for someone dating her son who’d be bold enough to swear like a sailor to describe her food… in a GOOD way, of course.”
“’Couldn’t help myself. Sorry,” Zeke replied, grabbing up his bottle to take a slug from.
“No need for apologies, she loved you for it.” Frank sniffed, leaned down and went for the four; not an easy shot, but in re-familiarizing himself with the game, he somehow managed to sink it. Zeke nodded in approval.
“Nice shot. See, you’re gonna get your mojo back and steal my glory soon enough,” he said.
‘Get off the game, get OFF the GAME…’ Frank thought as he again paused to chalk up. “You and Casey mended fences enough, drop by sometime. She’d be thrilled,” he said, again watching Zeke carefully. He noted his stillness and the slight turn of his head, looking at Frank edgewise.
“Not to make out like I ain’t having a good time here with you, cos’ I am. But having this good time’s a bit of a shocker, considering,” he finally replied.
“A shocker?”
“Ye-e-ea…” Zeke drawled. Frank began another shot-hunt as the boy went on, “…Things were-civil. Enough. But my being your every ‘dream come true’ for your son to be with, I wasn’t.”
Frank’s jaw went tight as he leaned down for his next shot. He predicted a miss with how tense his arms were feeling. Sure enough, the ball was sent too far to the right, hitting the wall and bashing into the largest group of balls still gathered together, far away from the ball he’d wanted to sink. Before he could reply, the first of their jukebox choices came on. He couldn’t help from snorting and rolling his eyes. “What good timing,” he said.
“Oh… love this song,” Zeke said, nodding with approval.
“A Tull fan, too, huh?” Frank said while ‘Thick as a Brick’ swelled through the speakers and Zeke circled the table for his turn. “The title’s apt-the reply to what you just said, really.”
“Thick…” Zeke said. He went to bend down but stopped halfway and stood straight again. After a full ten seconds of staring blankly at the man, a molasses-slow, ever-widening grin spread over Zeke’s face. “…C’mon now, Mr. C. Not regrets.”
“Eh, pains me to admit it.” Frank took a step back to the table, grabbed his almost-empty glass and sipped before continuing on, “You were good to my boy. Good for him.”
“Think so, huh?” Zeke said. With a shrug, he bent down and stared ahead at his choices. Frank almost jumped at the sudden force he put behind this shot, which sent his choice of ball straight to its goal in a loud clack! and roll into the table. Without noting his success, Zeke strode over to the other side and leaned down again. “So you say I was ‘good’ to him, knowing I wasn’t proud enough OF him to come the hell out to everyone, huh?”
“Believe it or not, Zeke? I had to take your side on that one.”
Though Zeke took his next shot, it was weaker than the last. The cue merely brushed against the eight then came to a rest on the other side in a slow crawl. He stood, frowning Frank’s way. “And you call me a fibber,” he said.
“Ask yourself, why the heck would I lie about that to you? Admit that?”
“I… dunno. You’re his dad. He’s your son. He coulda shot me point-blank in the face at any point, on surveillance cams in front of fifty people and you’d stand up in his defense in court. You’d go to some city council meeting shit and propose my day of death be declared a holiday,” he said.
“Oh, for… really…” Frank scoffed, even smirked as he remained standing, not bothering with the game for the moment. “Being Casey’s dad allows me to see everything he does wrong, every stupid mistake he makes. Turning everything around on you, wanting to switch from keeping things hush-hush to a pride parade on the school’s front lawn? C’mon, now.”
“Never… thought…” Zeke shook his head, seemingly confused but smirking again; he nodded to the table. “Your shot, man.”
Frank suddenly hated the game of pool. It was too distracting, the table still so full, ensuring more time spent dancing around taking shots when that hadn’t been his plan. He sighed his way to the side Zeke was standing at, grunted then paused; there. The perfect shot was sitting in front of him, waiting for him. Trying his best to look decisive, he mumbled, “Too much of a clusterfuck…”
“Who-o-oa… another ‘never thought’, right there…”
As Zeke chuckled over Frank’s cursing, the man curled one corner of his lips into a sly smirk, aimed then fired. Zeke gasped as the eight ball was smacked into and made its way to the side pocket. It dropped down, putting an early, official-rules end to this game. “Aw damn,” he mocked dismay and held up his arms. “Was going for the stupid thirteen…”
“Let’s just play through, not waste the quarters,” Zeke said.
No-he needed a refill, as did Zeke. Frank went over to the cues on the wall and put his back. “Screw the game, I wanna take a seat with your uncle over there. What’ll you have?”
Zeke looked around the game Frank wanted to leave behind, shrugged and said, “Another Sammy, I spos’,” he said.
“On me,” Frank said with a grin.
~*~