L
Lustful_Intentions
Guest
Jeff Hawkins caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window, pausing for a minute to evaluate it. Only a few weeks past his 45th birthday, his dark, short brown hair was showing a bit more than the dotting of grey that had creeped across his temples in recent years. He stroked two fingers of his left hand down his cheek, scratching at the two days’ worth of stubble that dotted his face. More grey there, he noted.
The hiss of his Kuerig, perched on the black granite countertop to his right, dragged his wandering mind back into focus. Jeff had company that drizzly Saturday morning, and he needed to at least pretend to be happy that he had it. Hoisting a mug of steaming Colombian roast in each hand-one with faded lettering that read ‘World’s #1 Dad’ and the other with an outline of the Space Needle-Jeff turned to his twenty-two year old son, Alan, and handed him one.
“So, son, what is it you wanted to stop by and chat about?” In Jeff’s mind, there was no point in being anything but direct at 8:45AM on a Saturday. He motioned to the kitchen table, where two weeks worth of The New York Times, and The Seattle Post Intelligencer needed to be moved aside to allow them to set their mugs down.
Jeff was already sitting when Alan, in the motion of settling in across from him, hit a familiar note.
“Dad, I wanted to talk to you about the house, again.”
“Again with this? The house is fine.”
“No, Dad, it isn’t-look,” a variation of this conversation had occurred at least six times in the last 18 months, and Alan basically started on exasperated at this point, “just because you don’t have dishes piling up and rodents crawling around, doesn’t mean that things are ‘fine’. When’s the last time you even stepped foot above the garage?”
Jeff took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He hated to admit it, but Alan was far and away correct. If the stacks of newsprint didn’t give it away, the clutter that had taken over his study, and especially his treasured record collection, most certainly did so. Drumming his fingers along the rim of the #1 Dad mug, Jeff took stock of his situation, and why he was even having this conversation.
‘Above the garage’ meant the one-bedroom loft that Jeff’s father, Jim inhabited for the last five years of his life. He’d moved in shortly after the family purchased the home, Jeff having selected property specifically for that space. In reality, Jeff knew he should have sent his father to live in a place where he’d get the attention an elderly widower needed, but Jim was fiercely independent, even over his son’s objections.
It was that independent streak that eventually caused Jim to fall down the stairs of that very loft five years ago, leading to the broken hip that led to the hospital stay that led to the infection that killed the elder Hawkins man. On the day Jim was buried, Jeff came back to the loft, cleared out all of his father’s personal effects, placed a padlock on the door, and considered himself done with the space forever.
Still, knowing Alan was right and admitting it out loud were vastly different things.
Jeff fixed his narrow gaze on his son, “You know I’ve not been up there in years-I’ve no reason to go up there, son.” His tone was more severe-he did not appreciate his son pushing him like this.
“Fine, Dad, fine.” Alan wasn’t done. “What about all….this?” He waved at the stacks of papers with his free hand. “It’s been like this for the last two years, ever since…”
Jeff cut him off. Harshly.
“Ever since your mother and your sister died? Since a drunk driver stole their lives?” His voice was cold. “Yes, I suppose I’ve let a few things get out of order since then. I guess maybe I’ve had a few other things on my mind.” The tone had switched to sarcasm now, a move with which Alan had great familiarity.
“Dad, look, I know. I’m not saying that you have to go out and remarry, or make some drastic change. I just want to be able to go back to school in a few weeks knowing that you’re not going to drown under a mountain of junk here.” Alan was due to head back to UCLA for his senior year in just three short weeks.
“Just, just let me see if I can’t help you find someone to help you take care of the place. You can afford the help, and if you let some struggling college student use the loft, you can probably get off pretty cheap in exchange for the room and board. I’ll hang some flyers up at a couple of the coffee shops near campus, and see what we come up with.”
Jeff considered the proposal, rubbing his right hand over his dark green eyes. It was the second time Alan had made this exact pitch. The house was only a few miles from the main campus of the University of Washington, so it seemed practical enough, once Jeff could bring himself to open up part of his home, even the detached part, to a stranger.
He smiled weakly, staring down at his mug. “Fine, son. You win. Let’s see what you can come up with.”
The hiss of his Kuerig, perched on the black granite countertop to his right, dragged his wandering mind back into focus. Jeff had company that drizzly Saturday morning, and he needed to at least pretend to be happy that he had it. Hoisting a mug of steaming Colombian roast in each hand-one with faded lettering that read ‘World’s #1 Dad’ and the other with an outline of the Space Needle-Jeff turned to his twenty-two year old son, Alan, and handed him one.
“So, son, what is it you wanted to stop by and chat about?” In Jeff’s mind, there was no point in being anything but direct at 8:45AM on a Saturday. He motioned to the kitchen table, where two weeks worth of The New York Times, and The Seattle Post Intelligencer needed to be moved aside to allow them to set their mugs down.
Jeff was already sitting when Alan, in the motion of settling in across from him, hit a familiar note.
“Dad, I wanted to talk to you about the house, again.”
“Again with this? The house is fine.”
“No, Dad, it isn’t-look,” a variation of this conversation had occurred at least six times in the last 18 months, and Alan basically started on exasperated at this point, “just because you don’t have dishes piling up and rodents crawling around, doesn’t mean that things are ‘fine’. When’s the last time you even stepped foot above the garage?”
Jeff took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He hated to admit it, but Alan was far and away correct. If the stacks of newsprint didn’t give it away, the clutter that had taken over his study, and especially his treasured record collection, most certainly did so. Drumming his fingers along the rim of the #1 Dad mug, Jeff took stock of his situation, and why he was even having this conversation.
‘Above the garage’ meant the one-bedroom loft that Jeff’s father, Jim inhabited for the last five years of his life. He’d moved in shortly after the family purchased the home, Jeff having selected property specifically for that space. In reality, Jeff knew he should have sent his father to live in a place where he’d get the attention an elderly widower needed, but Jim was fiercely independent, even over his son’s objections.
It was that independent streak that eventually caused Jim to fall down the stairs of that very loft five years ago, leading to the broken hip that led to the hospital stay that led to the infection that killed the elder Hawkins man. On the day Jim was buried, Jeff came back to the loft, cleared out all of his father’s personal effects, placed a padlock on the door, and considered himself done with the space forever.
Still, knowing Alan was right and admitting it out loud were vastly different things.
Jeff fixed his narrow gaze on his son, “You know I’ve not been up there in years-I’ve no reason to go up there, son.” His tone was more severe-he did not appreciate his son pushing him like this.
“Fine, Dad, fine.” Alan wasn’t done. “What about all….this?” He waved at the stacks of papers with his free hand. “It’s been like this for the last two years, ever since…”
Jeff cut him off. Harshly.
“Ever since your mother and your sister died? Since a drunk driver stole their lives?” His voice was cold. “Yes, I suppose I’ve let a few things get out of order since then. I guess maybe I’ve had a few other things on my mind.” The tone had switched to sarcasm now, a move with which Alan had great familiarity.
“Dad, look, I know. I’m not saying that you have to go out and remarry, or make some drastic change. I just want to be able to go back to school in a few weeks knowing that you’re not going to drown under a mountain of junk here.” Alan was due to head back to UCLA for his senior year in just three short weeks.
“Just, just let me see if I can’t help you find someone to help you take care of the place. You can afford the help, and if you let some struggling college student use the loft, you can probably get off pretty cheap in exchange for the room and board. I’ll hang some flyers up at a couple of the coffee shops near campus, and see what we come up with.”
Jeff considered the proposal, rubbing his right hand over his dark green eyes. It was the second time Alan had made this exact pitch. The house was only a few miles from the main campus of the University of Washington, so it seemed practical enough, once Jeff could bring himself to open up part of his home, even the detached part, to a stranger.
He smiled weakly, staring down at his mug. “Fine, son. You win. Let’s see what you can come up with.”