Page 49 of Dirty Chorus

“I’ve told you to call me if you want to come down here. One wrong step and you’re going to break your hip.” I argue, grabbing the cane I’ve stored in the corner for him to use. He trembles, grasping the handle with rough fingers, and his dark purple varicose veins eat at my soul.

“Oh,” he huffs, limping as he uses the cane to support his weight. “I’m more than capable of walking those steps. I’ve done it for years,” he grumbles at me as he finds the black stool and sits down. I spot his swollen ankles hiding beneath the slip-on slippers. They didn’t look like that yesterday.

The bell above the door rings again as another group of teenagers comes into the store, gossiping as they disappear behind the rows of CDs. It’s been a bit busier with summer break and tourists coming to Cali.

“If you're going to stay down here, can you at least wear your oxygen tank?”

His frown lines are etched deeper into his face, and cold hard eyes keep me from budging. That answer is a no.

“Who was that girl you kept bringing by?” He licks his lips and presses them into a firm line. It’s the same stoic look he carries in all the black and white photos I have of him.

“I’m an adult...”

“A very immature one.” He lifts the cane up, poking my foot with the rubber tip. “I may be old, but my hearing hasn’t gone out.” I lean against the glass case, fold my arms and cross my legs. “Before you know it, she’s gonna be pregnant.”

“Don’t start pulling this shit on me again.” I look into his eyes and the caverns they’ve become. The dark circles became more prominent with each second passing by. “If I were fifteen again, I would completely understand this conversation being necessary, but it’s not.”

“You are my grandson, and I have a say.”

“It’s my life.” Unless his ear was pressed against my door when we kissed and she sucked me off, there would be no way for him to have heard us anyway. The walls aren't thin and I’ve never been one to be loud with a girl.

“Letting a girl open her legs for you is a one-way ticket to hell.”

I run a hand through my messy bun and shake my head at him. “Nope... nope, we aren’t having this conversation.”

“The last time you brought a girl over, she started banging on the door at two in the morning hollering for you. I had to call the cops on her, and I’m too old for this shit.”

“Charlie’s different. It’s not like that.”

He's silent. It stabs me in the chest. There’s disappointment written on his face, and deep down I know he feels like he failed me. If only he’d let the regret go, because it would be better as a memory that fades with time. He needs to enjoy the time he has left, and not worry about what’ll happen to me.

The urge to walk away and rage clean the dusty shelves and vacuum the store has never seemed more appealing. At least I wouldn’t have to hear him shoving his beliefs down my throat.

“What the hell did you do to your neck?” He leans over more, squinting his eyes.

I release a deep breath. My lungs hurt as these conversations with him never go well. He's going to spin in circles, and later this afternoon he’ll forget. Then come back to bite me again. “I got another tattoo... I told you this yesterday when you asked. Do you remember?”

“We never talked about it. You could be getting your diploma, but you’re staying out late, partying and drinking and sleeping around, and putting that shit on your skin. At this rate, you’re going to end up like your mother.”

I don’t respond to the remark. I can’t, but I rather not let it sink deep into my chest cavity that he thinks this lowly about me.

“Nothing happened.” Satan is giving me a thumbs up for lying, and Jesus is mentally facepalming. You were Charlie’s personal popsicle last night.

“Oh, don’t you lie to me.”

“I like her,” I shrug my shoulders. “But I don’t really think about dating anyone. It’s not on my list of priorities. She just got out of a relationship and it’s not a good idea.”

A lady behind me clears their throat with a cringy smile on her face and furrowed eyebrows. She pushes back her dirty blonde hair, sliding merchandise she picked out across the counter. “I’m sorry to barge into your conversation,” she whispers.

“No, I’m sorry.” I spin around, getting to work. I start looking at the price tags, manually ringing them in, and making sure to fold the shirts she picked out neatly. She digs out change from her wallet, pulling out the exact change, making my life a little more bearable.

“My parents are insane too. I feel the struggle,” she keeps her voice low, but he grumbles in the background. “I couldn’t date anyone until I moved out.”

“Yeah, his memory is a bit rough right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How old is he?”

“Too old for my comfort.” I press my lips together. “Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate your business.”