The Maker of Bad Decisions

The Maker of Bad Decisions



    for Billy










Sylvia heard him dump his boots in the hall only just a moment before she could smell the cigarette.

“I need a snack!”

Her husband was drunk. Again.

Sylvia wiped her hands on her apron and attempted to ignore the banging and the cussing that always followed him home from the pub. It wasn’t every day, but it was most days. She had noticed that the closer it got to Christmas, the more days it had been.

“A twelve hour day!” he hollered from the living room, where Sylvia knew he was already slumped in his chair in front of the box.

He shouted at her when he wanted sympathy, love, and everything else, and she hated herself knowing she’d give all of it to him. Despite the shouting. And despite the fact that he was mean — a mean guy who happened to be her husband and the father of her only son.

Sylvia dumped a packet of salted peanuts into a small festive ceramic bowl and filled her lungs with air — trying to float above it. Her life. It, the air, tasted of tobacco. She walked quietly, out of habit, from the kitchen, careful not to disturb the unseen demons. It didn’t matter if they were real or not.

There he sat — Scott, her husband — in his chair and his dirty socks, plump and sweating and reeking of stale beer. He never failed to fill a room, but it was always in an insidious kind of way. As if he was a disease that spread out as soon as he was given the chance.

Sylvia carefully placed the bowl of nuts on the the small table next to his chair and tried to smile. “I thought you were going to pick up Scotty Jr from school today?”

Her husband picked his nose with a fat finger and scoffed at her. “Did you just hear me, woman?”

Sylvia stayed quiet, calm, holding his eyes with her own.

“A twelve-hour-fucking-day and you want me to put my boots back on and go and pick up your son from school, before I even have a fucking snack?!”

“He’s our son,” Sylvia noted, quietly.

Scott burst into a fit of laughter, his jelly-like stomach jiggly grossly, and stuff a handful of peanuts into his mouth.  “Our son?” he shouted. “You get pregnant and squeeze one out and now he’s our son?”

It took all that Sylvia had to resist the urge to bite her lip until it bled — until it hurt and she could dissolve into that pain as opposed to this pain. Her husband continued without prompt.

“A twelve-hour-day. Can he not catch the fucking bus?”

“His leg is broken.”

Sylvia’s husband — Scott — stuffed another handful of peanuts into his wide, greasy mouth, and called her a word that she could never, and will never, repeat.


~~~


Scott was tired. Macmillan had given him an earful over the whole Calthorpe fuck up from last week, and then, he’d copped a speeding ticket on the way back to the warehouse in the afternoon. The last thing he had need was back-chat from the woman.

All he wanted to do was relax in his chair and pretend like this day had never happened.

Scott put his boots back on an stomped (loudly) down the front stairs. The bitch was probably already crying herself hoarse in the bathroom anyway.

He turned the keys in the ignition, but if he was going anywhere, it wasn’t to Sylvia’s son’s school.

Scotty Jr’s school.

Oh no. He wasn't going there.

He knew of a place out behind the local department store that seemed to be open all the time and let pretty much anyone in. Scott parked his truck in the lot behind the store, and checked his cell phone. Two missed calls from Scotty Jr and a short text from Syl.

    Please don’t make him catch the bus. I know you’ve had a long day, but please.

Even her text messages had fucking punctuation. Scott needed another cigarette, so he got out and lit one.

It was cold out but the fresh air on his face was nice and for a moment Scott thought of Scotty Jr, who was probably…

Oh whatever…

The kid was grown; he could fend for himself.

“Hey buddy, I’m afraid you can’t smoke here.”

Scott looked up (well, up…a little bit) to see a midget sitting on the stairs that were bolted to the back of the store. Flanking the little guy, Scott counted five other midgets and no word of a lie, they were all dressed in matching red and green elf costumes, gold bells dangling from the tips of their pointed shoes and hats.

Scott couldn’t help himself — he burst into laughter. It was the laughter of a man who’d had a long day and a few too many beers.

The group of midgets were not impressed but Scott didn’t notice, he was still laughing and lighting another cigarette.

“Seriously though,” continued the first midget who was holding a half-eaten salad sandwich. “If you want to smoke there’s a designated area over there, away from the building, man.” The midget pointed beyond where Scott stood.

“If it’s okay with you, little man, I think I’ll stay right here and finish my Marlborough.”

A midget behind the first one stood up on his step, a similar salad sandwich in his hand. “I think Franklin made it pretty clear that we’re not okay with you smoking anywhere other than the designated area.”

Scott barked out another laugh and in the back of his mind, noticed that his eyes felt heavy and sleepy — perhaps he should have stayed home after all. Or gone to pick up Scotty Jr. Oh well, once he finished his cigarette he was going to get shit-faced at the bar and then maybe sleep in his car.

If only he could get these midgets off —

THWACK!

The blow to the right side of his face seemed to come out of nowhere, but Scott was verging on all-together drunk so it was only really a surprise to him. He didn’t see the second one coming either.

POW!

Scott stumbled back and felt himself unable to stay upright. His butt and lower back hit the ground, hard, and the world spun, as if reality was orbiting his head. On the edge of his vision he could see the midgets were surrounding him. Down on the ground now, where he was, he couldn’t help but think they seemed a lot bigger.

A lot more intimidating.

FWAP!

One of them slapped the back of his head, like you would a naughty child.

“Hey!” Scott was starting to get pissed off. “I’m just going over to the bar across the lot. I didn’t ask for trouble.”

“Mister,” said the first midget, the one who’d told him he couldn’t smoke, “if you came here…you came looking for trouble.”

Scott coughed and there was blood on his hand. He stood up. His cigarettes were strewn across the ground.

A midget with holly embroidered on his buttoned vest stepped forward. “This is our territory, you big oaf.”

Scott coughed again, and laughed again. “This ain’t the North Pole, sonny," he said. Then he laughed once more — at his own joke.

FFFFFSSSHHAK-BLOD!

One of the midgets had launched himself off the ground, tumbled in the air, and landed a punch right to his gut. Scott’s gut. Scott’s soft lower belly.

He crumpled, and even with his eyes closed, he felt the presence of the little guys all around him.

“We asked you nicely.” The voice was behind him.

“We were polite.” This voice was to his left.

The next was right in front of him. “Are you always such a dick, guy?”

Scott did his best to speak over the pain he was holding behind his hands. “If you’re done with this, Fun-Size, I think I’ll go over to the bar now.”

“Oh,” the fist midget laughed, “is that what you think?”

And all Scott knew was a dull THUNK! under his jaw and a strong urge to lean back off the proverbial cliff.

~~~


“Dude, you’re dad’s not coming.”

Scotty shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position. His cast was itching like crazy today. “Mum said she’d ask him to pick me up today. He’s coming.”

“Dude, no he’s not.”

Scotty knew Gavin would be right in the end, and that there was no point in arguing. Still…

“Dude. Seriously. This is getting old.”

“What?”

Gavin swung his backpack up onto his shoulders. “This. This whole thing where you try to convince yourself that your dad isn’t an absolute cunt.”

Scotty stayed quiet. He hated that word. He also knew Gavin didn’t say that word unless he deemed it necessary; unless he was trying to make a clear point.

The point was made.

Gavin shrugged at Scotty’s silence. “I can give you a lift, dude. If you want?”

Scotty stared down the empty road behind their school and knew that he had never expected to see his father’s car. He had wanted to see it, but he had never really expected it. He sighed and turned awkwardly — he was still getting used to the crutches. “Okay man. I guess you were right. But can we stop and grab a burger?”

“Dude! It’s like you’re in my head sometimes.”

Scotty laughed but it was with half a heart. Maybe food would distract him.

The two boys started their journey to the student lot where Gavin’s second-hand Prius was parked. Scotty hobbled and Gavin walked (considerately slowly) and texted on his phone.

“Love messages to Liz?” Scotty asked.

Gavin paled. “Uh, actually, just letting my dad know I’ll be late.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I mean, you can totally share him.”

Scotty laughed. “Thanks man. Your dad is the best. Hey! Remember that time he tried to teach us how to fly fish in the stream when we went camping.”

“Dude! That was such a fail. We are clearly not fishermen in any sense of the word.”

They both laughed. Scotty tripped forwards and almost lost his balance but Gavin was right there with a steady hand pulling him back up by his school shirt.

“I have no idea what made you think you could land that triple without ruining yourself in the first place.”

Scotty fell back into step with his friend. “I dunno man. I guess I just wanted to do something impressive for once.”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Dude, all of your gymnastics shit is impressive. Trust me. Liz can’t shut the fuck up about how impressive you are.”

Scotty felt a dull blush come to his cheeks.

Gavin quickly changed the subject. “So, burgers and then I drop you home yeah?”

“Uhhh, burgers and then you drop me a street away from my house.”

Gavin made a dramatic sigh. “You still haven’t told your folks that I got my license?!”

Scotty pretended to be sorry. “Hey man, I’m an invalid right now. All I wanted was for them, I mean, for dad, to maybe give half a shit.”

“That’s manipulative, dude. And I fucking love it!”

They fell silent again and the gravel crunched beneath their feet and the ends of Scotty’s crutches.

Gavin eventually broke the silence. “Ok. Burgers and then I drop you a block from you house.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I say something?”

Scotty stopped and looked up. “Of course. But this seems serious.”

“Oh,” said Gavin, “this is deadly serious.” He paused for effect and brushed the hair out of his face. “I bet, right now, that your dad is getting beat up by a bunch of Christmas-clad midgets.”

“What?”

Gavin burst into laughter. “Yeah. Like they’re totally dressed in elf costumes and they’re just beating the shit out of your stupid dad. That’s what I think.”

Scotty laughed as well and wondered if there was any justice in this life. “Gav, you’re a freaking nutbag sometimes.”