Day 19: Night

Stan was watching TV with his dad. Or, more accurately, Stan had been in the middle of watching TV when his dad had plopped down on the couch next to him without so much as a hello.

Stan glowered. Lately, he had been in one constant bad mood. Over the past three weeks he had effectively ruined his relationship with three of the most important people in his life: Wendy, Kyle, and his dad. And he wasn't sure how salvageable any of them were. It left him with no one to talk to.

He regretted being so honest with Kyle the other day. Normally when he told Kyle his problems, his friend came at them with a thoughtful, detached precision. But Kyle had already been acting skittish about the whole gay thing, and now all Stan could predict was a lifetime of Kyle pussyfooting around him, terrified of leading him on long after Stan learned to disassociate his friends with sex again. The whole thing was extremely depressing, in Stan's opinion. And now he had the added hurdle of forcing himself not to imagine Kyle shifting around and murmuring in his bed at night, caught in the throes of some delicious nightmare. What was wrong with him?

"Hey, uh, Stan. You wanna put the game on?"

Stan wordlessly changed the channel. His dad cracked open his beer with a soft fizzing sound.

This was the other messed up relationship he had to deal with. Silence had been the norm between he and his dad ever since the strip club debacle. Stan just didn't have the energy to deal with his father anymore. When Stan was home, he kept to himself, usually holing up in his room after dinner to play on his computer.

"So, uh, how was school?"

"Fine."

Randy took a long gulp of his beer. He hadn't looked at Stan yet. Stan stifled an eye roll.

"Teachers treatin' you okay?"

"Yep," Stan replied, but it was really more of a warning. His dad didn't notice.

"Do anything exciting over the weekend?"

"We don't have to do this," Stan informed him curtly.

"Do what?"

"Have a weird conversation."

Randy frowned, sounding a little hurt. "What's weird about it?"

Stan said nothing. He hated that his dad was so naive. It was the reason he was able to get out of trouble every time he screwed up, no matter how badly. People forgave him easily because he 'was just getting carried away' or 'didn't realize.' Stan knew it was just an excuse for not thinking about the way he acted.

"Stan, you can tell me if something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

He felt his dad's eyes on him for a long moment before returning to the TV.

"So, I pulled a few strings and got us both tickets to that monster truck rally they're holding in Denver next Wednesday! I thought we could both play hooky and go."

Stan rubbed at one eye with his hand. "I don't think so."

"C'mon," Randy urged playfully, nudging Stan. "Monster trucks? Pit party? There's gonna be that truck-eating robot that's supposed to eat a bunch of school buses and breathe fire. Plus they've got those monster-madness mud girls."

Suddenly, Stan saw the rest of his entire life flash before his eyes.

He's minding his own business, hanging out with his friends. His dad bursts through the door, brandishing tickets. "Hey, son, that special new theater opened up downtown, you wanna go with? I got us tickets to something called 'La Belle Vagine.' I think it's French!"

He's older, at his job, sitting in a conference room with his colleagues. His dad's voice resounds from the speakerphone in the middle of the table. "Hey, son, just wanted to know if you were up for a guy's night out this weekend! Tequila? Go-go dancers? Let me know whatcha think."

He's at his own wedding, and his dad is giving the speech. "Hey, but seriously, son. I know this girl, let's call her Susan. Gives fantastic... 'massages.'" He winks. "If you want we can take a little field trip when you come back from the honeymoon.."

"I said no, dad, Jesus Christ!" he snapped loudly, as if he were answering every one of his dad's imagined questions. Randy seemed taken aback by his force, but he plowed on. "I don't want to go on another stupid father-son-bonding trip with you!"

He crossed his arms, fuming, while his dad sat there gaping like a moron.

"Are you mad at me about the whole stripper thing?" he ventured, almost complaining.

"Am I mad that you thought taking your gay son to a strip club with all of his friends was a good idea?" Stan shot back sarcastically. He hadn't wanted to do this, but for some reason it was spilling out and he didn't know how to stop. "No, that can't be it. How could that have been the worst, most humiliating thing ever?"

Randy frowned, sounding defensive. "I'm just trying to spend more time with you, Stanley. Part of a father's job is to teach his son how to be a man."

Stan couldn't believe his ears. "'How to be a man'?" he echoed incredulously. "So, what, if I want to be a man I have to fish and go to strip clubs? That's what would make you proud of me? Guys who do that are losers!"

Now his dad was raising his voice, too. "Is that what this is about? You don't think I'm proud of you?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Well, tell me this, big shot: why would someone who isn't proud of his son be driving around town in the car parked outside?"

Stan was momentarily confused, but then groaned in disgust when he realized what his dad meant. He jumped off of the couch and stormed out the front door.

Stan knew what he'd see on the car even before he'd finished marching down the driveway. Sure enough, screaming up at him from the bumper of the family car was a tacky rainbow-colored PRIDE sticker. Stan growled in exasperation, ripping at it with his fingers.

"What are you doing?" his dad called from the porch, bewildered. The sticker just wouldn't come off, and Stan was growing frustrated. He managed to tear off a tiny piece.

"This," he exclaimed, brandishing it furiously, "doesn't make you a good father. It makes you a hypocrite. And an asshole!"

He suddenly realized his dad was trying to pull him away from the car, so he pushed him back. "Get off of me," he shouted.

"Stan, knock it–off!" Randy huffed, both of them struggling. "We can settle this inside!"

It was dark and freezing in the Marsh driveway. Stan gave his dad a mighty heave, throwing the man off hard enough to make him stumble.

"Why don't you just admit it!" he yelled, feeling the angry sting of tears at his eyes. "You hate that this is happening. If you could wave a magic wand that would put things back the way it was, you would do it."

Randy stood back, speechless, and in a way Stan was glad.

"I... maybe," his dad finally admitted in a sigh.

Stan was stunned. Wordlessly, he turned back to his work ripping off their stupid bumper sticker so his dad wouldn't see him swallow back his tears. He couldn't handle having no one on his side anymore. It was all too much.

He sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. When he felt a hand on his back, he was too depressed to even shrug it off. He just let its heaviness weigh him down.

"Listen. Stan," Randy began, his voice sounding strained. "It's not that I'm ashamed. I'm just worried for you. I'm worried that life is going to be harder for you now. And... I'm really worried we won't be able to understand each other anymore. Hell, I don't know what you're going through. And you're going to grow up, and one day I'm not going to get you. And then what?"

"Dad," Stan sniffed, his voice small. He was almost pleading. "I'm still your kid."

"C'mere,"

His dad pulled him into a hug, and Stan didn't know if it was because he was tired, or because his life was so messed up, or just because being hugged by his dad made him feel like a little kid again–but whatever the reason, he couldn't stop himself from finally crying.

"Now, now," his dad soothed awkwardly. Stan laughed a little at this, and Randy pulled him back by his shoulders to look at him at arm's length, leaning down to look him straight in the eye.

"You're always gonna be my kid, you got that?"

Stan nodded, wiping at his eyes roughly. His dad looked at him sternly until he felt his son understood, and then straightened.

"You know, Gerald and I don't even go to strip clubs," he mentioned, trying to sound off-handed. Stan sniffed again.

"You don't?" he asked.

"Nah." He chuckled a little. "The one in South Park is kind of a shithole, anyway." He paused. "I, uh... I'm sorry for trying to get you to change."

"It's fine," Stan told him. "I'm sorry for trying to tear up your gay little sticker."

Randy rolled his eyes.

"Let's just go inside."

Stan nodded, feeling warmer already. Randy scratched at the back of his neck as they walked back up the driveway together.

"Now, you're sure you don't want to go see the monster trucks?"

Stan stole a glance at his dad. "You said I could skip school for this, right?"

Randy laughed.

"Do they really have a robot that eats school buses?"

"I think a guy at work said airplanes, too!"

"And it breathes fire?"

"Oh, man, it's so cool. I saw a video on Youtube where it set a car on fire and ate it while it was still in flames."

"Dude, that is totally kick ass."

As Stan and his dad talked excitedly about the monster truck rally, they entered their house again, closing the front door against the cold.