Like The Wind

by Bengtsson, J.

  The phone in my pocket buzzed non-stop, leaving no doubt that my grocery store debacle was trending on social media. Dammit, if I’d just stayed in the liquor aisle none of this would have happened. That’s what I’d come to the store for in the first place so why hadn’t I just stuck to the plan? I’ll tell you why, because of my father and his insane rules against sugar—the one food group I’d been denied since childhood. And since my current strategy was to stick it to the man, it only seemed right to stuff my face with as much processed sugar as possible. And maybe, with a steady stream of the stuff, I could grow some fairly impressive love handles, which would surely give the man a heart attack. Win-win.

  Unfortunately, the ski cap and dark glasses I’d used to disguise myself didn’t fool the gaggle of preteen girls. Moments after I’d arrived in the Hostess aisle, slinking around like some pervert in the kink section of a sex shop, the girls materialized, crowding around me in their quest for sweets. I’d grabbed the first thing I saw, a box of Twinkies, and then quickly retreated. Seconds from a clean getaway, a girl with side braids and freckles had made eye contact and I was done for.

  “Oh my god! It’s Bodhi Beckett,” she’d screamed, and all her friends joined in the hysteria. That’s how it usually played out. All it took was for one baby bird to chirp and the others began squawking. The soccer team had descended like a swarm of vultures ready and willing to rip the flesh from my bones, leaving me no choice but to flee the aisle clutching my Vodka and the box of sugary delight.

  As I’d raced to the front of the store with a trail of screamers in my wake, I faced a crucial decision – die, go to jail, or give up my Twinkies. If I stopped at the cash register, I died. If I ran out of the store clutching stolen contraband, I went to jail. But if I gave up my Twinkies, my asshole father won.

  I chose the Twinkies.

  And that’s how I ended up here, barricaded in a gender-friendly bathroom and praying for the girls’ bedtime to roll around sooner rather than later. Remembering I still hadn’t laid waste to my Twinkies, I grabbed the box and tore it open. Ten individually wrapped pieces of heaven called my name. For maximum effect, I tore open the plastic on the first spongy cream-filled cake with my teeth and shoved the whole thing into my mouth. Instantly my jaws tingled from the goodness and as the sugar hit my system, I groaned with pleasure.

  Heads up, people. This was the shit that happened when parents deprived their offspring of sweets. Their children grew into adults with Twinkie issues. Had my dad just allowed a sampling of sweets once in a while, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting on this nasty-ass floor with cream filling smudged on my lips, all while attempting to ward off a bunch of teeny-boppers in training bras.

  “Bodhi! Bodhi!”

  Damn. Kids this age never tired. What were these girls doing out so late anyway, and why were they stocking up on cookies and candy? It was half past midnight, for god’s sake! Shouldn’t they be all tucked in bed wrapped up in their favorite Bodhi Beckett blankets? Why didn’t they have parents who enforced the no Twinkie rule? How was that fair to me?

  The phone chirped again. My father’s ringtone. Shit. That was quick. I wondered who’d tipped him off to my freedom flight. Probably the guard who I’d tricked into leaving his post with a pornographic video of my Barbie doll taking it up the butt by Buzz Lightyear. He’d laughed hysterically while I slipped out the back door to summon the Uber. Oh shit! The Uber. I wondered if he was still waiting for me. How committed was he to my cause?

  The phone stopped ringing, then started up again. I checked the screen on the off chance someone else, someone pleasant, might want to chat with me, but no luck. It was still my father, and it would continue to be my father until I manned up and answered his call. My pointer finger, crusted with cream filling, stuck to the screen as I pushed the talk button.

  “Yeah?” I whispered into the receiver, licking my fingers to rid myself of the evidence as if he could somehow see through the phone and bust my ass for breaking the Twinkie rule.

  “You are quite possibly the stupidest human on the planet!”

  Okay, so… he’d heard. I already knew the script, so I held the phone away from my ear for the rest of his tirade. He would go through the list of all my faults, verbally assaulting me until he had no more vile words to scream. Thankfully I had a quarter of a bottle of Vodka in my system to lessen the sting of his questions.

  “Good god, Bodhi, do you have shit for brains?” Yes, that must be it. Someone crapped in my headspace.

  “Do you think the universe revolves around your sorry ass?” Well, yes, now that you mention it, I do feel partially responsible for the earth’s rotation.

  “Are you just trying to piss me off?” That one was easy. Yes, I was most definitely trying to piss him off.

  I closed my eyes, mentally devising ways to kill the man with nothing more than the power of my mind. He was ground zero - the target of all my rage. Tucker Beckett—my father… my manager— the Twinkie Nazi.

  * * *

  Knowing what was coming, I’d managed to finish off over half of the bottle of vodka before his booming voice and fake laughter penetrated the walls of my sanctuary. Standing up on wobbly legs, I mentally prepared for dear ol’ dad. I’d learned the hard way that dealing with him head on was always preferable to weak waffling, although I wasn’t sure how head on I could be when I was currently well over the legal limit.

  “Open up,” my father said, in an easy, conversational tone as he rapped his knuckle on the wood. There was no anger in his voice, never in front of a crowd of strangers, but I knew better. Just under the surface was a boiling volcano. My behavior reflected on him and, at the moment, neither one of us was looking real pretty. One thing I’d realized after being plunged head first into this family drama was that my father’s whole identity rested on me. When I shined, so did he. But now, in my current state of destruction, he was just a shitty dad who’d raised a shitty kid.

  Knowing there was no point in dragging this out, I unlocked the door. Instead of waiting for me to allow passage, Tucker pushed his way inside. He didn’t say a word, nor did he have to. The look on his face was murderous. Grabbing the bottle of booze from my hand, he tossed it in the garbage, along with the now empty box of Twinkies. He humored me with the raise of an eyebrow but said nothing about my late night snack attack.

  Surprisingly, the loss of my vodka hurt more than I thought it would, triggering a sudden urge to fight for its honor. I lunged for the trash. Quick as a frickin’ ninja, my well-conditioned father kicked the door shut and then pushed me forcefully against the wall. The wind knocked out of me, I struggled to make sense of the sudden violence. Aside from some shoving and the occasional childhood spanking, Tucker didn’t get physical with me and had never crossed the line like this before. To be fair, I’d never given him the chance, always caving to the pressure well before things got out of control.

  “This ends now,” he growled under his breath, careful not to let his anger seep through the cracks of the door. God forbid people think he wasn’t the jovial guy he pretended to be. “You, of all people, can’t afford to go down this path.”

  “Of all people? What the fuck does that mean?”

  His eyes widened like he just realized what he’d said and that pissed him off even more, bringing us right back to where we started. “It means I’ve had enough of your shit.” Tucker grabbed my shirt, pulling me away from the wall before slamming me right back up against it. “You will go through that door, smile for the cameras, and walk out of here like you own the place. If I see anything less than the charming, confident Bodhi Beckett I know you can be, I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?” Challenge seeped from my core. “Hit me? Ruin my career? Well, news flash, DAD…” I dropped my tone to a whisper. “I don’t care.”

  “You will.”

  “Yeah? Then give me your best shot. I dare you, because when I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

  The tiniest trickle of fear lessened the cont
empt in his glare. He knew what I was saying was true. This empire he’d built wasn’t made of stone like he’d once assumed. His kingdom was nothing more than a cluster of sticks and I was itching to blow them all down.

  Tightening his grip, he clenched his teeth and said, “What’s gotten into you? I don’t understand why you’re willing to throw away everything we’ve worked so hard for all these years. This isn’t you, Bodhi.”

  We? I was the one who’d given up my childhood to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. It was me who got up on that stage three to four times a week while he rested in the green room with a gin and tonic—dollar signs floating in front of his eyes. And my life he’d stolen before I could even speak. No, he was right. I wasn’t the weak kid he’d groomed me to be. I was the man who was about to light up his cushy world.

  Coming to his senses, my father let go of my shirt, releasing me from the wall. He then smoothed the fabric and spoke to me like I was a child. “Let’s just focus on getting out of the bathroom and then we can go back to the hotel and talk in private. How does that sound?”

  Did he really think I would fold that easily? Of course he did. It’s all he knew.

  I smiled, but felt nothing but contempt as I answered his question in my best Eddie Haskell voice. “Sure, Dad. Let’s do that.”

  * * *

  When the door opened, my cheering squad was gone. That would’ve been good news had the soccer team not been replaced with paparazzi lobbing questions at me like hand grenades.

  “Bodhi, what were you doing in the locked bathroom?”

  “Were you shooting up?”

  “Are you being charged with shoplifting?”

  “Is this a wake-up call, Bodhi? Are you considering rehab?”

  Now popular wisdom dictated you never respond to the paparazzi because everything you said could, and absolutely would, be used against you.

  My father nudged me as if to say, ‘Smile and wave, Son. Just smile and wave.’

  And yes, that would have been the smart thing to do. Old Bodhi would have rocked that fake shit, but not drunk and sugar-hyped Bodhi. Oh no, tonight’s Bodhi had other plans.

  My middle fingers went up before my father could stop them and I made aggressive and sexually suggestive hand gestures as the cameras flashed around me. But I didn’t stop there. As my father was hustling me out of the grocery store, I took hold of my waistband and slid it down just far enough to ensure my Barbie doll wouldn’t be the only Bodhi Beckett video worth watching on YouTube tonight.

  * * *

  Like a death row inmate, bulky bodyguards flanked me on either side. My father, the executioner, walked ahead in silence. He hadn’t spoken since the buttocks incident. After being liberated from the convenience store, I’d thrown up twice. Once out the skylight of the limo and a second time somewhere in the hallway of the hotel after a bumpy elevator ride riled up my stomach.

  Once we finally made it to the suite, my father slid a key into the lock on my door and motioned me inside.

  It occurred to me to be pissed. “You have a key to my room?”

  Tucker seemed wholly unimpressed with my slurred speech and didn’t bother to give me an answer. Asshole.

  “Leave us,” Tucker said to the guards. “Wait outside the door and if anyone lets him out, you’ll be terminated of duty.”

  “What if there’s a fire?” I challenged, my impaired mind already considering setting one myself to escape.

  “There’s not going to be a fire,” he mumbled, shutting the door on our grinning audience. Obviously they found my drunk uncle act entertaining.

  It struck me then that the security guards were only following orders. They didn’t want to imprison me any more than I wanted to be trapped, but neither of us had a choice. We were all beholden to the same king.

  When the two of us were finally alone, an awkward silence set in. I took to staring at the dent in the wood table and wondering if I’d had something to do with its imperfection. Probably. Destruction seemed to be a theme with me lately.

  I could feel my father’s hard eyes trained on me. Finally he spoke, sounding tired and maybe even a little defeated. “What were you thinking, Bodhi? What was that stunt you pulled?”

  “It’s called mooning but I prefer the term ‘ass flash’,” I answered, burping up a nasty liquor-filled air bubble. “It’s defined as the act of baring one’s anus in a sign of defiance.”

  I couldn’t stop the sloshed snickering. I mean, I did just say anus, and it didn’t matter how drunk I was, the word was always hilarious.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “Sort of.”

  His jaw taut, my father could barely get the words out through clenched teeth. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to have to do to clean up this mess?”

  You know, really, on the celebrity bad behavior scale from one to ten, my evening escapades scored a very mild two. I couldn’t even do ‘bad’ with any real conviction. No domestic abuse. No driving drunk. No pissing in a janitor’s bucket. I got hammered, ate some Twinkies, and bared my ass. Big fucking deal. By my calculations it might take him all of fifteen minutes to put a heartwarming spin on my evening.

  But now was not the time to ponder such things as sickness began to bubble up from my gut. Without responding, I dashed off to the bathroom.

  * * *

  The pounding on my door jolted me upright, sending a wave of pain through my head. If I’d thought I would sleep off my drunken stupor and wake up a new man, I’d been sadly mistaken. It felt like a team of basketball players were dribbling in my ear.

  “Oh man,” I whined, rolling knuckles over my temples. Why had I thought this was a good way to irritate my father? Any plan where I also had to suffer sort of defeated the purpose. I needed to get more creative with my sabotage.

  I flung the sheets off my weakened body, and shuffled to the door so I could peer through the peephole. There were only four people who could get me to open that door, and one of them was standing on the other side.

  “Ah, shit,” I mumbled, in no mood for company but also in no position to refuse my guest.

  “Open up, dickwad,” RJ demanded. “I can see your dilated eyeball.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled, opening the door for him.

  He looked me up and down a few times before nodding in approval. “You look like shit.”

  The half-hearted smile I offered officially committed me to the conversation. “Well, I worked hard to look this hung over, so thank you.”

  “I know you did. Your drunken ass is all over Twitter.”

  “Hell yeah. Don’t get too comfortable with that bad boy title, RJ, ‘cuz I’m coming for you.”

  “Hang on there, Howdy Doody. Learn to hold your liquor and then we’ll talk.”

  “I hold it just fine.”

  “Tell that to the potted plant you barfed in last night.”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Pretty much every detail of your evening was chronicled on film. My favorite part was when you tried to pet the squirrel on the way into the hotel.”

  “Impossible. I hate rodents.”

  “Not drunk you don’t. You got on your hands and knees and were calling out over and over, ‘come here you cute little rascal.’”

  “Oh god—no.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  We sat there in silence for a minute or so, me worrying about all the things I couldn’t remember and RJ looking as if he were trying to conjure up the courage to dive deep into a conversation with me. Finally, he seemed to find his bravery.

  “So, even though I find the squirrel-loving Bodhi humorous, I’m sort of getting worried about you. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you like this. I’ve come to the conclusion that you either have a tumor pressing on your brain stem or you’re dealing with some shit you obviously don’t know how to deal with.”

  “I’m going to go with the tumor theory,” I said.

  “Man, come on. What’s g
oing on with you?”

  “Nothing. Are you the only one allowed to have a little fun?”

  “No. But honestly, you don’t appear to be having any fun at all.”

  I shrugged off the pain radiating through my head. He wasn’t wrong about that. There was nothing fun about the way I was feeling right now.

  “Look, if this were just about you blowing off some steam, I’d say good for you. All publicity is good publicity, right? But, dude, I’m not gonna lie, this is starting to look like a cautionary episode of Celebrity Rehab.”

  I laughed despite the misery I was in and the gesture brought fresh agony. A groan escaped my throat.

  “I’m asking you this as a friend. Should I be worried?”

  “I’m fine, RJ,” I lied. “Really I am.”

  His brow rose in response. Obviously he didn’t believe a word out of my lying mouth.

  Sighing, I said, “I’m just working through some shit right now.”

  He nodded, twisting his hands together. Clearly there was more he needed to say. “What was in that letter?”

  The letter. Jesus. What she’d written to me wasn’t some standard ‘I’m your long-lost mother’ crap. She’d taken the wound that had lived in me—the one that formed the day I was born and the day she supposedly died—and ripped it wide open. I wasn’t who I thought I was. My father sure as hell wasn’t who I thought he was. And now, all of a sudden, the dead mother I’d idolized my entire life was just a flawed woman with demons all her own. I wanted to confide in RJ, but the deception was still too raw.

  “You can trust me,” he said, hopeful for more after watching the turmoil pass over my conflicted face. “You know I have your back.”

  I rubbed my tired eyes. “I know, but not now. Not yet.”