Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Around Christmastime I posted a Bob one-shot and a few of you requested more. A little delayed, but ... your wish is my command.
So from the deep, dark recesses of my brain, I present to you more Bob and, in turn, my extraordinarily fucked Sheldon headcanons. You've been warned.
My old man conducts his father/son chats like business meetings with Robert Sheldon Sr. at one end of the desk and Robert Sheldon Jr. at the other.
Same, same, same. Always the same. Robert drafts his terms, tells me he's willing to negotiate, or cut a deal. The usual business jargon. I give counter terms, and by the end of this, he strolls out satisfied I'll honor his bullshit, and I walk away with enough pocket money to buy every grease's lunch in the goddamn school and still maintain a lofty allowance in spare change. If I want anything specific, all I have to do is wait for the next business meeting, because somewhere in my father's unwritten parenting contract it reads: All material demands must be met, especially if I want something from the son (Usually silence; i.e. keeping family secrets secret.)
Today is no different.
"I think we can work something out, don't you?" Mr. Bigshot-I-Own-the-Law-Firm commences, drumming his fingers against mahogany. "An arrangement of sorts."
"Or I tell you to go to hell and storm right on upstairs and tell your wife every last painstaking detail," I hiss just to screw with him and kick my feet on the desk, tearing and scattering what I hope are important documents. "And you get me a damn shrink."
He scratches his clean-shaven chin and raises an eye. "A shrink?"
"If you were a responsible father," I clarify, dragging his papers and my feet to ground in a thunderous swoosh. "Hmm, I'd say a good three years of therapy might help me get over it, 'cause I sure as shit won't ever unsee what I saw. Not to mention that one time—oh, never mind, I remember now. You got me that fancy radio and made it allll better, didn't you?"
A normal father might scold me at this point, but mine? Only interested in the business transaction. "There has to be something you want."
Yeah.
An apology.
A How was your day, son?
An acknowledgement of something more than my name and the expectation I'll be him someday.
"Go on," he prompts, "I'm listening."
My eyes drift to built-in shelving, lined with encyclopedias, classic literature, atlases, manuals, field guides, and god knows what other publications he's never read. At this point, the collection is just another show of his modest salary and the reason our housekeeper's arthritic joints will never heal.
At least he pays three times the going rate for a maid, Cherry likes to say, but what integrity could the man possibly have when he'll write a check at anything?
"I'm talking to you, son."
"Well, I'll be damned, Dad, if that ain't the most paternal thing you've said to me all evening."
"I am your father, young man," he continues and fidgets with a pen like the bored kids in Chemistry. "I've always told you I'd give you the world if I could, so tell me what it is you want."
"Shut up, just shut up!" I slam my fists against the desk and swipe everything to the floor. "Shut the hell up and listen to me. I have unfortunately vivid memories of yesterday, and all you wanna talk about is this goddamn deal."
He drops to his knees to salvage what he can of the mess, curses slithering off the tongue. "Damn it, Robert, would it kill you to help me?"
"Actually, it might kill me," I tell him, swallowing back bile and picking at my nailbeds until he bothers to speak to me again.
"All right, all right." He resumes his throne, summons my attention. "There are still a few items to discuss."
"Wait a minute." My stomach contorts, throat closes off. "I'm a complete shithead to you, and you still wanna reward me?"
"It would seem I'm in a bad position, so—"
"No shit you're in a bad position. Your secretary—Marjorie, right? The one who looks like a centerfold?—bent over your desk—"
"I already told you, we're past the point of denial." And I dare say it's a firm tone. "Marge and I, we, uh, we have connections, but listen, Daddy works hard to pay for everything we have. That's why we have nice things, so I need you to—"
"Already heard your shitty excuses," I tell him, waving a hand to dismiss them, "so do me a favor and just say what you're really doing. You've got a mistress because you're a greedy bastard who can't keep it in his pants, and admit it, you think it's Mom's fault for letting herself go."
"I never said that."
"Well, if you won't acknowledge it, I will for you," I continue. "She has let herself go. Not that I blame her, married to worthless prick like you."
"Robert."
"I thought I told you to shut up," I say, stabbing a finger at him. "C'mon, Robert, this is all a piss poor excuse for you to go breaking the commandments when y'all drag my ass to church every Sunday and made me sit through countless Sunday school lessons. Thou shalt not commit adultery. I remember that one, do you? You really ought to. Christ, we pray before every goddamn meal."
He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. "I remember something about not taking the Lord's name in vain and honoring your parents."
One wrong comment away from chucking something at his skull, I burst into hysterical laughter. "Oh, you know a lot about morals, don't you? I guess, according to you, she should've read those marriage advice columns a little closer in all her magazine subscriptions your hard-earned money paid for, hmm?"
"Robert," he warns, voice rising a notch, but I'm not done. Not even close to done.
"Or maybe it's your doctor friend's fault," I suggest with a shrug. "You know, the one who gave her a lifetime script of happy pills."
"Just tell me what you want," he says, shaking so much he's rattling the pens and pencils. "I'll get you anything you want if you keep this between us."
Oh, I'll keep it between us anyway. Not for him. Never for him. No, because my mother's a fragile creature somewhere behind the mess, and ruining her "perfect family" fantasy would kill her.
If there are two things my mother is good at, they are denial and playing happy family.
"Yeah, I want two things." I slump over in the chair. "I guess."
"What?" he pleads, scrambling for a sheet of paper to write them down. "For Christ's sake, what?"
"First, I want a glass of that fifty-year-old scotch behind you." I point to the bottle. Yet another display of wealth in the goddamn study. "Right now too."
"You want the whole bottle?" he asks, pulling it down from the shelf and setting it in front of me. My eyes widen. A glass. Just a glass, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I'll take a bottle.
"This? It's nothing. I have better liquor in storage." I roll my eyes as he slides back into his chair. "It's yours on three conditions," he outlines, tapping a finger to the desk. "One, don't tell your mother I gave it to you. Two, don't drink it all at once. Three, don't tell your mother about Marjorie. Now what was that other thing you wanted?"
"A car," I tell him and whip out the ad for latest T-Bird convertible model I'd clipped from of a magazine. "Leather interior. Every add-on available. Take a look."
He gives it a once over, and I half-expect him to toss it back at me and tell me I've gone too far this time.
"Nice choice," he agrees after three seconds deliberation. "You can have any car you want though. You sure you want this one? Don't worry about explaining the gift to your mother. I'll think of a good reason."
I nod after one second deliberation. Ripping it out of the magazine required ten seconds deliberation.
"Let me hang on to this, and I'll check into it tomorrow," he assures me, giving a sharp nod in return.
"I'm tired," I half-mumble and snatch the booze before I forget. "Can I leave now?"
No reply.
I dismiss myself in a haste, and gauging the weight of the bottle in my hands, I know exactly how I'll spend the rest of my night.
And the following night for that matter.
xxxx
"But you already have a car." Randy kneads his temples and heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry, man, but I don't get it. You have car, and a nice one too."
Good ol' Randy, always my conscience.
"I know."
"So why do you need another?"
I don't. "Why the hell not?"
"Don't you think you're being a little hard on him? Blackmailing him like this?" Randy begins, and I'd rather peel every inch of skin off my corpse than listen to this. "I mean, you said you caught him making a pass at her … shit, don't get me wrong, I'd be furious with my ol' man, too, but he didn't sleep with her, did he?"
"No." Not in the version I told him. Images of the real deal are burned in my brain like an Etch-a-Sketch you can't shake clean. "But what the hell do I care? New car."
"Bullshit you don't care." He smacks my arm lightly. "You do too care, Bob Sheldon."
Maybe, Randy, maybe, but not about what you think I do.
"You know how little I care, Randall," I drawl, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "As soon as I get that new T-Bird convertible, with the all leather interior, and every new feature Ford put out this year, I'm gonna total it. Crash and burn. Up in flames."
"You what?"
"Christ, I'm pullin' your leg." I cackle and elbow his side. "I'll take Cherry to the drive-in or something. Sheesh."
"Bob, that ain't funny." He wrings his hands and avoids looking at me. Christ hell, he's probably shit himself. "I swear to God, if you even think about—"
"I won't. Lighten up, will you?
"You're lucky," he says. "If I did half the shit you did—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, your old man would let you have it," I finish for him. "Only heard it a thousand times. Sam's just a drill sergeant, ain't he?"
"You don't even want to know what he'd do to me," Randy whines and exaggerates, as usual.
Little does he know he's the lucky one.
"So how long are you gonna blackmail him?" Randy asks.
"As long as it takes."
Only I'm not blackmailing him. I just prefer to think of it that way, prefer to think I hold all the power. Truth: He's bribing me. But bribe leaves an indescribably rotten taste in my mouth, so blackmail it is, and I'll keep making demands.
Sorry, Randy.
I will total the car.
And another.
And another.
And I'll destroy whatever else I get my hands on.
Wear him down completely.
Until he finally gives up and decides this game is no longer worth keeping his infidelity from my mother.
If he wants to play a game, we'll play a game, but I'm going to win.
If you made it this far, thank you for reading and giving a Bob a chance. I realize not everyone loves him or sympathizes with him as much as I do.
Anyway, I'd very, very, very much appreciate your thoughts! :)