Lemon Sugar

He woke to a stream of urine sliding down his thigh; thankfully, it was his own. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry. Here’s a fine state of affairs, he told himself, terrified to open his eyes and see where he was. He could ascertain that he was not on his bed; whatever he lay on was hard and flat. He ventured a guess that it was the floor, although the sidewalk was not out of the realm of possibility. With a groan that evolved Darwinianly into a hacking cough, he struggled to sit up, eyes still clamped shut.To recollect the events of the – to speak charitably – past twenty-four hours or so was still beyond his capacity, as the interior of his skull now seemed to be sloshed and swirling around like a flushing toilet. Another groan and then from somewhere nearby or terribly far, behind him or before him, he heard a door open and close.

“Real nice,” a voice said. A young voice. A young boy’s voice. Pre-pubertal, if he had to guess. Now that’s something. He let out another, final, beautiful heartfelt groan and opened his eyes, blinked one two fourteen times in a row and tried to focus on what was before him.

What was before him was the empty space that lay between him and what looked like a garage ceiling. He rolled his head toward the sound of the boy’s voice and managed to stop it before it rolled completely off his neck. His eyes watered and he blinked until he made out a boy in school-bus yellow running shorts and a San Diego Padres t-shirt who looked an awful lot like his son.

“Isn’t this a fine sight for a boy?” he croaked, then belched and had to fight down the vomit on the tail end. He rolled onto his side to face the door and the son, and his bulk rustled what were revealed to be fourteen empty bottles of Zumwalt beer.

The boy rolled his eyes and shrugged and turned back through the door. He licked his lips and thought, Oh what a beamish lad. He idly built a pyramid of three empty bottles and knocked it over. I should stand up and go inside, take a shower; the wetness of his pants was now uncomfortably cool.

The boy now came through the door again, holding a steaming mug that said World’s Greatest Dad on it. Coming down the two steps and crouching before him, the boy held out the mug.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, gesturing to the mug. His innards revolted at the smell of coffee but he obligingly took it from the boy’s hand.

“I don’t hear anybody else laughing in here. Do you?” the boy answered. He settled himself on his bottom, shoving aside bottles of Zumwalt in a clatter of clinks. “Are you ok?”.

The coffee burned his throat and his stomach gave a disconcerting gurgle. But he had to admit, sitting upright, somewhat, felt better than lying down. “You’ve pissed yourself, Dad,” the boy said. He nodded. “Don’t I know it.”

He sighed and reached out and patted the boy on his golden kneecap. The boy placed his own hand overtop. “Let me tell you a story, my lemon sugar boy,” he said, shutting his eyes again, feeling only the soft lightness of his son’s hand on his.

“Once upon a time,” he began, but the boy squeezed his hand and shifted.

“It’s ok, Dad. I thnk I know this one.”