My father committed suicide in 1992, put a shot-gun in his mouth. I was 28 years old, we were estranged since I was a teen. A trigger hit me like a hurricane this week. I’m having memories, not the worst.
You put the the pressure on my shoulders to arrange everything, who to call. I had to face the chore of the house, a man living out of touch for many years. Worst was going to morgue, hand me original note and his bloody shotgun.
Could you not see your friends were different? They were thieves but not in the same universe. They all took advantage of you, move in move out and steal what they want. One roommate committed suicide with your gun in your house. Down on their luck, will make payments on car, he was lucky to get three payments. He would have to track down and repo the car. They would come back begging and he would do it again.
His friends were people at the bar he parked cars at. All the ladies got special attention, my father walked the lot to make sure the cars were secure. They all flirted with him, fake flirting, trashy bar, easy women going to bar in the hood looking for love.
One night feeling the black dog, I went to the bar where my father parked cars. We played a game of pool, sitting at the bar he said you’re a queen, I said it’s easy to be the queen of scum. I felt dirty. I judged my father just like the company he kept.