Here we are, sitting out on the patio. Surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Rays of sunlight come in through the screening and warm the patio. Which would be comforting if I wasn’t hungover and feeling miserable.

My father sits across from me. My father who has driven over 5 hours to come visit the house, that he and my mother bought so that my sister and I would have a place to live as we went to college. A house that wreaks of stale beer and lubricant.

I know the lecture that is about to be unleashed. I can cite it nearly word for word as it’s been on constant repeat for the last few months. Like a trendy song that the radio stations can’t help but play every hour on the hour.

My dad sitting on a patio chair looking me up and down. And then it starts.

“Son we’re worried about you,” he tells me.

That was unexpected, like something out of left field.

“What I can gather from your sister, since you never call, is that you’re depressed. So what if what’s her face dumped you. That broad was a whore,” as he finishes that sentence I interject with “Her name was Lanna dad.” In one ear and out the other as he continues on, “I mean seriously, I could have had my way with her. I’m sure plenty of your frat brothers have and are continuing to do so.”

The thought had definitely crossed my mind.

“The point is son. Girls come and go. You need to sack the fuck up and move on. And at least if you’re going to off yourself don’t do it in the house. Blood stains are a bitch to clean up and suicide really drives down the property value. We do plan on selling this house, which you’ve so aptly turned into a frat house, some day,” he tells me.

How comforting I think to myself. My father condoning suicide just so long as it doesn’t stain the new wood flooring. I’ll make sure that if I’m on the evening news standing on a bridge that he’s there to give me that final push. Talk about father son bonding.

I let out a audible laugh. Sure it’s a dark sense of humor, but there’s no truth to me committing suicide, ever. Drinking to excess and trying to fill an empty void with casual hook-ups, now that’s another story.

My laugh, must of unsettled my father who’s starting to look fairly agitated. Which makes for the perfect segue into his regularly scheduled tirade.

“What the fuck are you doing with your life, son?” he asks me, which is right around the time I tune out.

Words like “responsibility” and “accountability” get thrown around. I don’t even have to hear them to know they’re being thrown around. Talk about graduation and a direction/purpose are usually sprinkled in for good measure.

It’s the usual tango that we do. Threats of being financially cut off are usually par for the course. I don’t hear him say it, nor do I need to hear him say it, but I know he is. I occasionally nod, or let out a “yeah” and “uh-huh” so that he thinks I’m still paying attention. However, my mind is wandering. There’s a party tonight. Not just any party but a pajama party. The perfect excuse to have a plethora of sexy coeds at my house in little to no clothing.

Not that much planning is needed, other than buying a keg and a metric fuckton of solo cups, but the house could use some straightening up. It’s never a good sign when your foot sticks to the tiled floor.

The thoughts of the near nakedness that is to ensue tonight is no doubt exciting, but is being overshadowed by my hangover, which by my best estimates won’t subside for at least another 4 hours.

I can feel the alcohol as I sweat it from my pores. Out of one pore I can smell the mixture of whiskey and coke. Out of another I can smell the aroma of cheap beer. I run my forearm across my forehead to wipe off some sweat and as I bring my forearm down from my face I get the distinct smell of cinnamon. More specifically the cinnamon liqueur, the bringer of vomit, Goldschlagger. The smell alone is enough to make my stomach turn and cause my mouth to water and my throat to constrict. The telltale sign that I could throw up at any second.

As I’m fighting my body’s natural defense mechanism I can hear my dad. Right about now is the part of his speech where I’m to blame for my sister’s subpar college performance. “If I didn’t have parties every goddamn night,” he says. “If I wasn’t making her drink until 4 in the morning,” he tells me. All that can be blamed on me is. If it really called for it I’d be agent zero as the cause of cancer, the HIV, and a medical textbook full of other infectious diseases.

Who knows, maybe I have some telepathic powers to get people to do whatever I want. Or at least that’s what my parents always imply. I’ll have to unveil this new revelation tonight. It could be my ticket to sexual enlightenment. Of course I’m kidding. There’s always a choice and I will have to remind my sister of this later when I discuss my recent bargaining chip of Chad, which could come in handy for making my parents back off a bit.

But enough about that. There’s the pajama party to think about.

As I begin thinking about the beautiful blondes in their lingerie my thoughts are being interrupted by my dad saying, “Seriously, what the fuck is going on in this house? Is this a house or a fucking whore house? There’s bodies everywhere. I didn’t know if I should call the police or not. I mean come on. Plus I walk in this morning and almost slip by the front door on what I think is beer.”

I hope it’s beer and not vomit, I think to myself. Hour old vomit is the worst to clean up. Not to mention you run the risk of staining the grout.

He continues on, “And what’s up with that red head on the couch?”

“That was Monday,” I tell him.

“What kind of name is Monday?” he asks in a perplexed manner.

“No, she was my Monday hook-up. I think her name is Monica. Then again it could be Danielle…” but before I can finish he interrupts me with, “Whatever her name is. I come in this morning and she stirs on the pull out couch. She literally makes eye contact with me, asks me the time and upon finding out rolls over and goes back to bed. She doesn’t know me. What if I was a burglar? You think she would have been mildly suspicious about a man in his 50s who she’s never met, being in the house.”

I have to agree with him on that so I nod and slowly begin to zone out again.

My right hand is starting to shake and my first guess would be on possible tremors from alcohol withdrawal. However, I “entertained” company pretty late last night. A born again brunette, by the name of Shelly, with full, perky D breasts that I think even Christ himself would have trouble carrying.

Oh Shelly, I think to myself with a smile on my face. Off in the distance I can hear the front door open and close. Probably one of the couch inhabitants leaving. I continue on with my thoughts.

Shelly, a plucky coed not yet ready to be born again for the 4th or 5th time, which explains the shaking of my right hand. It’s not withdrawals, but really muscle fatigue from heavy petting. My guess is that it’s only a matter of time before she’s re-baptized again. Which, fingers crossed, will occur after tonight’s PJ party.

Suddenly the slider opens up and both my fantasy and my father’s speech get put on pause.

My father and I both look up to see Chad holding in his left hand a pair of boxers. His boxers. The boxers he left behind, I presume, in Kristin’s room.

He looks at the two of us with a big smile and says, “Totally forgot these in Kristin’s room. My bad. Hey Mr. Reed. I gotta run, but I’ll catch you tonight at the PJ party.”

Mr. Reed, or as I affectionately call him dad, turns toward me. He’s fuming as he rattles off the following questions with precision point accuracy, “PJ party? PJ party? Who the fuck was that? Is that scumbag boofing your sister? What the fuck is going on in this house?”

And there goes my bargaining chip…