They were thirty feet from where we stood. Consumed with the argument, they had no idea we’d walked through the door.
Hap looked like a blind two-year-old had fitted his mask. It was askew, with one of the elastic straps barely attached to the top of his ear. His left hand clutched a plastic bag marked with the hospital’s logo.
“Painfully fucking obvious you can’t hear,” Hap snarled. He gave the kid a side-eyed look. “Is English your native language?”
The kid was as white as a sheet. His hair was as red as a fire truck. I don’t know what other language he may have spoken. Hoping to diffuse the situation, I started to walk in their direction. Anna held out her arm and stopped me from taking the first step.
“Yes, it is,” the kid responded. “Like I said a moment ago, this is policy, Sir. I’m supposed to—”
“You can go fuck a goat,” Hap said, motioning to the wheelchair. “You get in that fucking thing, and I’ll push your dumb red-headed ass out into the parking lot.”
The orderly sighed. “The hospital’s policy for departing ICU—”
“Here’s my policy,” Hap snapped, interrupting the orderly mid-sentence. “When my dipshit son gets here, I’m walking through those doors like a man.”
“Leave him alone, Old Man,” I said. “He’s just trying to do his job.”
Hap’s attention shot from the orderly to me. His face contorted. “What in the hell happened to you?” he looked me up and down. “You go on a cabbage soup diet or something? You look like hammered shit.”
“Get in the wheelchair, Old Man.” I motioned to the SUV with my thumb. “Let’s go.”
His eyes thinned. “You get in the wheelchair, Dipshit.”
Anna brushed past me. “How about if I push you?” she asked. “We can do wheelies on the way.”
Hap’s eyes widened. “Who might you be?”
She tilted her head toward me. “I’m with him.”
Hap looked her over good. “Are you the fiery Italian gal from next door?”
“How’d you know I was Italian?” she asked.
Hap laughed. He looked at me. “I told you.”
Anna glanced at each of us. “Told him what?”
“I told Dipshit you were Italian,” Hap replied. “I knew you were either a wop or a Mexican.”
“I’m half wop,” Anna said, seeming unoffended by the derogatory term.
Knowing nothing would be off-limits to the old man, I scanned my memory for anything I’d revealed that I wouldn’t want him repeating. While I tried to recall everything we’d discussed, Anna sauntered to the wheelchair.
Anna smiled at the orderly. “Is it okay if I drive?”
Outwardly relieved the incident was concluding, the kid struggled to hide a smile. “Absolutely.”
Anna motioned to the wheelchair with a wave of her hand. “Get in.”
Hap folded his 6’-3” frame into the wheelchair like it was his idea to do so all along. Anna grabbed the handles and turned the chair in my direction.
“My mother’s parents were Italian immigrants,” she explained, pushing the chair past me. “While my father was in New York staying with his uncle, he met my mother. He was supposed to come home at the end of the summer, but he ended up staying for two years because of her.”
“What was your mother’s last name?” Hap asked.
“Regio.”
“I knew it was something like that.” Hap glanced up. “Did you put dumbass on a diet? Or did he do that on his own?”
“He lost weight when he was—”
I got Anna’s attention and mouthed the words don’t tell him. Anna pushed the wheelchair to the SUV and set the wheel brake.
“When he was what?” Hap asked.
Anna seemed confused. “Excuse me?”
“You said ‘he lost the weight when he was’, and then you stopped,” Hap replied. He got out of the wheelchair. “When he was what?”
“When he was waiting for you to get out of here,” she replied. “He was so worried he could barely eat.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet.” Hap said in a snide tone. He faced the orderly. “Satisfied?”
The orderly reached for the wheelchair and flashed a smile. “Extremely.”
I opened the back door and motioned inside. “Get in, Old Man.”
He gave me a look. “Are you taking me home?”
“You’re coming to my house for a while.”
“You can go fuck a goat, too,” he said. He looked at Anna. “Take me home. Dipshit can tell you how to get there.”
“I’m driving,” I said.
Hap slid into the seat. “When you drive it makes me sick to my stomach. You want me to barf all over this pretty British piece of shit?”
“I’ll drive,” Anna said. “But you’re staying with us.”
Hap’s brows raised. “Us?”
Anna nodded. “Us.”
Hap looked at me. “Us?”
I nodded. “Anna and me.”
Hap chuckled. “Did hell freeze over while I was sick?”
“I’ve got a woman in my house, and you’re coming to stay with me,” I replied. “It must have.”
Anna
Braxton may have been frustrated with his father’s presence, but I wasn’t. Hap had only been around for an hour and I could claim that I’d never been so entertained in all my life. He and Braxton were like Laurel and Hardy, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, or Cheech and Chong. Their love was undeniable and the chemistry between them was irrefutable.
Hap didn’t look—or act—like he was in his mid-seventies. His arms were bulging with muscles, his chest was broad, and his waist was trim. He walked like Braxton, expressing confidence with each step he took.
The similarities between the two men stopped there. Braxton was quiet, choosing to talk when spoken to. Hap never stopped talking. He seemed to enjoy choosing subjects that got beneath Braxton’s skin. He’d then talk about them until they ended up in an argument.
It seemed that each argument had purpose, at least to Hap. That beneath all the “fuck you, Son” and “dipshit” jabs he made, there was a deeper meaning. If nothing else, the subject matter he chose to argue about was worth listening to.
Hap strolled past the living room wearing a clean pair of khakis and a white tee shirt that we picked up from his home.
I looked up from season four, episode six of Mad Men. “Feel better?”
“I needed that shower,” he replied, pausing in the doorway. “All that hospital doled out were whore baths.”
“Whore baths are good when there’s no other option.”
He scowled. “Are you always so upbeat?”
I smiled. “Most of the time.”
He disappeared. In an instant, he returned. “Dipshit go to get my meds?”
“Yes, he did.”
He vanished. His footsteps went from room to room, opening and closing every door, closet, cupboard, and drawer. Fifteen minutes into his quest, the slamming of doors ceased.
He peeked into the living room. “Have you been here long enough to know where he keeps things?”
“I know where some things are,” I replied. “You’re supposed to stay out of the refrigerator, though. There’s a surprise in there.”
“He already warned me about the fridge,” he grunted. “Where’s he keep his hammer?”
It seemed like an odd request. There wasn’t anything in the house that I could think of that Braxton would want his father beating on.
I turned to face him. “I know he has a hammer, but I don’t think he wants you working on anything. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I’m going to smack something once, and then I’ll be done,” he said. “Do you know where he keeps it?”
“He used it to tenderize chicken the other day. He said he kept it in the garage.”
He looked at me like I was out of my mind. “He used a hammer on a piece of chicken?”
“A rubber mallet,” I replied. “He te
nderized a chicken breast with it. It was covered with plastic.”
“A rubber mallet?” His face lit up. “That’s exactly what I need.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
He disappeared for a moment without responding. When he returned, he was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
“Did you find it?” I asked.
He stepped between me and the television. “Do you know if he’s got hair clippers?”
“He does.” I paused the television. “He bought an entire kit the other day and had it delivered.”
He scratched the sides of his head. “Do you know how to give a proper crewcut?”
“I think so.”
He crossed his arms. His look went serious. “You think so, or you know so?”
“I used to cut my dad’s hair all the time,” I replied. “He didn’t wear a crewcut, but he kept it short. I can watch a YouTube video and make sure. It can’t be that difficult.”
“Either you know, or you don’t.” He gave me a flippant look. “Sounds like you don’t.”
“Just a minute.” I grabbed my phone. I Googled crewcut and selected the first video. I watched thirty seconds of the tutorial and looked up. “I can do it.”
“This isn’t a good time for you to be betting on a maybe,” he said, seeming annoyed. “I don’t want a haircut with a bunch of fucking holes in it.”
“I’m positive.”
“Well…” He put his hands on his hips. “Are you going to sit there and look pretty, or are we going to get this done?”
“Oh.” I set the remote on the end table. “You want to do it now?”
“This shit’s going in every direction.” He mussed his hair with his fingertips. “I look like an Iowa farmhand that just got done fucking one of the unwilling sheep.”
He looked like a mad scientist. Choking on a laugh, I sprung from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, he was sitting at the kitchen island with his arms crossed. He studied me as I walked toward him, almost as if evaluating me. Feeling nervous, I stepped to his side and presented the tools of the trade.
“I’ve got it all,” I declared. “Cape, clippers, comb, and scissors. I’ve even got a mirror.”
“Where do you want to do this?”
“In here is fine,” I replied. “The lighting is good, but you’ll have to sit on one of those short chairs. I can’t see the top of your head if you’re on a stool.”
He slid off the edge of the stool. He gave me a once-over. “How tall are you?”
“Five-two.”
His visual inspection continued. He paused when he reached my hair. “Is that your natural hair color?”’
“It is.”
He sauntered to the dining table and pulled out a chair. He glanced at the table before sitting down. “Restaurants are closed until who knows when. What have you two been doing for food?”
“I’ve been cooking,” I replied. “I’d rather cook than go out, anyway.”
“No guard on the sides,” he said. “Fade into a number one, and scissor cut on top, just long enough to make me look mean.”
I grinned. “One haircut with mean intentions, coming right up.”
I fitted the cape around his neck. Clutching to the hope that I didn’t make a haircut ‘with a bunch of fucking holes in it’, I began shaving off his thick silver locks.
“Ever been arrested?” he asked.
The question came from nowhere. It took me by complete surprise. Luckily, I wasn’t cutting his hair at the moment.
I turned off the clippers. “Yes, once.”
“What for?”
“Resisting arrest.”
“What were they arresting you for in the first place?”
“That’s the exact same question I asked the judge. I wasn’t really resisting arrest. It was more just me being resistant to an overbearing cop’s attitude.”
“Let’s hear the story,” he said.
I grinned at the thought of it. “I got pulled over for speeding out in the middle of nowhere. I was test driving a customer’s car before taking it in on trade. I wanted to see if it had any drivability issues. On an open stretch of road outside of Tulsa, I got up to 160 miles an hour. Just as I was getting ready to slow down, I whooshed past this cornfield. There was a cop backed into the farmer’s entrance, eating a barbeque sandwich and clocking—”
“If you were going 160, how do you know what he was eating?”
“Because it was all over his shirt when he pulled me over five minutes later.”
“Proceed with the story, my dear.”
I liked it that he called me my dear. My father did it regularly, and I missed it.
I smiled. “I slowed down to a crawl, and he pulled me over five or six miles down the road. He came walking up the car with his hand on his gun and barbeque sauce from one end of him to the other. The first thing he said—even before ‘do you know how fast you were going’ or ‘can I see your driver’s license?’ was, ‘I’ll be taking this purty blue sum bitch to the impound yard.’ I threw a fit. He told me to settle down. I didn’t. It really wasn’t a big deal.”
“Had you hit the brakes before you blew past him?”
“No, I was still on the gas.”
“How fast did he clock you?”
“168.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said with a laugh. “What were you driving?”
“A Lamborghini Aventador. Someone was trading it in on a Ferrari.”
“Do you always drive customer’s cars like that?”
“Supercars?” I asked. “Sure. I need to make sure they don’t problems. If I took one on trade, giving a customer $200,000 for it, and then when the next customer took possession he brought it in and said, ‘hey this thing wobbles and makes weird noises at 160, I’d might be spending 20 grand for a suspension overhaul.”
“Sounds reasonable,” he said. “So, when the cop said he was going to tow it, you threw a fit?”
“Pretty much. After he made his comment about the impound yard, I said, ‘hold on a minute.’ He said he had the right to tow it. I said, ‘You might have the right, but you don’t have my permission.’ He said, ‘You’re not in charge, Missy.’ I said, ‘My name is Anna.’ He smirked a shitty little smile, showing me the bits of pulled pork that were still stuck in his teeth, and said, ‘Well, Anna, I’ll be taking this shiny blue sum bitch to the impound yard, like it or not.’”
“He sounds like a horse’s ass.”
“He was,” I said. “I explained that I could have someone there to get it in five minutes. It only had about two inches of ground clearance, and I didn’t want them to damage it when they tried to load it on a truck. He called for a tow truck, anyway. That’s when I called him a fat sloppy piece of shit.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Calling a cop a fat sloppy piece of shit is like calling the first base umpire a cocksucker. It’s a surefire way to expose their bad side.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did they tow the car?”
“They did. It had $4,000 worth of damage when I got it back.”
“You’re not afraid of standing up for yourself,” he said. “That’s a quality not often found in a woman.”
“If anything, I have a problem keeping my opinions to myself.”
“How much was the speeding ticket?”
“$4,000 damage to the car, I lost my driver’s license for a year, paid a $2,500 fine, and did 160 hours of community service.”
“Holy hell,” he exclaimed. “Out here people drive that fast on their way to work.”
“I know. In bumper-to-bumper traffic, too.”
He patted the side of his head. “Get back to work, Missy.”
Hap was a hard man to read. I hoped the battery of questions meant that he liked me. I doubted he’d admit it, even if he did. After a few swipes with the clippers, the next question came.
“You’re successful, pretty, and you’ve got spunk. Why aren’t you married?”
/>
“I was at one point,” I replied, gliding the clippers up the back of his head as I spoke. “I divorced him.”
“Just get tired of him, or what?”
“He couldn’t keep his prick in his pants,” I replied. “I swore off men and sex after that. When I came here, I was on a two-year hiatus.”
“From relationships or sex?”
“Both.”
He digested my response for a few moments.
He was a much different person than my father, but he reminded me of him. It may have been that he had hit me with a barrage of questions. Every time I visited my parents, it seemed my father had random things to ask about my life. I wondered if asking random questions was an age-related thing, or a more of a fatherly trait.
While I mulled it over, he continued.
“Is your business profitable, or is it more for fun?”
“It’s profitable,” I replied proudly. “Very, actually.”
“Lot of high-end cars around here,” he said. “Dumb bastards trade ‘em in every six months. Seems most of these rich pricks have more money than sense.”
“I’m sure there’s quite a few,” I replied. “I haven’t got out much, so I haven’t noticed.”
“Can’t swing a dead cat in LA County without smacking a new Rolls, Bentley, or Lambo. Dip-shits drive ‘em like they’re pickup trucks. See them at the store all the time with shopping carts laying against them.”
In and around Tulsa, there was oil money, and only the extremely fortunate drove such cars. Luckily, there were enough oil barons to keep me afloat.
“That’s a shame,” I said, brushing the hair clippings off his ears. “About the shopping carts.”
“Siblings?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Just me.”
“Brax told me about your parents. Shame any time something like that happens. Glad to have you here, but I’m sorry that’s what brought you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Life isn’t always easy, I guess. That’s one of those things I’ll probably never understand.”
“Were you able to get the funerals taken care of before they banned public gatherings?”
The Man I Hate Page 22