I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Was my dad becoming sentimental in his old age?
“Wipe that stupid fucking look off your face. I ain’t crazy. They’re called ‘man’s best friend,’ for chrissakes. It’s not like I made that up.”
I told him I was glad that Angus had become a good friend.
“You know, I was never really a dog person before this. I mean, Brownie was great, but he was your brother’s dog. And I had lots of dogs on the farm, but they were work dogs. I guess with all you guys gone, and Mom working all the time, it’s nice to have somebody around who depends on me. And who tears up my fucking rose garden—goddamn it, Angus,” he said, turning and pointing toward the churned-up soil that had once hosted his red roses.
“He’s just like you: He’s a pain in my ass, but I love him. And he shits everywhere. Which is mostly why he’s like you,” he added with a smirk.
On Airport Pickup Duties
“My flight lands at nine-thirty on Sunday. . . . You want to watch what? What the fuck is
On Built-Up Expectations
“Your brother brought his baby over this morning. He told me it could stand. It couldn’t stand for shit. Just sat there. Big letdown.”
On Canine Leisure Time
“The dog is not bored. It’s not like he’s waiting for me to give him a fucking Rubik’s Cube. He’s a goddamned dog.”
On Talking Heads
“Do these announcers ever shut the fuck up? Don’t ever say stuff just because you think you should. That’s the definition of an asshole.”
On Long-Winded Anecdotes
“You’re like a tornado of bullshit right now. We’ll talk again when your bullshit dies out over someone else’s house.”
On Today’s Hairstyles
“Do people your age know how to comb their fucking hair? It looks like two squirrels crawled on their head and started fucking.”
On Tailgating the Driver in Front of Me
“You sure do like to tailgate people. . . . Right, because it’s real important you show up to the nothing you have to do on time.”
On My Brother’s Baby Being a Little Slow to Start Speaking
“The baby will talk when he talks, relax. It ain’t like he knows the cure for cancer and just ain’t spitting it out.”
On the Right Time to Have Children
“It’s never the right time to have kids, but it’s always the right time for screwing. God’s not a dumb shit. He knows how it works.”
You Have to Listen, and Don’t Ignore What You Hear
“Sometimes life leaves a hundred-dollar bill on your dresser, and you don’t realize until later it’s because it fucked you.”
As I mentioned in the introduction to this book, it was a breakup with a girlfriend that landed me back at my parents’ house at age twenty-eight. Our split hadn’t been one of those overdramatic ones where we screamed and cursed each other’s names, then I left with the slam of the door and a “go to hell!” I’d been through a couple breakups before, one of which ended with my ex saying, “Go fuck yourself, you stupid fuck.” That was easy to get over; you don’t stay up late at night hoping the woman who called you a stupid fuck comes back. In fact, none of my previous relationships ever felt that serious. But I had been with this girlfriend for three years, and I was sure that we were right for each other and had thought we would marry at some point.
When she decided to call it quits, it wasn’t because of anything specific. Something that had been there before was now missing, and neither of us could figure out what. Our relationship just wasn’t working. So when I moved into my parents’ house, I was really down. I don’t generally wear my emotions on my sleeve, but my dad could tell I was upset.
“Sometimes life leaves a hundred-dollar bill on your dresser, and you don’t realize until later it’s because it fucked you,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder while I was eating breakfast one morning about a week after I’d moved back home.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to try to cheer me up,” I replied.
“Shit, I know that,” he said. “But I figured I had to say something. Otherwise, just grabbing the cereal from you and leaving might seem a little callous.” He chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.
The next day I woke up at around six-thirty in the morning. Unable to go back to sleep, I groggily sauntered out into the living room in my boxer shorts. My dad was sitting at the dining room table eating Grape-Nuts and reading the paper.
“When’d you wake up?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, five maybe. Like usual.”
“Jesus, that’s early. Why do you wake up so early?” I said.
“Always have.”
“But why? You’re retired now. It makes no sense.”
“Son, am I being interrogated here? I’m an early riser, what the fuck you want from me?” he said before resuming reading the paper.
After a few moments he put the paper down.
“Why are
I told him I had woken up and couldn’t get back to sleep. He got up from his seat, walked into the kitchen, and poured me a cup of coffee.
“You want that bullshit you like in your coffee?” he asked, holding a mug filled with the dark black liquid.
“Creamer? Yes. I want creamer.”
He set my coffee down on the table and went back to reading his paper. I poured myself a bowl of cereal,
