🅈🄴🄻🄻🄾🅆 🄲🄰🄽🄰🅁🅈 🄱🄸🅁🄳 •Stanley Barber•

Skinny Ass Gets Fired

Most of my life, I have never had the pleasure of getting extra food when eating out and having the opportunity to store it in the fridge. The first time that has ever happened was after lunch with Stan during his break on Sunday. It was a true achievement, as if I had been driven to middle-class instead of redneck/hillbilly whatever-I-was.

The second time I had leftovers came that next week, eating out with Stan again with money from my first paycheck. It was a celebratory lunch, even if Stan wasn't aware. I was able to keep half of the burger and fries in the fridge until this morning, when I took it out for breakfast. I was already dressed for the day in my normal khakis and polo shirt, shoes ready at the door. I sat on the kitchen table, watching the plate turn circles around itself in the microwave. Oh, the beauty of leftovers.

Dad was whistling a cheerful tune from behind me. He pulled up to the fridge, and grabbed a jug of milk. The whistling stopped, and I watched him uncap the jug and place it took his lips, tipping it upward. I grimaced as a tiny stream of milk ran down his stubbly cheek.

"Someone's in a good mood," I said.

"You better believe it." He placed the jug back in the fridge and grabbed an apple from the table. Since when did we have fresh fruit?

The microwave chirped, and the inside light turned off. I pulled at the handle (it gave a nice little pop), grabbed the plate from inside, and took it to the table with me. Dad just watched as it happened in tense silence. I waited for him to find something wrong — to yell at me for going out to eat, maybe — but he just took a loud bite into his apple.

"You should eat some fruit, too," he said, his mouth full. "My treat."

I glanced over at him and his strangely proud smile. He was never like this, especially as sober as he was at the moment. It felt wrong in a way I just couldn't explain with words. Maybe because it felt too good to be true. It was just fruit, I knew that, but nothing was normal with this mess of a goddamn family.

"Really you should," he said. "Jacob's room is being rented out, and–"

I choked on my food, and coughed it up onto my plate. Dad didn't appear to notice, since he kept on yapping.

"He's a nice fellow, and he's paying well enough. You're to treat him with respect, ya hear?" Dad chuckled. "It'll be like having a new brother."

My mouth curled into a sneer. "Oh, fuck you!"

Dad stood straighter, eyes dark and beady. But who even cared? He was selling his own kid's room to some... to some stranger, as if it was nothing. It wasn't like we were in need of money, with Dad's stupid income, anyway.

"Kara," Dad said in a tone I once saw as fatherly.

I got up from the kitchen table, and threw the rest of the food into the garbage can. I didn't need this stupid house, or him. I slipped my shoes on, and walked right out of the door. Even in the warming weather, I refused to stop running until I hit the bowling alley. It was then that I realized my hands were trembling, and I was absolutely exhausted.

I stood on the curb facing the parking lot, feeling it fold into my weary soles. I watched a yellow car – Stan's yellow car – turn into the lot, jumping at a heavy dip in the ground. It rumbled as it crawled to a stop in front of me. The driver's window rolled down ever-so slowly as I was greeted by a familiar smile.

"You're here early," Stan said, sticking his head out the window.

I checked the time on my phone. "You're here late."

"Never expected you to care about stuff like that."

I didn't say anything as he parked near the front. Instead, I just watched him move from the car to the building, my frustration slowly losing control of my body. Stan fiddled with a ring of keys until he found the right one for the door. It opened with a grunt, inviting us into an eerily dark and ominous building.