I Might Have Issues

Someone has stolen Jacob's cigarettes and he's got a good idea of who it was, now all he has to do is find out where that little brat hid them, and he's got just the tool for the job.

I Might Have Issues

    “I wonder how many times you have to punch someone in the face to knock out all their teeth … Wow. I do get pretty violent when I’m bored don’t I?”

I skillfully ignored that little realization, suppressed a sigh, and nodded mindlessly as my older brother went on about this new cartoon he was into.

Seriously, Ray, you’re turning twenty-four this year, grow up a bit. I watched his eyes light up as he remembered something from season one that “is a total game changer in season two you have no idea!” and resisted the urge to sigh again. I couldn’t stand these dinners at the family estate every week, it was nothing but crap stories and “caring family members” asking stupid and near insulting questions.  

Oh, Jacob! Have you found a nice girl to help out with Aron?

No Dad, and I’m not looking.

When are you moving back in?

Never, Ray, I’m freaking twenty.

So you’re really going to settle down and take care of the kid?

His name is Aron and yes Beth, I am. I have been since I adopted him last year, but whatever I guess. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Gramps’ cooking and the fact that Aron loves running around the backyard with the family dog I would never have agreed to come back here every Sunday. Ray’s jumping up and down now about some characters backstory. Please, Gramps, just serve the food, I’m trying to make good on my promise to not punch anyone this time!

    Well ... at least I have you Mr. Marlboro, I thought You understand me. I let my hand slip down into my jacket pocket to feel around for my cigarettes, fully intending to smoke one before dinner got started, and felt a spike of fear shoot down my spine when I didn’t find them. Other pocket?

    Rustle rustle.

    No luck. I threw my five-year-old son, Aron, a quick glance, knowing he’d never take them, but panicking nonetheless, only to discover him cigarette-less and happily petting a nearby houseplant.

Aron. Why are you so weird?

I looked back at Ray to see if he noticed my lack of attention but, being the ever observant man we all know he isn’t, he was none the wiser. I did another sweep of the room looking for any suspicious shifting or looks and noticed one of my younger brothers, Tom, glaring daggers at me. We looked at each other for a moment and then he shook his head. My eyes narrowed as I did the math. Tom had never liked my smoking. He didn’t hate it as much as much as Ray did, but it bugged him. Ever since I adopted Aron though he’s been a complete pain. Spewing stuff about me killing him with second-hand smoke and how I should stop if I want him to respect me and live to see him turn twenty. I get that smoking is bad, that’s why I taught Aron to call them “Cancer Sticks,” but Tom doesn’t need to be in that conversation.

Alright punk-head, you’re on.

The Next Day …

I was kneeling in rough bark crouched behind a bush across the street from some hipster cafe called Très Café and I’ll admit it was a lot more pleasant than I had imagined. The sun was shining brightly, warming up the street and all the happy occupants currently sitting out at the outdoor tables eating some delicious looking croissants and drinking the most mouth watering, sugar-filled, practically just warm ice-cream in a cup, coffee I think I’ve ever seen. I forced my thoughts away from the unusually sunny afternoon and my shameful addiction to those sugary cups of hot ice-cream, covered in whipped cream and sprinkles since I had more important things to think about, and checked my Bag of Goodies one last time to make sure I had everything I needed. Plastic handcuffs that Aron broke, making them nearly as effective as real handcuffs? Check. Paper bag? Check. Smiley face drawn on the paper bag just because I found a sharpie in my Junk Drawer? Double check. Military grade earplugs? Ding ding ding we have a winner! Thank you Crazy Army Man who lives next door! I looked up and saw Tom sitting at one of the outdoor tables with his girlfriend, Lizzie, and my eyes narrowed.

Target acquired.

    I sneaked toward the lovely couple as Tom got up to throw away their garbage. Lizzie gave me a weird look, but easily ignored me. She’s been in this family way too long to not know what I’m up to.

I took a deep breath and, as soon as I was close enough, leaped into action! I slammed the plastic cuffs on Tom’s wrist and put the paper bag over his head. The kid tensed up for a moment before his shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh.

“Jacob,” He started. “This is sad. Borderline pathetic.”

“Shut up and get in my car!” I crowed victoriously, completely ignoring the fact that Tom knew it was me by situation alone. Tom let out another sigh and said goodbye to Lizzie, telling her he had enjoyed the date, and together we walked off (read: I hauled the kid away) before anyone called the cops. I shoved Tom in the back of my, admittedly pretty crappy, but still pretty great, 1997 Toyota Camry and floored it to my apartment building.

The place wasn’t all that bad, really, but the others used it to question my parenting skills anyway. It was a tall, four-story building made out of bricks that was squished right between an old Asian family’s pawn shop and another abandoned apartment building that stray cats were using as their secret headquarters, Aron knows for a fact that they’re planning world domination in there. The place looked like it could be condemned any day now, and was all set-up in a neighborhood that seemed like a bad place to wind up in late at night, but it really was nice. Good families with low incomes making the happiest life possible, which was a pretty good life if you asked me, and the amount of birthday parties and potlucks Aron and I get invited to on a weekly basis are pleasantly ridiculous. But that doesn’t matter. Because it isn’t a quaint little house in the suburbs like Dear Ol’ Dad wants it to be. Surrounded by parks and trees and within walking distance to the best private school money could buy. Whatever. We aren’t rich here. All that money doesn’t mean anything more to me than a higher rent and a spoiled kid. Aron loves what he gets because he loves the thought and the effort, not because it’s the latest tech thing like precious little Drew. Kid may be ten but he’s more expensive than a box full of diamonds, all ‘cause daddy has the money.

But, I digress.

As soon as the car was in park, I hauled Tom out of it and walked him downstairs into the basement/laundry room, the idiot nearly fell down the stairs but, me being the kind, loving older brother I am, grabbed him before he broke his nose. The laundry room was the perfect place to carry out my plan, since the only light down there was a small, rink-a-dink bulb that couldn’t light up a campfire on a good day, which meant that the only reason you could really see down there was because of some small, grimy windows near the ceiling that led to the outside world, plus the room only had one exit so no sneaky tricks by our resident ninja.

Seriously Dad, were those lessons actually necessary? Self-defence my right boot.

I’d set up a small table in the oddly large room, with two folding chairs on either side. Aron sat quietly in the corner on top of one of the washer/dryer duos that circled the room, gently running the backs of his hands up and down the concrete walls and humming “Infernal Galop” to himself. My son is crazy adorable. Or is the phrase “adorably crazy?” Eh, whatever.

           Tom sniffed under the bag. “Is that the cat or the litter I’m smelling?”

         “Yep.” I responded proudly, popping the P a bit just to be annoying. I sat my younger brother down in the seat facing the door and tied the plastic chain of the cuffs to the table with some random fishing wire Aron had brought me. Little guy wanted to help. He’s so sweet.

I ripped the bag off of Tom’s head and shouted “Where are they!” in my best "Scary Capture voice. He frowned at me.

“Jacob, come on, this is seriously sad. It’s been one day and, instead of looking for the cigarettes yourself, you’ve kidnapped me. Jacob you kidnapped me. This is illegal.” I glared at him. It doesn’t count as “kidnapping” if the victim just walks off with the captor.

“Hey, you let me grab you and don’t dodge the question, Tom. Things will only get worse.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge and disbelief.

“It’ll get worse? What are you going to do? Give me a Wet Willy?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He laughed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous--” He looked down at the handcuffs and gave them a quick tug. “--and where did you get these? They’re stupid strong.” I smiled proudly

“I know right? Aron just came home with them one day and told me he’d broken it. Next thing I know I’ve been attached to the couch for thirty minutes while he practiced his lock-picking skills.” I smiled as I recalled the memory. “That was the day the apartment almost burned down.” Tom blinked once then his face scrunched up in a weird mix of horror, confusion, and intrigue.

“Who let you be a father? Really, how did you convince those people to let you be in charge of a human child.” I frowned and pretended to think it over.

“All the alien kids were taken I guess.” I finally decided with a careless shrug. “But you’re avoiding the question again.” I leaned over the table. “Where. Is my. Marlboro.” Tom didn’t respond, he’d somehow managed to look even more unimpressed. I frowned and stood back up, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Lookie ‘ere Tom, this is your last warning. One more time and I get-” I leaned back in slowly and made sure to breath right into his face “-the weapon.”

Nothing.

I chuckled. “Alright Tommy Boy. I warned ya!” I turned to my son. “Aron! Hey Buddy!” Two big blue eyes turned my way.

“Yes, Daddy?” I smiled.

“Quit petting the wall for a sec and c’mere.” Aron’s face lit up. He hopped off his dryer and ran over to me, his little blue blinky shoes twinkling in excitement, and wrapped his arms around my legs.

“What’cha need, Daddy?” He asked. I smiled and picked him up, balancing him on my hip. Aron was the sweetest kid in the world, the poster child for being adorable, in his little pink and purple cat jacket with ears on the hood. We shared the same pitch black hair, which seemed to be a prerequisite if you wanted to join the family, and he had the biggest, sweetest smile that just made you want to melt.

“You wanna show Uncle Tommy your ‘Happy Song,’ Pumpkin?” Aron gasped and looked at me, his eyes wide in excitement.

“Really?” The smile disappeared, now replaced with a small, suspicious frown. “I thought you said we could put a long pause on the ‘Happy Song.’” I chuckled, man I love this kid.

“Does that mean you don’t wanna sing it?” My son’s eyes widened and he immediately cried out “No!” I set him down in the chair opposite Tom, took my position by the door, ready to dissuade any mid-day laundry doers, and started to put in my earplugs. Yellow for conversation, brown for total protection, right?

Tom sent me an odd look and I started to put my lip-reading abilities to good use.

“So, Aron!” He said, though it looked like the enthusiasm was a little forced. “What’s your ‘Happy Song?’” Aron straightened his back.

“My Happy Song is ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’ by some random guy from a really long time ago because it makes me super happy when I song it… Okay here we go!” Aron took a deep breath and it looks like we’re off to the races.

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,

His name is my name too!” Tom winced as Aron tried to hold the note.

“Whenever we go out,

The people always shout,

‘there goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!’

DA DA DA DA DA DA DA!” I smiled and watched as Aron emphasized his favorite part of the song by slamming his fists into the table so fast and so hard the crappy thing looked like it was going to fall apart. Tom looked a bit surprised, but glanced at me like: Is this it? I smirked and held up a finger, asking him to wait.

“LOUDER NOW!” Aron shrieked. Tom winced at the pitch I’m sure Aron achieved before he started up another verse.

“JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT,

HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO!” Aron hopped up on the table and began to march to the beat.

“WHENEVER WE GO OUT,

THE PEOPLE ALWAYS SHOUT,” Aron jumped in place and pointed over Tom’s head, his eyes were screwed together as he put all his energy into screaming the song.

“‘THERE GOES JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT!’

DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA!” Tom winced again as my beautiful son threw his head back and shrieked out what the people always say straight to the heavens. He sent me an uncomfortable look and I shrugged. Tom schooled his features into something stoic and watched Aron fall to his knees and start the next verse, from personal experience I knew he was whispering this time. He crawled a little closer to Tom’s face after each line.

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,

His name is my name too.

Whenever we go out,

The people always shout...” Aron and Tom were nose-to-nose now. Aron had such a weird look on his face, he looked frozen with his eyes wide and mouth in a little sort-of-pout, that I could actually feel just how uncomfortable Tom as getting. He probably sensed the oncoming doom. Aron waited a few seconds

…

…

…

“‘THERE GOES JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT!’

DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA” Tom and I both cringed at the volume my son achieved in that moment, somehow making it past my earplugs, if he had gone just a bit higher I’m sure the windows would have busted. I considered switching my ‘plugs to the brown side for a moment. I glanced towards the staircase that led to to ground floor and wondered if any of the other tenants could hear us…

... Man I thought to myself. I hope I don’t get kicked out for torturing someone via a child’s excitement in the laundry room…

Huh, sounds like the ending to a particularly interesting game of ‘Clue … ’

We ended up staying down in the laundry room for another three and a half hours before Tom started to crack and I’ll admit I was impressed. A lesser man would have lost it after the first three rounds. He looked past my son, who was currently dancing on the table, and gave me a desperate look.

“Please, Jacob. I know you can read lips and I know that you’re loving this, but it’s gone on so long! Not even you can be that cruel!” I smiled and cupped a hand to my ear.

I wonder how talking without being able to hear yourself speak works.

“What?” I asked, though I had the sneaking suspicion I was yelling. “Man, I can’t hear a word you’re saying! These earplugs are amazing!” Tom made a weird face and hit his head against the table. Aron still hasn’t stopped for air, he didn’t even seem to notice our conversation

Tom raised his head again after a few moments and what I can only assume was an intense mental battle between pride and reason. “Fine!” He cried. “Fine you win! They’re in the drawer! Right underneath the cookie jar at Dad’s house, it’s a really small drawer we found last year, nearly invisible unless you’re really looking for it, but once you find it you can’t miss ‘em! Now please make him stop!” I laughed smugly.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

“Aron! Hey Buddy, let’s go on a car ride.” I called casually as I removed my earplugs. Aron stopped singing mid-verse and turned to me. His face was bright red and he broke out in the most joyful and excited grin the world has ever seen. He threw his hands in the air.

“Yay! Car ride!” He shouted in delight. I walked over and picked him up again. He wrapped his legs around my waist. “Are we off to get your Cancer Sticks?”

I smiled down at him and rubbed his nose with mine, something I’ve hit people for calling me out on.

“We sure are!” I told him happily. Aron cheered again and we turned to leave. We were just starting to shut the door when I heard Tom call out from behind me.

“Hey wait! Jacob you can’t leave me here! Jacob I’m still chained to the-Jacob this is illega-!” I shut the door, effectively cutting him off. Aron hummed the tune of his “Happy Song” as we walked out to my car. As I was buckling him up he jumped and looked at me excitedly.

“Oh! Oh! Daddy, can we get some ice cream on the way there!” I chuckled and ruffled his hair.

“I don’t think so, Pumpkin. Daddy really needs to get his Cancer Sticks.” I replied and it was true. Being without those little sticks of chemicals and death was starting to kill me, but apparently Aron didn’t like my answer. His eyes narrowed and he started to quietly sing.

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.”

The End

Author's Note

Here's the first story I've ever written, be gentle?