and they licked the vodka off the sidewalk...
Well. Tonight was interesting, I promise. Otherwise I wouldn't finish this post.
Got on the 6 train from the southern boulevard, hunts point, just before dark, thank you. 9:45 on the 7 to queensboro, call mom,Â
retrieve voicemail, dad wants us to come to his place (N from queensboro). call dad,
"call your father, I'm on the other line with him."
and THIS is where things get interesting. I send liam home, take the N to astoria and walk the mile to dad's place in under 10 minutes. 30th ave is quite lovely at night. thank you zoe for keeping me company.
Annd the lights are on, doors open except for the front, and i spend a good 5 minutes mentally steeling myself to break into his apartment using the discarded recliners and desks that lie strewn over by the trash. Then here he comes down the block with his roommate/cousin, and we go inside. Clean up, drink water, roommate leaves. They're moving out, going separate ways after a good 6 years. And I'm here because dad doesn't want to admit aloud that he needs all the help he can get. I'm sweating, it's 10:30, earliest. We mop the floors with abandoned t-shirts and hand soap, then the windows get the mr. clean treatment. multiple sweeps to check if we left anything behind, then outside we go with all the stuff. Dad puts all the glasses and mugs in one messenger bag, along with a caffeine-guarana vodka that his roommate/cousin sends as a gift to my aunt, who has just had a baby.
We call the car service, ask for the biggest trunk they can give us, and are greeted by a minivan. Load it up, drive away, yeehaw. To the new apartment. Unload the stuff on the sidewalk. It's midnight on the dot.
I look down at the pile of clothes and bags and boxes and frown; a stain is spreading across the sidewalk. I follow it slowly with my eyes to its source: the messenger bag. Sure enough, I lift it, and the smell of caffeinated rubbing alcohol fills the air. Dad chucked the bag against the wall, and the bottle broke at the neck. Nothing else even scratched. The vodka continues to seep down the pavement while dad returns with gatorades. We take in the scene together, me too tired to anything, him unsure whether to fume or shrug. He starts bringing the things up the three-floor walkup, me keeping watch over the remainders.
I look down the block, a lady waddles  towards me, with five small dogs in tow. When I saw her, I decided this was going to get written down.
Dad has woken his new roommate, who gives him a lecture about the locks on the door and which are enabled at what time and depending on who is in the apartment. He stands five inches taller than my father, who grits his teeth and uses every last ounce of his God-given humility to nod and thank him. He comes downstairs to say goodbye,
"I don't think I can walk you home tonight."
He thanks me without realizing it, promising that meaning will come tomorrow. I know. The walk home gives me plenty of time to cry, to dry, and to forget it in favor of a growing strain in my right leg. I limp to my building, to my apartment, and clean myself up.
Don't let me forget this, writing.
I hope the dogs aren't drunk.
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
