IF I WERE A RICH MAN
Chapter Soundtrack: “Motion Sickness” — by Phoebe Bridgers
I burnt the eggs I was going to serve my father, and after that, I burnt my hand. The pan crashed down on the stove with a bang that made his head turn.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “What’s wrong with you? I’m weak. I’m sick. And this is the way you treat me? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I should be ashamed of myself, and I was.
“I don’t want to die penniless,” he said. “I don’t want to live spending every dime I have fixing the bunkhouse. I want to enjoy what little life I have left.”
“You don’t need to pay for shit, Dad. I am the one paying to fix the bunkhouse. You are not the only one who is penniless. I’ve spent my life savings on the bunkhouse. I’m now thousands of dollars in debt. At least you have $2,000 a month coming in. I make $30 a month on my writing.”
“You need to learn to keep your mouth shut,” he sneered. “All you want to do is hurt me. Does it make you feel good knowing you treat me so poorly? Do you get off on it?”
“Yeah, Dad, this is me getting off. I’m having the time of my life right now. I tell you what. I’ll burn down the bunkhouse and put a bullet in my brain after. Then you can die a rich man.”
“You need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said.
“Yeah, I forgot. You prefer it when I don’t speak,” I said as I slammed more dishes with my burnt hand. “I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on. Would that make you happy?”
He nodded. “Maybe that’s a good idea. There’s nothing wrong with me wanting to have a little of my own money. I might want to go out to dinner every now and then.”
I erupted into a full boil. “Who in the fuck do you think’s been paying for all your food since I’ve been here taking care of you? We can go out to dinner, and when we do, I’ll pay for it with the money I don’t really have.”
I watched my father’s body slump in his chair like a man shot in the neck for speaking his truth.
My life played out before my eyes with all the horror that comes from knowing I’m the one who pulled the trigger.
“You expect me to eat this?” he whispered, looking down at the meal I had made him. “How do you expect me to eat after your abuse? I can barely stomach it on a good day, and now…”
I stood in the flames of my burning bunkhouse with brain splatter sticky on my face.
My dogs were cowering in separate corners, the youngest one shaking. “Come on. Let’s go bye-bye,” I said to them without acknowledging my dad.
My dogs perked up immediately and scrambled to the front door, eager to exit.
I wanted to slam the door behind me, but I didn’t want to put another nail in his coffin. I closed it gently, stumbling outside and onto the grass.
All my productive plans for the day were now dead, buried with the dread weighing me down.
I retreated to my bunkhouse like a catatonic apparition. I looked human before I was haunted. I was alive before I killed myself.
The bunkhouse would have been a cozy sanctuary had it not been for the siding, which was warped, cracking, and sagging at the seams. The manufacturer had admitted their product failed, but the refund my dad had received was spent on other things, more important things.
Now, I was the responsible aftermath—the blame taking my father’s rare coins.
“Go get a job, Amber!” the voices hollered and taunted.
“I have a job,” I said weakly as I sat with my notebook to write.
My job is to take care of my dad at the end of his life. It doesn’t pay me well, and it costs me more than I have. My job is to become who I was always meant to be. I am a writer writing books people have yet to read.
Epilogue
“I don’t want to be a burden to my children,” my dad had said years ago.
I could hear the sad echo of his voice and the hopeless despair he’d gained from becoming what he’d feared.
I needed him to know he’s not a burden. I stopped writing so I could call.
He answered on the fourth ring. His voice was faint, like a muffled heartbeat heard through a broken stethoscope.
“Eat your breakfast, Dad,” I said before he could finish trying to speak.
“I did,” he said, with new energy radiating hope. “I ate almost all of it. There are only a few bites of egg left. I saved them for your pups.”
“That’s excellent news, Dad!” I said. “We’re doing it!”
“Yes,” he said, laughing. “I need to get my energy up, Amber. I’m just so tired. I need to turn this thing around.”
“I know, Dad,” I said. “You need to keep eating, no matter what. Don’t worry about the money, okay? I will get a job. I will do what I need to do. We can have Margaret drive you to dialysis if we need to. We’ll roll with the punches. We’ll pivot.”
“I need you to stop being so angry. I need you to stop being mean to me,” he said.
“I will do better, Dad. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. I promise things will be OK. You know I need to have the siding replaced now, before winter hits, but think of it this way—if I were still in Tacoma, I would be forking out $8,000 every two months for rent. We own this property. The money I am spending now is an investment.”
“Damn right it is,” he said. “I agree with you. The bunkhouse needs to be taken care of now. You made the right choice. I need to leave earlier for dialysis.”
“It’s 11:11 now, Dad. What time do we need to hit the road?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he said.
I looked down at my paper, the ink-stained scribe not quite finished. I didn’t have enough time, but it was enough to start.
“I’ll see you in fifteen,” I said.
“I love you, man,” he said before hanging up. “We’ve got this. I’ll see you soon.”
