Crushing Beer Cans

The sound of crushing beer cans hinted at the mood of my…. my house. I wanted to call it my home. But it wasn’t that. My dad’s house wasn’t a home at all. Just four walls with windows. Moss trailed the old rickety planks on the outside. Inside held old, hand me down furniture. It was a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Riverwood, PA. Nestled on the far corner of our two-acre property.

The property where my father’s house sat once belonged to my grandfather. The house too. And when he passed away, he left it to me. But that didn’t sit well with my father.

He couldn’t understand why he’d been passed over. He thought that he should be the one to get the land and the house. But my grandfather had other plans.

After he realized he’d been left nothing, it didn’t take long for my father to jump into a downward spiral, dragging me for the ride. In spite of my grandfather’s wishes, Rick, my father, stopped upkeeping the house and the land. He no longer mowed the once beautiful lawn or trimmed the hedges. Green spots where moss would soon grow began to cover the once charming and lively home. But he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing in it for him.

Rick worked in a garage in town fixing cars and motorcycles his entire life. A life my grandfather didn’t approve. I remember my grandfather scolding him for his poor choices in life which would eventually become my problems. But when my grandmother passed away, my grandfather gave up on trying to get Rick to become a better man. Instead, he put all his love into me.

It was no secret that my grandfather was never pleased with Ricks occupation. And once he was gone, Rick built a small garage on the edge of the property where he could work on motorcycles and dirt bikes. Placing something my grandfather hated on the land that was once his. 

Four years passed since we buried him. Since I last felt his frail lips on my forehead.

And just as he predicted, my father was stuck. Rick managed to become the towns drunk mechanic. And our prized land was now storage for old cars and bikes that my father had yet to fix. I always wondered why it took him so long to fix something. It seemed he loved that garage more than anything. When he wasn’t drunk sleep in our living room, I could always find him there. He would be in the garage when I walked past it to go to school. And most days he was in that same spot when I got back.

But not today. Today he was awake and in the house. Normally, I managed to steer clear of Rick. But when I opened the door of the house and was greeted by the sounds of crushing beer cans, I knew today was not one of those days. And it didn’t take long for me to recognize the mood in the house.

I quietly closed the door and headed for my room. I could hear him in the fridge. No doubt getting ready to watch sports on the television. I didn’t have to see him to know he had a six pack in his hand.

I made it across the small entrance and to the stairs before I heard his voice.

“Where you been?”

My voice came out with a tremble. “I… I was at school.”

I wasn’t always scared of my father. He wasn’t always a violent person. But in his drunken rants, he was mean. Just plain and simple mean.

“Liar. It’s almost six o’clock. School let out at four. Where have you been?” He came closer. A beer in one hand and the rest of the six pack in the other. He stopped at the landing of the stairs waiting on my answer.

“I walk home Rick. Remember. This is what time I always get home.”

“Oh. Is that why dinner is never ready on time.” He started on his next rant.

My grandfather taught me to cook so that I would be ready to take care of myself. I have a feeling he knew what I would be up against in the future. He knew I wouldn’t have a loving father to make me breakfast or dinner.

But what he didn’t account for was that there wouldn’t be any food here for me to cook. Most days I only ate the lunch provided to me at school. I wasn’t sure if we had no food in the fridge because Rick was broke or neglectful. I assumed it was the latter since he always had the money for beer.

Last year, he asked me why I hadn’t cooked and when I asked him why we didn’t have any food for me to cook, he slapped me. Since then, I don’t bring it up. If we don’t have any food, I just go straight to my room and lock it.

And as if he realized his mistake, he doesn’t bring up food if the fridge is empty.

And since he was asking today, I assumed we have food. “I will start dinner right away.”

He scoffed and continued to walk towards his favorite chair.

I hurried back downstairs after putting my backpack away and changing into some more comfortable clothes.

“Cut out that noise. I can’t hear what’s going on in the game.” I heard him shout from the living room. The sounds of crashing pots irritated him quicker. You would think he would be happy to hear food being prepared.

When I opened the fridge there was a small pack of chicken. A jug of water. Butter. Eggs. And beer.

“Chicken it is,” I said under my breath to no one in particular.

There was flour and oil in the cabinet. I made fried chicken and rice. Something else that was always in the house. 

I placed a plate on a tray in front of him. He looked at the food with a sneer. I remember the first time I thought that sneer was a permanent part of his face. Or maybe he only wore it when he saw me.

“What is this?”

I sighed not wanting to know where this was going. “It’s fried chicken, Rick.”

“I can see that. But who said I wanted fried chicken? You know I like it baked, Darcy.”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. His level of drunkenness very clear as my mothers name rolled off his tongue.

He pushed the tray aside and moved back. “You know I hate fried chicken.”

I knew that was a lie. He just wanted to fight. But this time he wanted to fight with her.