The Art of Being a F*ck Up - Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Change has never been easy for me, for so many reasons. When I was a kid there were plenty of nights my dad didn't come home and I would have to figure out how to fend for myself while he was passed out in a gutter somewhere. I never really had much to rely on back then, and I guess I put a lot of stock into having more predictability now. Whoever said routine is boring has obviously never had to wonder where their next meal would come from, or worry about their power getting shut off. I don't like it when I can't be sure what to expect—I still don't like the unknown. Makes sense that's why I'm fighting to wrap my head around this whole test thing.
No one wants to feel stupid regardless, and I can maybe see some of the points Lilah and Maddy both made, but what happens if I do this? What does my life look like then? Devin would probably laugh his ass off at me, and I have no clue what Bill would think. Worse, what about Jonah? I've only been at work for a couple hours and the whole time I've just been staring at my phone obsessively, studying every detail of the appointment Lilah had set up with her friend.
I know she only did this because she cares, and oddly enough it seems like Maddy reached out to her for much the same reason. Even so, I'm still not sure how I feel about it, and next to overthinking this appointment I've also been going back and forth on whether I should text Maddy. Ultimately I decide to text Jonah instead, to see what he thinks about it, but all I get in return is radio silence—the same as it has been. I might even be disappointed, if I hadn't already thought to expect it. That, and my dad hollers for me from the office before I can debate about it any further.
"Brent! Get in here!" He yells, frustrated, and I immediately go to him. What choice do I have? No matter which way Bill tries to dress it up, he's the boss now, and he's certainly wasted no time settling into his brother's office. I spot him hunched over one of the filing cabinets that he's already nearly gutted, "I'm trying to find some goddamn files but I can't figure how you organized this thing. Grab that list off the desk and help me, would you?"
"Let me look, here," after I grab the list in question I come up beside him to offer my assistance, but apparently it's too close for comfort. When my elbow brushes up against him he pulls back completely and retreats to the opposite side of the office, crossing his arms. I try not to take that too personally as I continue looking, and instead I use the subtle opportunity to pry. "If you need anything you should probably just save yourself the trouble and ask me, Bill has a really weird system for filing. How is he anyway? He hasn't been here in a few days."
"And he won't be in for a few more either. He's got a couple more doctors to see, so he'll likely be out another week or two." My dad answers, not wise enough to realize my intent. But then, glancing at him over my shoulder, I get the feeling that maybe the plain worry written across his face might be distracting him. So far he hasn't been too bad—granted this whole situation hasn't been going on that long—but mostly we just keep to ourselves. I'm not too keen on testing the longevity of it though, and the thought of spending the rest of the month like this makes my skin crawl. Eventually he notices, "what the hell's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, I've got a lot on my mind. You know, I've been worried about Bill and there's this thing with school. It's not important," I find all the files he was looking for and stand, going to deliver them to him. As true as it is I don't really think much about what I'm saying, it seems innocent and vague enough, but he hones in nonetheless.
"That's your big problem? Some of us got real shit to deal with and you're over here worried about school? You were never meant for college, I told you that before, you're not smart enough." He takes the stack out of my hand.
"At least I'm trying to make something of myself, to be something." Mostly I mean it as an explanation, but from the fire that lights in his eyes I can tell my dad takes it more as an insult. At first I only go over to the door so I can leave him to his files, but it keeps eating at me what he said. Then it eats at me what Lilah said, and then what Maddy said too. I don't want to be like my dad, in any way, but sometimes if I stand still long enough I can see glimpses that remind me of him. Coward or not, there are some things that are worth changing. I turn back, speaking reluctantly, "that reminds me, I might need some time off."
"For what?"
"Does it matter? It's only a day."
"It's a day you're not getting off unless you tell me what it's for." He glares, sitting down at the desk. "I don't care what Billy said, don't go expecting any special privileges from me—understand? I'm not about to look the other way so you can run off and party or whatever it is you think you're going to do."
"It's for school," of all the things I had considered, his reaction wasn't one of them, but suddenly I'm highly aware of it. "I have an appointment."
"What kind of appointment?" There's a lot of emphasis on the last word, as if maybe he still doesn't believe it. I hate to give him anything else, but Bill's lecture about skipping work is pretty fresh in my mind, so I don't have much of a choice. That sucks, having to argue for something I really haven't even decided I want.
"To get," it's hard to say, and I falter. Why didn't I lie? My better instincts kick in too late and I panic, answering honestly. "Tested."
"Tested." He repeats with a quizzical expression, a lingering question thick in the air until he puts is all together. "For school? I got your number now, you sound just like that teacher. You were only in second grade and that bitch wanted to slap some label on you, not because she cared, but because it would've made her job easier."
"Wait." I'm dumbfounded. Maddy bringing it up like she did the other night was the first I'd heard of it, is he telling me now that he's heard it before? I can't believe that, not with how he watched me struggle so much throughout the years without doing something to intervene. I feel surprisingly angry about it. "You knew? Why didn't you say anything?"
"There was nothing to say, I told her there was no way my son was a retard. A lot of good that did me, anyway."
"You think I'm a retard?" More than angry, I can't explain what I'm feeling.
"You don't want to know what I think." He warns.
"Tell me, I can take it." Now I lie.
"Look, I'm not trying to start nothing. All I wanted was a decent kid," my dad begins casually, with cruel intentions like dull blades—the kind you have to put a lot of force behind. "Someone who could be something, like you said. Was that too much to ask? But instead I got you, always sneaking around, always with some smartass remark. Even that wasn't so bad, I thought you might still go places, so imagine how disappointing it was for me to find out I wasted the last twenty odd years hoping for more than some cocksucker who can't even spell his own name right."
I stare at him, horrified and trembling while he watches and waits to see what I'll come back with. He'd probably prefer if I took a swing at him—fight with your bare hands, he'd say, be a man. Chances are that would make him proud, proud like he is from this mortal wound he's given me. I stand there for too long until I'm finally dismissed, and then I go back to my own desk. I don't stay though, I can't, instead I grab my phone and leave. I'd wager he doesn't give it a second thought once I'm gone. I think about it though. I think about it all the way to the bar and through my first drink.
Right up until they refuse to serve me anything else I'm still thinking about it, and I'm more mad than ever that not even alcohol has stopped my mind from wrapping every conscious thought around my father. Maybe he's got a point too, try as I might I'm still here, I'm still this. To tell you the truth, I'm not all that surprised that apparently someone had thought I should get tested a long time ago. If this is it though, if this is everything, why do I keep trying to cling to an idea of something I'll never be? For Jonah? I stumble back to the frat house in a haze, half-expecting—and hoping—to find Maddy waiting on the steps again.
When I get there I learn that I'm only half right.
"Where've you been, I've been trying to call you." Jonah gets up. Sounds like he's angry too, apparently I'm pissing people off left and right. What does he have to be mad about through? If anything I'm the one who should be upset, and as I stand there, eyes fixated on him while I start to tremble again, I'm reminded of being back in the office with my father. Jonah inches forward, sniffing audibly, "how much have you had to drink?"
"A lot." I confess. It's been one of the longest days I've had in a while and as much as I thought I would've loved to see him, I feel nothing but exhausted. Maybe that's because it's been a long week too, one where I've hardly seen him at all. The dam swells, overfull, and I don't think any of my small fixes are going to cut it tonight, but I don't want to take it out on Jonah so I step around him. "Don't worry about it, I'm fine, I just want to go to bed."
"No you're not," he grabs my arm, "what's going on with you? I talked to Lilah and she said you seemed a little upset when she left, so when I got your text I came by thinking you'd be here after work. Do you know how worried I've been, waiting around, wondering where you were?"
"I'm surprised you even noticed." I mutter.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He takes it personally, his hand falling away.
"You know what would make me happy? If people stopped talking about me behind my fucking back. If you were worried why didn't you call before now? I've been texting you for days, what do you mean where have I been? Where've you been, Jonah?" My heart bleeds. That's the bad thing about drinking like this, it can help dull the pain but it also dulls my sense of self-preservation, and I start to pinpoint that feeling I hadn't been able to define earlier—I'm not so much angry as I am hurt. My tough and unemotional tone waivers, "I get that you've been busy with your competition, but I really needed you today."
"That's not fair, I wanted to be there for you." He defends himself, "I don't understand, how can you seriously be pissed about this? Why didn't you just talk to me?"
"When? When have I had the chance to tell you about anything, like how Bill's sick, or how my dad's filling in for him at work, or—oh yeah—I'm probably retarded!" My voice cracks, but I only push him away when he tries to reach out. "And you know what, I get it, I'm not the same guy I was when the year started but I didn't ask for any of this. It's not my fault! I guess it's true what my dad said, I am a goddamn disappointment. I'm sorry you're stuck with me."
"Since when do you listen to anything your dad says?" Jonah is appalled. "We've talked about this, he's no good for you! I'm sorry he was an asshole but you don't have to take it out on me."
"That's all you have to say? What does it matter? Honestly? All that matters is you didn't even notice." It sounds too much like a whine when I let it out, but my control only continues to slip. "Forget it, get out of here."
"I'm not leaving! What's really going on with you? You've been so different these last couple months and I have noticed, Brent, I have." He's adamant, something about all of this making him emotional too. All I get is this perpetual torment being stuck in this half-life but it's too much right now, and I can't take anymore—not feeling like this, and certainly not his pity. Jonah doesn't care. "I am sorry things have sucked lately, and I'm sorry if it feels like I haven't been there. But I love you, please, tell me what I can do."
"Just go back to your dorm, I told you I'm fine." Yet again I try to step around him, but he refuses to relent.
"Don't do this, don't shut me out over one stupid thing. You know I would've came today but there were a million other things going on—"
"And all of them were more important than me!" Whatever thin thread I'm holding onto snaps, and the dam breaks. My eyes sting and it's been such a long time since I cried that I don't recognize the sensation right away, but when I do I hurry to wipe away the tear and save face. "It's not stupid. I'm done arguing about it, let me through."
"No, not until we talk about it." Jonah's so stubborn, why would I expect anything else? He takes both of my trembling hands into his before I can resist that too, but I try to pull away with a growl. Or, I meant for it to be a growl, yet all I hear is a whimper. That's how the next minute goes, me trying to fight him while I lose more and more energy, unable to hold onto the anger and the steam when all that's really still there is the hurt. His is the pity I've been avoiding most, but I think again about the stuff my dad said and everything else I've been holding onto, and eventually I melt into his arms until he repeats himself tenderly. "I'm here, I'm not leaving."
Jonah holds me tightly as we sit quietly on the porch, my face tucked under his chin so I can just cry. I never had stability as a kid, I think that's probably why it's been so hard testing that with him too—even if we've had to go long stretches like this before, when we've both been busy, I never worried about it. I knew what this was—me and him—and I knew what we would be again when the wait was over. Now that he sees me for what I am, a coward? Like I told him, I'm not the same person I was before all of this, and as I sit here crying into him, pathetic and unable to stop, I ask myself one of those tough questions Lilah had mentioned. Maybe I haven't figured out yet what I will be, but, what am I becoming?