I often saw my father come home from work, with his eyes about to fall off, with his hands barely untying his shoelaces and taking off the shoes. I know cause I was watching my door, stuck in the shadows like a cat, except I had shades over my eyes.
But anyway, as he came into the living, moving like a zombie without grunts, surely a devolved form, instead of going to the bathroom, he went to the computer and started playing some Facebook crap.
Some games are okay, but not social media ones. Then he went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and returned to the clicky stuff.
If you're wondering why I was there in the first place, it was to scare him when he went to the toilet. No luck, dammit!
But I decided to get up and go over to him.
"Dad," I said as I drew closer.
"Yeah?" Like he knew I was there.
"Why aren't you going to sleep?"
"After I finish the beer."
"Uh-huh. Can you look at me?"
He does. I place my left hand over his right cheek and elbow him in the jaw with my right one. He fell flat on his figure.
In my panic, I dragged him to bed, grabbed my wallet, and didn't come home for three days.
It was certainly messy when I came back.
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