This is My Dad

Raindrops licked the pleather of his coat as he stumbled out of the bar. In his hand, two drumsticks clacked together in sloppy percussion as they rubbed against his gig-given calluses. Booze threaded his breathy chuckles, coming out as smoky blobs of condensation in the air. The fingers of one of his hands snatched at the inside of one of the pockets, and a dog tag necklace bounced around the high collar.

"Great job tonight, Rich," said another man, stepping out of the bar and giving him a hard slap on the shoulder. He didn't notice the lace of ash and tar smeared across his fingertips like living sins. Sniffing away a runny nose, Rich snorted a short laugh before returning the gesture. His fingers crunched against his friend's shoulder- hot and sticky, like melted caramel.

"Not half bad yourself, brother."

They passed a swift fist bump before swaggering further into the night, aimless chatter dissolving the noise of the bar behind them. Diluted street lamps caught the edge of Rich's silver tag, falsity flamboyantly glinting the cheap metal. Some people thought he was in the military, but it couldn't have been further from the truth. Two quarters and a cheap slot machine on a night like this, and he was one dog tag richer. Of course, that was too simple. Status doesn't come so easily, and reputation, once received, is hard to be rid of. He paid for the tag with a wife he didn't love like he should've and a child he didn't want to take care of, but that was years ago. After that, he became better for a while. But, habits are like friends that always come back to you when you find yourself in a rut, so it didn't take long for those years to resurface.

"Rich," his friend's feet shuddered against the cracked sidewalk beneath them. "There's something we gotta talk about."

Scoffing, pure white death came out of Rich's pocket and became scorched with hell. Smoke was the result, creeping down his lungs and steeping in the night air like poison.

"O-kaaaay...."

"I'm turning 45 this year. You turned 43."

"So....? What does that have to do with anything?" Rich asked like he didn't know, but he did. Denying the inevitable, living lies and manipulating what he could- well, that's what he did. It was his way or no way at all.

"Come on. I know you aren't stupid. Don't play dumb."

"What's this about?"

The grind of rubber shoes on withering chestnuts halted Rich in his tracks. Drawing a breath heaping with capitulation, his friend's hair brushed the skin of his face redder than open sores. In the dull light of the sentinel streetlights, his cheekbones punctured his skin like needles.
"The band isn't going to go anywhere." The look on Rich's face couldn't have been captured by a master artist, much less a camera. "That's right-me, Dan, Matt, and Ron finally grew up. Lets face it; we're chasing a dream meant for high schoolers. We got families now. We can't do this anymore."

"What the heck are you talking about, Andy?" Rich's hands animated the groggy rasp in his voice. "It's all for fun. We're making money either way."

"Sure we are. But how much? Not enough. My wife cries every night about how my son comes home from school telling his friends how his dad is in his forties, unemployed, and still trying to get big." Andy's face sunk in at the cheeks, an invisible cigarette singing on his lips. "Can't do it- I quit. We all do."

Rich opened his mouth to release a slew of hoggish insults, but Andy stopped him with a finger. "There comes a time in life when you gotta stop the excuses, own up to your responsibility, and do what you're supposed to." His arms stretched, like he was holding a load of boxes in them. "That time is now for me. And you better start thinking about when it'll be for you."

Dumbfounded blinks drenching his eyes, Rich watched with his hands tucked in the lining of his pockets. Andy's coat flicked like a horse tail, the sashays growing swifter with each step he took towards the rows of city houses in the backdrop. Soon, the sound of his footsteps faded, and Rich was left alone with arsonist leaves lighting fires at his feet.

"Stupid," he muttered, his dark hair riddled with goosebumps. At the roots, faint gray groped the dye. "I can do whatever the frick I want."

Crumpling nature's paper under the thick soles of his boots, he sauntered back the way he came.
But he left his sticks, chipped and fraying, for the pleasure of the leaves.