If Goolie up and quits the club, Prez will kick my ass. Babysitting my dad isn’t club business, but I cleared it with Prez because I’m not taking chances. Not with my dad’s safety. I’m new to this whole responsibility thing but I’ve already learned that old men can get up to more trouble than teenage boys. That, or he’s aiming for payback for the shit I pulled in high school. With interest.
Back then life seemed so simple. You drank, you raced, you thanked God for any girl who’d let you get between her legs and worship her on your knees. And yet somehow all those girls have blurred together, and I’ve forgotten the shot I had at Harper. She’s pretty fucking memorable, so clearly this is on me.
Might be a way to see Harper and take care of some family business, too. I have to fix my old man’s finances whether he likes it or not. He’s been resisting but he needs to know how much he has, and I need to know how I can add to it so he never goes without.
Too bad if that makes him grumpy.
Fuck that noise.
I go into the kitchen and come back with a glass of orange juice. The carton promises it’s full of important vitamins and calcium (which might be another vitamin for all I know about nutrition).
I set the glass in front of him. “I’m making us an appointment with a financial planner.”
I wait for the heavens to shoot down lightning at the thought of me planning. Nothing. My dad’s interest in Oprah, on the other hand, becomes downright fixated. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
“Better be discussing your own stuff. I’m good. I don’t need anyone poking around my checking account.”
We’ve had this conversation or a variation thereof ever since my dad showed back up out of the blue a month ago. A social worker called and told me to come and pick him up from the Happy Vegas Valley Trailer Park. He couldn’t live alone anymore, the chipper voice on the other end announced. I should have noticed this before but our interactions had been limited to my monthly rides out to his neck of the woods, a little barbecue and a little shooting the breeze. Had to confiscate the keys to his bike, too.
Life’s problems have three sure fixes: money, kisses or muscle. Options B and C haven’t worked out so well in the taking-care-of-Dad department. And while I have enough green stuff to make sure my old man never goes without, money’s not all dear old Dad wants. Dad wants to see me settled. Happy. Set for life. The fuck?
Sure enough, my old man launches into his favorite song.
“You meet anyone last night?”
Seriously, does he think an MC party is Tinder central? Harper came out, I danced and a good time was had by all, but no, I’m not dating anyone.
When I tell him as much, he tries again. “You should see someone. Settle a down a little.”
“Like you did with Mom?”
This is a low blow, because Mommy Dearest lit out shortly after my birth and never returned.
“You could get it right,” he says stubbornly. “What about Amanda What’s-Her-Name? Was she there?”
“Nope.” Occasionally I throw my dad a bone and name names. Instead of getting him off my back, however, he’s turned out to be downright tenacious. He asks after Amanda (and Hope, Janey and Little Bo) every chance he gets. I’ve learned to nod, smile and change the fucking topic.
Now is the perfect time to zone out and refresh my memory about my favorite parts of Harper. Tits, ass, mouth—there are so many choices.
“You met someone,” my dad announces gleefully. “I know that look.”
Busted.
“I’m not looking for anything permanent.” I’m good for a night, not forever. Just like that, though, last night’s memories of Harper pop into my head and refuse to leave. The memories want to stick even if I don’t. Those black boots of hers about killed me. The woman practically owes me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Or possibly mouth-to-dick. I’m not choosy.
“Thinks he’s fine running solo,” my old man scoffs. I’m tempted to point out that he never settled down much, either. From what he told me, he knocked up my mom, she stuck around just long enough to push me out into the world, and then she took off. Nothing in that story qualifies him to offer romantic advice.
“I’m not the settling-down type,” I offer. That sounds so much better than announcing I like variety in my pussy. And that so far, life has been one big all-I-can-eat sex buffet. Why eat à la carte when I can sample every single dish?
My dad’s knee starts going up and down like a jackhammer as he picks up his fork. Sets it down. Does the same with his knife. He starts to get up and then sinks back into his chair, his knee jerking wildly. Shit.
Houston, we have a problem.
The doctor I talked with last week said the agitation was a symptom of my old man’s dementia. Much of the time, he’s still the same person he always was, but other times his brain takes a hard right and it’s game over. The doctor said I should make sure that all of his basic needs are met, as if I’d put him on a starvation diet or keep him from sleeping. I’m supposed to be calm and reassuring, a paragon of gentle sincerity.
Yeah. Feel free to laugh your ass off at that one.
As desperate as I am, though, I try. Thank Christ, none of the club is here to see me.
“I’ll give it a shot,” I say. “I am giving it a shot.”
My dad’s knee slows from its manic pace to something that better resembles a car ricocheting from side to side on the German Autobahn.
“You’ve met someone?”
“Absolutely.” The one upside to dementia is that my old man’s
