Recreational Love

2. Michael-1

2

Michael

“Damn it Michael, I will not get in the back of an ambulance, so don’t call one.” Dad grumbled, collapsing against the wall of the building we were checking out. He’d clutched his chest and gasped for air moments ago, and I’d immediately grabbed my phone.

“Dad, this could be serious.” I jammed it back in my pocket. “Fine, if you’re going to be stubborn, just get in the truck and I’ll drive you home. Mom, can look after you. But don’t you die on me, or she’ll never speak to me again.” I took Dad’s elbow in my hand, which he shrugged off, lightly punching me in the shoulder. Then he straightened up and gingerly walked across the parking lot, at one point falling ever so slightly into a parked car. Once he was inside, he sat back in the seat and gasped for air. He was pasty looking, and his forehead was covered in a sheen of perspiration. I backed out of the lot and ran the stop sign at the end of the block.

“What the hell are you doing, boy? You’ll get us killed!” Dad yelled, then gripped the oh-s**t handle above the door. I said nothing and raced through every stop sign and traffic light on Cary Street barrelling toward downtown.

“Michael. Where are you driving me? You’re going in the wrong direction.” Dad finally sounded like a man in distress.

“The hospital. Where the hell else would I take you?” I yelled, then instantly regretted it. I pulled over on the side of the road.

“Listen, old man. You’re going to the hospital whether you like it or not. Got it?” I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears. Dad reached for the door handle.

“Oh no you don’t, you son of a b***h!” I stomped on the gas and pulled back on to the street before Dad could open the door, narrowly missing two cars as I drove through the red light on Belvedere.

Dad was a pain in the ass, but I’d rather have him alive than dead.