Kids These Days

Chapter 35: Finn

"Get up, son. It's half past noon and I need you to mow the lawn."

Something is not right with my body. I have to blink my eyes a few times to clear away the crust of sleep, and when I finally open them, the sunlight streaming through the bathroom window feels like a nail-gun shooting point-blank into my skull. For a moment, all I can think is, this is it, this is the end, until the logical side of my brain kicks in and says, no, it's just a hangover.

Or maybe all my internal organs liquefied overnight. It could be that, too.

Groaning, I struggle to heave myself into a sitting position, only to realize that I must've fallen asleep on the tile floor, one arm slung over the bathtub like a washed-up rock'n'roller. I'm wearing the same outfit I went to the party in last night -- blue jeans and a raglan tee -- but there are grass stains on my pants, and a bright red splatter (is that blood?) on my shirt. What the hell kind of trouble did we get up to?

Strike that. I don't want to know.

A shadow passes over me, mercifully blocking out the sun. "I'm not going to ask again." The deep rumble sounds like a train barreling down the tracks. "Get outside and mow the damn lawn."

I finally work up the guts to look at the figure looming over me. It's my dad, wearing a threadbare Indianapolis Racers sweatshirt and a scowl that could turn milk sour. I can't remember the last time Bill-holier-than-thou-Murphy ever swore at me, even to say damn, the lamest of swears.

Which means he's really fucking pissed.

As I glance down at my rumpled clothes and the splatter that could either be blood or punch, I might have the slightest clue as to why.

Dad's glower intensifies. This isn't his typical cop glare practiced in a mirror; it's something way worse and way more personal, a glare only gifted to fathers after they hear those fateful words, it's a boy!

"I don't know what's going on with you," he says, shaking his head. "To be honest, I don't even recognize you anymore."

Join the club, I think. I might even say it out loud.

"This is your last chance, Finn. I won't put up with this behavior any longer."

With those ominous last words, my father stomps out of the bathroom, leaving me with two choices: one, stay grounded for the rest of the summer (and possibly until I'm old enough to vote) or two, get up and attempt to mow the lawn.

Easier said than done. It's hotter than the surface of the sun outside and my stomach is making noises like an airplane trying to take off.

Maybe if I let the lawn mower run me over my dad will feel moderately guilty for being an asshole to his only son...

Or maybe Jackson's punch will finally put me out of my misery.

I strip off my ruined shirt and throw it in the trash (it belongs in a nuclear waste container, but I don't have one on hand.) There's a pair of sunglasses in my jean pocket -- I'm not sure how they got there, 'cause they're definitely not mine -- but I'm thankful for them as I stumble out of the bathroom and into the unforgiving afternoon light.

Becca's door is closed, and there's no movement upstairs in the attic. The only living soul I see on my quest to the garage is Henry, drinking coffee and flipping through the paper on one of the bar stools. He gives me a thumbs up that I don't return.

The garage is still a mess, no surprise -- the last time I was in here, helping Floyd stitch up Ronan's shoulder, I toppled a box of baseball bobble-heads that looked like they hadn't been touched since the Cubs won the World Series. The mower is collecting dust in the corner, probably because it rarely rains in Dusty Valley and thus the grass rarely grows, and it creaks in complaint as I wheel it into the front yard.