detail sander next to it. They are just a miniscule fraction of all the stuff that’s in here.
“Am I interrupting something? It seems like you’re getting cozy with each other.”
Mike must’ve followed me and is now relaxing back in his wheelchair, looking at me with an amused glint in his eyes and a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“This stuff is awesome. How come you didn’t sell it? It ought to be worth a lot.”
“Some things mean too much to be sold. They remind me of before.” He points to the wheelchair. There’s nothing more to add, so I just nod.
“You can use it whenever you want—under one condition.” He pauses, causing me to look at him with my eyebrows raised in question. “I’d really like the damn kitchen cupboards to have a different color. My ex-wife had them painted mint green and it looks like someone puked all over them.”
“Deal.” I laugh and go over to shake his hand. Then I turn back and start grabbing the equipment I need before I make my way over to my house.
A few hours later, I haven’t just put the door back in its place, but have sanded the entire cabinet. I take a step back and look at my work. Once I get a primer and some paint this will look really good. I’m happy with the day’s work and realize that throughout it I haven’t been dwelling on my circumstances, just enjoying the work as Black Label Society boomed from the laptop speakers.
I also realize that I have successfully avoided calling St. Michael’s to inquire about my father. As much as I want to meet him, if I’m honest with myself, a big part of me is scared to death. Not just of whom this man is, or how he might react to my showing up, but also about finding out what’s wrong with him. If nothing else, working on the house is the best way to avoid reality.
Finished for the day, I make sure I’ve locked the doors to keep Sunshine and Muscleman out. There’s only so much good mood I can handle. After a shower, I heat up some lasagna and scarf it down, before settling on the couch with a new bottle of whiskey—a brand I haven’t tried yet. Hey, at least I make sure to have some variety on my path to liver destruction.
Chapter 7
Killing Time
During the next two months I concentrate on my project—the living room. Nothing stays untouched. I pull up the carpet to find a wooden floor with a lot of potential underneath. I sand it, covering the whole downstairs in sawdust, and then I stain it. Then I rip down the wallpaper and paint the walls. Once that is done, I turn my attention to the furniture—priming and painting it.
I’m working like a man possessed throughout the day, keeping the demons haunting me at bay, and then I get drunk in the evenings, still avoiding anything to do with my father.
Days blur into weeks, as I wallow in self-pity, despair, and whiskey. I rarely see Jake or Allie, unless I go over to the garage to borrow some of Mike’s equipment. Allie has knocked on the door once or twice, but since I’m an asshole, I ignored her.
The few times I left the house to go shopping, I drove past St. Michael’s, stopping at the side of the road to look at the building. It definitely doesn’t look like a hospital, but more like a damn prison with high brick walls and barbwire on top. It makes me wonder what kind of place my father is in. This doesn’t help me build up the courage to go and find out.
I don’t want to think or feel, and I don’t have the balls to go see my father. The only way I know how to deal with all of this is to spend my evenings with a bottle of whiskey—sinking into oblivion.
***
By the time I’m done, the living room looks completely different. The floor is a sandy brown color while the walls are a dark, rich grey. I’ve done some changes to the cabinets and painted them chocolate brown. The room looks warm and inviting, but also modern and classy. Now, I only need to replace the monstrosities that are the couch and arm chair, but
“Am I interrupting something? It seems like you’re getting cozy with each other.”
Mike must’ve followed me and is now relaxing back in his wheelchair, looking at me with an amused glint in his eyes and a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“This stuff is awesome. How come you didn’t sell it? It ought to be worth a lot.”
“Some things mean too much to be sold. They remind me of before.” He points to the wheelchair. There’s nothing more to add, so I just nod.
“You can use it whenever you want—under one condition.” He pauses, causing me to look at him with my eyebrows raised in question. “I’d really like the damn kitchen cupboards to have a different color. My ex-wife had them painted mint green and it looks like someone puked all over them.”
“Deal.” I laugh and go over to shake his hand. Then I turn back and start grabbing the equipment I need before I make my way over to my house.
A few hours later, I haven’t just put the door back in its place, but have sanded the entire cabinet. I take a step back and look at my work. Once I get a primer and some paint this will look really good. I’m happy with the day’s work and realize that throughout it I haven’t been dwelling on my circumstances, just enjoying the work as Black Label Society boomed from the laptop speakers.
I also realize that I have successfully avoided calling St. Michael’s to inquire about my father. As much as I want to meet him, if I’m honest with myself, a big part of me is scared to death. Not just of whom this man is, or how he might react to my showing up, but also about finding out what’s wrong with him. If nothing else, working on the house is the best way to avoid reality.
Finished for the day, I make sure I’ve locked the doors to keep Sunshine and Muscleman out. There’s only so much good mood I can handle. After a shower, I heat up some lasagna and scarf it down, before settling on the couch with a new bottle of whiskey—a brand I haven’t tried yet. Hey, at least I make sure to have some variety on my path to liver destruction.
Chapter 7
Killing Time
During the next two months I concentrate on my project—the living room. Nothing stays untouched. I pull up the carpet to find a wooden floor with a lot of potential underneath. I sand it, covering the whole downstairs in sawdust, and then I stain it. Then I rip down the wallpaper and paint the walls. Once that is done, I turn my attention to the furniture—priming and painting it.
I’m working like a man possessed throughout the day, keeping the demons haunting me at bay, and then I get drunk in the evenings, still avoiding anything to do with my father.
Days blur into weeks, as I wallow in self-pity, despair, and whiskey. I rarely see Jake or Allie, unless I go over to the garage to borrow some of Mike’s equipment. Allie has knocked on the door once or twice, but since I’m an asshole, I ignored her.
The few times I left the house to go shopping, I drove past St. Michael’s, stopping at the side of the road to look at the building. It definitely doesn’t look like a hospital, but more like a damn prison with high brick walls and barbwire on top. It makes me wonder what kind of place my father is in. This doesn’t help me build up the courage to go and find out.
I don’t want to think or feel, and I don’t have the balls to go see my father. The only way I know how to deal with all of this is to spend my evenings with a bottle of whiskey—sinking into oblivion.
***
By the time I’m done, the living room looks completely different. The floor is a sandy brown color while the walls are a dark, rich grey. I’ve done some changes to the cabinets and painted them chocolate brown. The room looks warm and inviting, but also modern and classy. Now, I only need to replace the monstrosities that are the couch and arm chair, but
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