Tough S**t

An alcoholic father preaches to his son about ideals he struggles with himself.

The old man placed his sweating can of beer down on the kitchen table in from of him, and then looked back at his son. The boy kept his right elbow posted on the table, pressing a frozen bag of peas to his eye. His weight tipped the table to the side.  

“Life’s about forgiveness, son,” began the man’s rough voice. He was unsure whether his words were actually reaching the boy, for any sign of acknowledgement was hidden behind the bag of peas.

But the boy was listening; though as he fixed his eyes on a crack in the drywall off the corner of the room, the boy also fixed his thoughts on laying a hit to this father’s face, just as he had done to another boy earlier that day.

“You don’t believe me, but it’s true,” continued the old man. “Cause yeah see, anger ain’t do nothin’ for you. You put your mind to it too long, and all you end up drivin’ your life into a s**t-storm.” The man reached up and scratched his rough shave. He averted his eyes back to his can, and was watched the cool beads of condensation drip down the aluminum sides.

“So keep your mind focused on what’s important. I mean, s**t flies around, yeah know. But sometimes you gotta remember that s**t hits everybody.”

The boy suddently set down the peas and turned to face his old man. He stared him up and down, taking in his image as if seeing it for the first time: the matted grey hair, the yellow sweat-stains on his favorite wife-beater, the bear gut protruding against the table corner. And on that corner was that damn can of beer.

With the bag down on the table the father could clearly see his son as well. The shiner was a good one, showing its sickly shades of purple and yellow. But what the old man was really looking at were his son’s eyes--dark brown and staring intently back at him. They resembled his mothers.

Then the boy, still staring at his old man, stood up. He turned away, and walked out of the small kitchen. After a few moments the sound of the screen door could be heard, rattling the house.

After the boy left, the man continued to sit, staring at the can in front of him. He picked it up and held halfway to his mouth. He didn’t want to finish it, but from the weight of it there was only a sip left. So he went on to take the last swing. But then, when realizing what he had done, he threw the can hard across the room. With his hand he pounded the table, hard, but then carefully reached into his worn jeans to pull out a certain photo. Unfolding it, one could see that it was a photo of woman�"with the same beautiful brown eyes of the boy. The eyes showed a special kind of love: a love that was gone.