chapter ten
misfits at the beach
"You've been sleeping in a field,
But you look well rested;
You say your image is new,
But it looks well tested
You're lost without a crowd,
Yet you go your own way"
MISFITS - THE KINKS
The most expensive thing Andrew owned had to be the watch that belonged to his father. There were many a times they were about to lose the house where Shannon and him had gotten into a row about selling it, always ending with him in a bar some place, drunk off his arse and angry..
Shannon was a bubbly drunk. The happy sort that clinged to your arm, giggled a lot, and danced with the strange tendency to rip off her clothes and hop on tables barefoot. Andrew thought these were the best type of drunks, if there was even a good one. He was the one that got loud, cocky, and- Shannon had warned him enough- scary. He walked with a swagger unlike hinself, acting so like a man ("Oi, 'ave you seen the size of her tits? I'd give a tug to that ol' set anyday!") that Shannon and her group of friends were disgusted. Eventually, somebody would either tell him off or look at him the wrong way, and he'd bust a bottle over their head, or throw a barstool at them. He'd get kicked out, he'd stumble underneath Shannon's arm, blood in his mouth and hair and overwhelming feeling of shame even whiskey couldn't numb completely.
So, he supposed it was hard to find many postivtives to drinking the way he did, but he liked the feeling being drunk gave him, besides that anger, so there were just some things you'd have to bloody deal with, weren't there?! Jesus...
He knew Shannon was at home, tending to baby Andy- he still had trouble seeing that kid with his name. The little fucker cried all the time, his big blue eyes like weepy sirens, so really, Andrew couldn't help but run to the bar! It wasn't his fault, really!
Andy had only been home for a couple weeks or so. Andrew was looking forward to the child's return; he didn't want to wait any longer, not with the sobbing Shannon on his shoulder, and then later, when she got paranoid, shouting and screaming about how Gabriel's demons had taken her baby, or something like that... Andrew had never tried to understand, because the doctor had said feeding in the illusions or whatever made the bipolar disorder worse, but still, it felt incredibly heartless to lock the bedroom from the outside. Her tiny fingers- too small for her own good, just like the rest of her- snaked under the door, reaching for his hand, and it was all he could do was cradle his knees and tell himself, under NO circumstances, would he cry. That was not manly; nobody cares when a man cries.
His mental anguish must have been obvious, because the old man snorted beside him, and, once Andrew looked up, shook his head, "It's all bollocks, isn't it?"
Andrew nodded, sadly, head held on his fist as he stared ahead at the bar taps. The old man moved closer, walking with a limp that was likely from the war. His older brother walked that way, Andrew remembered. Pulling the stool out beside him, the man sat down, his weathered hands as big as two garbage can lids as he laid them flat on the counter, "Tell me then, boy, whatta ya see? Don't go sparin' my feelings, or nuthin'."
"I see hands. Wrinkly ones... uh, sir." His once poshness proceeded him and Andrew looked at the man, who only let out a great billowing laugh. It was loud and, with the man's vague resemblance to Santa, felt vaguely cheery.
"Yes boy, wrinkly ones. They've got stories in 'em too, y'see," He wiggled his fingers as though emitting magic, "You's ain't got any wrinkles, but you got a story to tell, don't you, mate?"
Andrew wasn't sure what he meant, but he nodded anyhow. It felt more grown up, and lately, his life had constantly been a chase of trying to be perceived as such. The man looked at him, urging him on, and Andrew took a wealthy sip of his beer before continuing, "Er... I'm seventeen. And... and I got a baby."
The old man patted him on the shoulder. It was a warmth Andrew had never known; kind and strangely supporting that he could've cried... if he was a lesser man, of course, "How old is he?"
"Uh... I dunno exactly, but he's fresh. Was sick for so long, just got home. Shannon- my girl- was so worried she cried all the bloody time."
The old man had removed his hands from the counter, having finished both his beer and his metaphor, by the time he spoke next, "I see, I see. My baby girl was a sick one, too. Six, up and kicked the bucket. Cancer, docs said. Shit story, I know, but," He wiggled his hands, "It added to these babies."
Andrew gave the appropriate sympathies, but they otherwise went ignored by the old man. That much Andrew understood; he hated sympathy as much as the next guy. Still, the man seemed thoughtful, already faintly clouded shielded with a vail of deep thought, "Oh boy, what I wouldn't give to hold my baby right now. I envy you, boy, I do. You're a nutter not to be home with your new babe right now."
Andrew knew his situation wasn't one most people wanted to be in, let alone envied. Perhaps he shouldn't have let this charm him the way it did, smart enough to know that somewhere in his willful advice was a scolding, but Andrew O'Neil had always been a vain man, and stood with some pride, "You're right, sir. Good night, sir."
He made the trek home, which wasn't far, stumbly but altogether not wrecklessly as normal. There had been many times where he walked in the streets, making cars honk and neighbours wake just so they could all be as miserable as he felt, but then, he didn't feel the need. If this is what Shannon felt when drunk, then Andrew thought it was a miracle she wasn't drunk all the time.
The house was lit up the same way it always was; their bedroom, which had also become the baby's, and the porch light. When he walked in, there was a glass of water and aspirin waiting on the table, as there always was. If Andrew was a sentimental man, he would stop and appreciate these gestures, but he took them for tradition and greedily gulped the water, abandoning the empty glass and stomping upstairs.
Normally, Shannon would've jumped up, mad at the noise that his clunky Doc Martens made (he had nicked them, and they were at least two sizes too big), but he creaked open the door to find her kneeling on their bed, the baby in front of her. The dimly lit lamp made her impossibly blonde hair turn white, like an angel's halo, and her plump-lipped pout of frustration made Andrew want to snog her face off, but he guessed now would be a bad time.
"He has a heart murmur," She sighed, sadly, "The doctors told me. And I can hear it, come."
They both knelt over (which, with Andrew's off-sense of balance, nearly had him crashing to the floor), ears against the baby's chest. Andrew couldn't hear anything, let alone an off heartbeat, but by the whimper Shannon let out made him assume she'd found it. So, patting her on the back and pretending he knew what she was talking about, pulled her into his chest, "It's okay, Shanny."
Despite her tears, she blushed at the nickname. It had been ages since he'd called her that. The childhood nickname she had pretended to hate for years and years, never suspecting she'd miss such a thing. "Oh, I know," Her small voice called, slightly muffled. She fit so nicely in his chest, "But... oh, poor baby. He did not have a good start, did he?"
"Well, neither one of us are very good at first impressions," Andrew commented, dryly, lifting up the sleeping Andy and, holding him at an arms' length, placing him carefully down in his makeshift crib (a bunch of blankets stacked carefully over a recklessly built wood structure that once was an end table, hence all Andrew's night stuff sitting on the floor) to clear the bed, "His life will be better. We'll make it so."
"We will?" Her voice sounded so hopeful, that Andrew had the incredible urge to take her and lift her back to high school, pre-pregnancy, to kiss horrifically against the lockers and sneak out to smoke behind the shed in the back of the field.
"Sure we will." He promised, turning out the light, wishing he could keep it.