Kids These Days

Chapter 35: Finn

Dad watches me like a hawk from the front porch. "I checked the gasoline this morning, and you've got a full tank," he informs me, in the same exact tone someone might say, "if an eagle swooped down from the sky and carried you away, I wouldn't bat an eye."

I crank the handle and the mower roars to life. The fumes are so strong, it's a miracle I don't immediately hurl the radioactive mixture churning in my stomach.

The sun beats down hard on my bare back as I push the mower up and down the lawn, wiping the salty sweat out of my eyes and doing my best not to faint. Occasionally, my dad hollers helpful bits of advice, such as, "Missed a spot over there" and "Don't forget that patch by the driveway". I wish the mower was loud enough to shut him up.

My stomach twists uncomfortably. Everything smells like gasoline and cheap liquor, and I'm pretty sure the sun is drifting closer to the earth.

"Tidy up your corners," my dad calls out. In response, I stumble to the side and puke in the gutter.

Doubled over with my hands on my knees, I arrive at the conclusion that the end is truly here. I accept my fate. I can feel the shadow of the Grim Reaper looming over me, but when I blink the tears out of my eyes, he's traded his scythe for -- a glass of water?

"You're going to have to clean that up later," says my dad.

I chug the water before my brain can remind me not to accept favors from the enemy. Hoarsely, I retaliate, "You're the one who asked me to mow in the first place!"

"Yes, I did. And I still expect you to finish the job."

"Ha! That's all you care about, isn't it? The job. Always the job! You don't want me to pass out so I can finish the job. You don't come home until midnight because you're working on the job." I crank the handle; the mower chews up and spits out chunks of yellow grass. "I know I'm a waste of space to you, I know that's why you sent me to Alaska. I almost got killed by a counselor and you didn't even bother to call!"

"Alaska? What does this have to do with Alaska?"

I keep pushing the mower and dad keeps trailing me after like the world's saddest foot race. "If you're going to ground me, just say it," I tell him. The engine is starting to make suspicious rattling noises. It sounds worse than my stomach. "I'm sick of waiting -- trying to change your mind -- as if you'd ever listen -- goddammit!"

The mower lets out a sad wheeze and grinds to a halt. I curse again and kick the metal box, but all it does is release a puff of smoke.

"No," I say, staring at the dead machine. I feel like I'm going to puke again. "It can't be broken. It's not supposed to break."

I kick the mower again. It doesn't budge. I think it's mocking me.

That's when I completely lose my cool. I'm not proud of what happens next, but hey, it's been a long day. "Why--" kick "-- won't --" kick "-- you --" kick " -- work!"

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, like he wants to calm me down, but I know he's just trying to prevent further property damage. Well, now I have my answer -- if the mower ran me over, he'd be more worried about the engine than me!

"Get your hands off me!" I shout. He takes a step back. I can't bear to look at him, standing there in the grass that I mowed, with the glass of water he brought me to pretend like he cares; and all of that anger, all of that hurt, it hardens like molten lava and I blurt out the worst words I can think of: "I hate you!"

I wait for the world to topple off its axis, but there's not so much as an aftershock. Even the San Andreas fault stays quiet. "I hate you," I repeat, "so much. You checked out of my life. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive you."