I beat my father up at Walmart and as I was thrashing him with a ten pack of Hanes socks I heard, like a grating irritant, the term ‘white trash’ erupt from a woman. I glanced at my side. She was a tall, black woman with long maroon colored nails and a faux silk top with ‘YSL’ stamped all over it. She shook her head and then slowly pushed her basket full of diapers, Cheetos, tank tops, and toilet tissue. My father was huffing and blubbering and drawing long glances from other shoppers. In the distance, I could hear a lone siren getting closer. I wondered, briefly, if someone had called the police on me.
Every Monday after my shift at Costco, I pick my father up and take him to Walmart so he can buy supplies to last him for another long week at the Happy Trails Trailer Park. Most of the trips occur without incident. It usually takes an hour and fifteen minutes and then I go home to my studio apartment, make dinner, and then sleep for a few hours before I begin work at my second job where I pour plastic to make clothes hangers.
This Monday, my father said even less than usual to me. I drove him, walked the aisles as he filled his basket with cheap food and cheap t-shirts. As he was deciding whether to buy navy blue socks or white socks he declared, “You’re a failure. I wish you’d have been a success. I don’t even have grandkids. No man would have you, I suppose.”
“I might have been a success if you hadn’t been such an ass hole,” I said. And it was true. My father never had a kind word for me. I fell to the ground as I saw the police approach. They talked to my Dad, cited me, and then arrested me. As they walked me out of men’s socks my Dad, in a friendly voice, said, “See you next Monday.” And I knew I would see him because when you are a failure, you never shake your abusers.
[amazon_link asins=’0062362593′ template=’ProductCarousel’ store=’200wordshort-20′ marketplace=’US’ link_id=’639368d9-06cc-11e8-b80f-cb1f5c182d69′]