Pee Bee

He bit into a piece of bacon and leaned back in his chair. “Good fuckin’ bacon this morning, Son.”

I finished typing a text to Tegan and pressed send. I responded without looking up. “Same bacon as every other day.”

“Cooked to perfection, today.”

I set my phone aside and looked at him. “It’s always cooked right when I cook it.”

“Not bad.” He nodded. “Not bad.”

“Why are you in such a good mood today?” I asked.

“I’m not.”

“Seem to be.”

He took another bite. “Just as grumpy as ever.”

“You’re eating slow. And talking. You never talk when you eat. The ‘dinner table’ is called the dinner table because it’s for eating dinner. It’s not called the ‘talking table’ for a reason. Sound familiar?”

He grinned. “Vaguely.”

I’d heard him say it for eighteen years, no less than once a day. As far as he was concerned, all meals were to be devoured quietly, without any verbal interruption short of requests to pass food one direction or the other.

“You seem happy.”

“I am happy. Is that a fuckin’ crime?”

“No. Just strange.”

“Fuck off, Brad.”

I laughed. “What’s that mean?”

He poked the remaining bacon in his mouth and shrugged. “Means I called you by your fuckin’ name.”

I couldn’t remember the last time he called me by my name. I had no idea what him doing so could mean, but I wondered. I nodded toward his plate. “Finish your breakfast, you’re making me nervous.”

He grabbed another piece of bacon. “So, how’d your date go, Romeo?”

“Good.”

“Just good? Wasn’t meant to be? Was she a boring little thing?”

“No, we had a pretty good time.”

“What’d you talk about?”

I shrugged. “Stuff.”

“You aggravate me, sometimes, Brad.”

I chuckled. “You aggravate me all the time.”

“Good to know.” He finished his bacon, then grabbed another piece. He cleared his throat. “What’d you talk about?”

He taught me to answer a direct question with a direct answer. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of respect. Although we played around often, his clearing of his throat was a reminder to adhere to the principles he instilled in me.

“She asked me why I wanted to go on a date with her, and why I thought she was attractive.”

He took a nibble of the bacon. “What’d you tell her?”

“I told her I liked all of the things about her that made her different than me. Like her rinsing dishes, and then her cabinets are a mess, and mine are organized. Then I said I liked it that she didn’t let me run over her. You know, how she ain’t afraid to tell me to fuck off, even though she doesn’t actually say fuck off. It’s weird…”

I paused and pondered how to continue.

He wrinkled his brow. “What’s weird?”

“Reminds me of you and mom.”

“What does?”

“Her and me. What you always called balance.”

“I’ll be damned.” He tossed his bacon on the plate, and pushed it aside. “She beat me in Scrabble the other day.”

That shocked me. Then, I filled with an odd sense of pride. “Really?”

He nodded. “Damned truth. She’s a good kid. Maybe you and her should play it sometime.”

My parents had played Scrabble every Friday since they were in their teens. The thought of doing it with Tegan made me nervous, and I didn’t find it very appealing.

“Maybe.”

“Might sound strange,” he said. “But the foundation of your mother’s and my relationship is that Scrabble box.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “How the fuck can that be?”

“No matter what happened at work, no matter what kind of day I had, no matter who sought the shelter of her safe house, and no matter how sad or depressing their circumstances were, every Friday, without fail, we knew we could count on that game together. No matter what. Through Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, and Obama. Through tsunami’s, earthquakes, hurricanes, the prime lending fiasco, and everything else you can imagine, we had two constants. That game, and our love for each other.”

That same sense of odd pride filled me, this time for my father, and his odd traditions and rules. Friday Scrabble. No fake Christmas trees. No gravy from a jar. No gifts from the internet. If a man doesn’t offer to shake your hand upon meeting him, he’s not worth meeting. Vacations are to be driven, not flown. Padres games are not to be interrupted for any reason. Don’t touch or ask to touch the sacred baseball. The list went on and on.

“Maybe we’ll start playing,” I said.

He nodded and then met my gaze, “Do something for me.”

“Okay.”

“One of these days, I’m not going to be around. Whenever that day comes, call her Kid from time to time, just to remind her of me, would ya?”

“Who knows if she’ll be around,” I snapped. “And why would you say such morbid shit?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Just forget it, shithead. Do something else for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Come by tonight and help your mother move the bed to the other side of the room. She’s ready for a change.”

I stood. “Hell, I can move it now.”

He glared at me. “God damn it, I don’t want the motherfucker moved now. If I did, I would have said get your ass in there and move the bed. I’m not sure where she wants the fucker. You can move it tonight. Jesus, Brad.”

“Settle down, old man.” I laughed at his temper. “Where is she?”

“She’s fuckin’ gone. Shopping. And she went to see her girlfriends.”

“When will she be home?”

He tossed his arm, cast and all, into the air. “How in the absolute fuck would I know?”

“Well, when do you want me to stop by?”

“We’ve got some shit to do this afternoon, why don’t you stop by at 6:00 sharp, how’s that?”

“You gonna be alright for a bit? I need to get by the shop.”

“I’ll be fine.” He lifted his plate. “Rinse that before you go, would ya?”

I rinsed the plate, put it in the dishwasher, and returned to the living room. “I’m going to get.”

Already immersed in his reading, he simply nodded. “Tell Navarro I sent my regards.”

I stared. “You sure you’re alright?”

He looked up. “Just go. Before I get up and put hands on you.”

I chuckled and turned away. “See ya, Pop.”

“6:00. Don’t forget.”

* * *

I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, so I’d mentally prepared for the worst. I eased my bike to a stop at the far side of the shop, pulled off my helmet, and hung it on the bars.

Crip stood at the workbench tinkering with something. “Grab a beer and belly up to the bar, stranger. Where the fuck you been?”

“Just busy.” I took a few cautious steps in his direction. “Nothing really. Pop’s recovery’s slow.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widened, and then he spun around entirely. “What in the fuck happened to you?”

Here goes.

I stopped walking and shrugged. “I decided to just cut it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Peeb. Just cut it? If you just cut it, it’d be to your shoulders. If you just cut it, you’d still have that beard.” He laughed and then shook his head. “You doing another T.V. show?”

“Nope.”

“God fucking damn.” He tossed what was in his hand aside. “You did it to fuck the nurse, didn’t you?”

“No. I just did it.”

“You fucked her in the ass, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“But you’re trying, huh?” he looked me over, and shook his head. “You look like a snitch, not the SAA of a 1% club.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

“This is what you had to come by and tell me? That you whacked off your hair and beard so you could dip your dick in the nurse?”

I pushed my hands into my pockets and waited for him to finish his shit-talking.

He cocked an eyebrow. “What? No answer?”

I lifted my chin slightly. “You done?”

“Done with what? You look like you should be on a billboard sipping a glass of scotch and wearing a Rolex.”

“You done?”

“Done what? Done talking about what an idiot you look like?”

I clenched my teeth lightly and rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet.

He looked me over, and then turned toward the workbench. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“I’m asking her to go on the run to Palm Springs.”

He spun around. “You’re what?”

“Askin’ her to go. That’s what it is, an open run.”

“You haven’t had a woman on the back of that bike, at least for club functions, in ten years. You sure this is--”

I cocked my head. “You taking Peyton?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“You taking Peyton?”

“I’ll ask again, what the fuck does--”

“Yes, or no, Boss?”

He let out a sigh. “She’s coming along, yeah.”

I nodded. “Until you’re ready to toss her aside and forget her, don’t say another word about me seeing this girl.”

“Whoa. Hold on, Peeb. Don’t--”

I pulled my hands from my pockets and raised my index finger. “Not one fucking word.”

He picked up the brake caliper he was working on and looked at it for a minute. After wiping it free of oil with a rag and inspecting it under the light, he set it back down on the bench.

“Tell you what, Pretty Boy. I’ll keep my mouth shut on this deal until I see it influencing the club, your performance, or your well-being. Until then.” He shrugged. “I’ll trust you’re a big boy making big boy decisions.”

“All I ask.”

“If she gets out of line, I’ll call her on it,” he said.

“I know you will,” I said with a smile. “Her name’s Tegan, by the way.”

“Not to me.” He chuckled and reached for the brake caliper. “I’ll call her Crash.”