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I invited the chupacabara back into my house. I’m his father. It’s what parents do.
He spent the entire day milling about my house while I was at work. Now, at 7 am he’s sleeping in the comfy red chair in a very uncomfy position. I’m letting that sleeping dog alone. I’m in my comfy chair writing, the windows and doors are open in anticipation of the fall weather, this morning is muggy. I’ve lit a candle and have some music playing softly, not to wake him, but to continue with my routine and support my own path to work today.
I tried to get someone to take my shift today. It’s an important day. No luck. I tried to get my employer’s HR department to correct the 32 hours they owe me for leave of absence – reason – medical emergency. Fuckers have taken more than two months. Meanwhile, I can’t call in sick today. I was underwater until a few days ago. This morning I have two hours back on the clock. Corporate grocery doesn’t really care. The system is the system.
At work, no one seems to know how to help me. I ask. No response. I ask someone else. They pawn it off to another manager, who has no idea. No one wants to add a task to their todo list. It’s my livelihood, but okay, do whatever you fucking do here. Supervisors, Associate Team Managers, Team Managers, Team Leaders, Store Team Leaders. Every single one of them is doing the minimum amount of work to cover their shift. No one really cares about a lone cashier. That’s me. A sixteen-dollar-an-hour cashier.
Two weeks into the job I was being told I would be a great candidate for a promotion. They were interested in grooming me into a “leadership” position among the leaderless. This is not a rant against my team, it’s a frustrating reality of my current life. Minimal wage, spending savings to keep afloat. Asking for assistance, mentorship, anything. Getting bupkus.
Okay, I need to leave here in a few hours for my shift. I wanted to be part of the national No Kings day, but work has intervened again. A part of me wants to say “fuck the man.” I have two hours to report to duty. Another hour to call out if I’m not going. I’m going. I have 2 hours of UPT (unpaid time off). Go underwater and I’ll be fired again.
As I said earlier, the discomfort is a great motivator. This morning, it’s my son who requires attention. Or space and time. It’s hard to know where to draw the line between immature behavior and dangerous malfunction. I’m writing, he’s tweaking. He wants to reorganize my entire house and life. I need him to be more focused on getting a job and getting his own place. I’m a refuge, but I’m not a youth hostel.
It has been a tough few years. No one has had it darker than my son. Yet, he flounders and takes erratic steps. He’s more interested in redeploying my entire house, the cat’s litter box, and taking over both my music room (guest bedroom) and my dining room. I don’t need him to set up shop as a gun dealer. I’m cautious. And I have to let him flounder on his own, for a bit.
The incursion has taken place. Last night I got home at 9:30 after my shift. He’d parked his car in my garage and was walking around shirtless in the dark smoking and talking on the phone. Was he high? Hmm. How would I know? He exhibits such malignant behavior, falling asleep in his car in the driveway.
Now, in my living room, smelling of cheap body spray, sprawled uncomfortably in a chair. It’s a little too close to the previous moments, dealing with my checked-out son. 18 months ago this was the same scene. I woke him and advised him to get in his bed. He left one of his twenty “prepper” bags behind. It was full of drugs. He was an active drug dealer. Using my house as home base.
I’m not actually confused about my parental role. It’s the emotional role, my own empathetic approach to life and others. He’s challenging my hospitality. In the first 24 hours he’s roaming my house at stupid hours of the night, interrupting me over and over celebrating his prepper pants that look “normal.” Um, no, they look like military pants. He wants to reorganize the dining room for his office. He wonders about the placement of the cat’s litter box. He wants advice about where to put my music stuff. He won’t stop interrupting. I’m home from work, exhausted. My car is outside in the driveway. He’s now crashed and dreaming.
I guess he can sleep all afternoon while I’m at work. Trust has not been established.
I told him yesterday as I was leaving for work and he arrived with his bags and bags of gear. “I’m glad you are here. Do whatever you want to the dining room. Eleven hours later he’s made no progress and is pontificating in the dark outside.
I have less patience than I had before. And, I know he’s doing better than he was. He did graduate from college. As far as we know. He’s lied about college. He forwarded an email from the school. He’s good at faking documents. Takes pride in fucking the man. I get it. At work, I have a similar “wtf” attitude.
The barest truth is I have longed for a relationship with my son since he was unceremoniously extricated from my supervision at 9. My ex-wife and her husband assumed the guidance and boundaries. Introduced him to adderall and klonapin. Oh, joy!
“Don’t fuck with that shit,” I told him. He fucked with it. Loved it. Fell through layers and layers of protection and support. Continued to rebel and go opposite directions to his best interest. What makes me think he’s acting differently now?
He nearly got his first job out of college. Four rounds of interviews. Then, no. I don’t think he’s seriously attacked the job market. He’s got a side hustle. It will never get him enough income to qualify for an apartment. So, what’s the plan? What’s his plan? What’s my plan? That’s really all I can take charge of, my boundaries, my actions.
Again, in his history, when given advice or suggestions, he goes against the grain to prove his point. He had 10 hours at my house alone and I can’t tell that he did much more than move his car into my garage and pull a ton of bags into the dining room. Bags and bags. More gear, binoculars, guns, nylon bags with straps and mollistraps. His prepper stuff is bleeding into my house. His guns and ammo are all over my house. What the fuck is crazy about this?
The AI companions think I should call the police and have the guns removed. Um, yeah, that’s not how parenting works. Yesterday, I gave him some direct feedback about my house and this moment in our lives together. I want a plan to get the guns out of my house. I want him to pay rent next month, and I will put it into savings account that he can use to pay deposits and rent when he gets an apartment. Without a real job, however, that prospect is low. He’s more likely to need a low-rent roommate situation again. I am not willing to be his roommate. He’s a shitty roommate.
At this moment, in 24 hours he’s wrecked my dining room, taken liberties with my stuff, my parking, and his presence in my house. When someone gets up at 2 am and rustles around like an armadillo, the cats are going to be activated. This house is mine. My cats are part of my constellation. He is a damaged spaceship passing through. My goal is to support him, while assuring that my life is not disrupted. His incursions have proven toxic to me and my health, in the past. I’m more determined and clear about what I will and will not tolerate.
How to address his guns and military approach to life? It’s sort of like a game. It’s also deadly serious. He has brushes with the law. His car filled with guns. His car registration has been in limbo for almost a year now. He’s not taking care of his shit. Even his move here was filled with last-minute crisis and drama. When I was leaving work the day before, he called at 5 pm, rush hour, to ask if I would bring him some packing boxes. I was just heading home. His apartment is forty-five minutes away in light traffic. I advised him he could get more bags or boxes at Target. I was going home.
Then he was supposed to be arriving that night. No time. No updates.
And now we’re sharing my living room in the same way we did before he was busted. And how we tried to continue after he walked out of rehab. And…
This one is going to be different. I could feel, last night, as I was going to sleep, how fear was beginning to rumble in my gut.
I will not be debris in his storm. He needs to show me his plans for moving out, his progress at job hunting, and keep his tweaky ass from interrupting my own reconstruction process.
This is not a comedy. At the moment, it’s not a tragedy either. Not optimal, but hey, I’m a dad. It’s just a little chupacabra in my living room. Sleeping. For now.
