WHO DRANK MY TEQUILA?
Was it my son? My fifteen-year-old son?
That little shit.
I bet it was him and that loser friend of his, always hanging around.
I bet they’re gay.
Look, if he’s gay, he’s gay, fine. That’s not what I mean, but I don’t wanna, you know, see or hear about it. Don’t ask, don’t show, don’t tell, right?
Where is the little shit, anyway? Where does he go? I know my wife knows, got him tagged and all. I’m not going to yell at him. Not going to hit him.
When? When have I ever hit him? Never. That’s when. Never.
Jesus, it was a Cazcanes still-strength blanco. It costs a hundred and twenty bucks. Hadn’t even gotten to open it yet.
I was waiting for a special occasion, like my wife going to her mom’s or staying with her friends. That kind of special occasion. Me time.
Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll find the little shit myself.
And I did. I found him in the backyard, him and that loser friend both, passed out on the yard next to some disgusting patches of vomit slicking up the grass. Tequila and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. The smell a foul sweet, hot combo.
Passed out. Not dead. I checked.
I’m not mad at him anymore, I guess. I should teach him about tequila, about the expressions, the history, the rules. About sipping it. About savoring it. Something to consider, to ruminate over. About the difference between the good shit from the bottom-shelf shit.
The fuck.
I’m thirty-eight years old. I shouldn’t have a fifteen-year-old kid. I’ve never felt like a dad, like my dad, but my dad died when I was thirteen. My mom was too whatever to worry about me as a teenager. I passed out a lot more than my own boy has, probably, in the worst places. Repeated tenth grade. Lost a lot of friends that way, them graduating, me still a senior. Scared straight after buying beer on a fake license, arrested, put in a cell for a grand total of forty-five minutes. An eternity.
I buy vinyl. I just replaced all my Blu Rays with 4Ks. I drink good tequila and mezcal. I play bass in a band of guys my own age, covers of Alice in Chains and STP. I am a child. I shouldn’t be responsible for a child while I’m still a child, right?
I go sit on the deck where I’ve got a good view of them both in case one of them tries to do a Jimi Hendrix. I look at the empty bottle in my hand. Goddamn it. I can’t afford to blow another one-twenty on tequila right now. I’ve got the boy’s Honors Club fees to pay. I’ve got to make sure he gets money for comics and video games or he’ll pull more stunts like this. He needs new clothes, twice as much food as me, meds for his condition, food for the dog he promised to walk but never did which is fine because Floyd is my dog now. I spend more time with Floyd than I do with the kid.
My son.
The little shit who drank my fancy tequila because he wanted my attention.
Fine. He’s got it.
Down on the lawn, one of them’s groaning. Coughing.
I’ll record this. Get it on my phone and show it to him later. Sneer at him a bit. Can’t hold his booze. My wife will tell me to stop embarrassing him, oblivious to how her yoga pants and tight tees affect his friends, even the gay one.
I’ll tell her to leave me alone. I don’t have a rule book. I’m not going to listen to the experts.
One day he’ll thank me. Or hate me. Or forget it ever happened.
What did I learn from all this?
I need to hide my tequila now like I’m ashamed of it.
Because I’m a father.
Image generated on Magic Studio
ABOUT THE artist
Anthony Neil Smith is a novelist (Slow Bear, The Drummer, Yellow Medicine, many more), short story writer (HAD, Bull, Cowboy Jamboree, Maudlin House, The Gorko Gazette, Reckon Review, The
Hooghly Review, many more), and professor (Southwest Minnesota State University). One of his pieces was chosen for Best American Mystery and Suspense 2023. He was previously an associate editor with Mississippi Review Web, and is now editor of Revolution John. He likes Mexican food, cheap wine, Italian exploitation flicks, and French noir.
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