Bad Scotch, a Sundown, and a Fax
by P. Thomas O'Hara Jr.

I sat in a chair near the window with a scotch on ice in one hand, a pen in the other, and a notebook resting on my lap. I was reclining lazily.

My father had promised to stop by the house and keep an eye on my son. Deadlines were looming. My father promised he‘d take my son outside in the back yard and see to it I wasn‘t disturbed. So, I sat alone in my office gently sipping my scotch. The liquid, although cool because of the ice cubes, slid down in a warm and forgiving manner. I had writing to do, and yet my notebook remained blank.

I wasn’t suffering from writer’s block. In fact, I knew exactly in which direction I wanted to take my editorial, but I was plagued by a laziness, and the freshly warm weather outside wasn’t helping.

The window was cracked open, and a gentle early spring breeze caused the nerve ends on my arms to stand straight up. The nerves were calling on me to leave my notepad and pen to go outside with my father and my son.

Eventually, the warm breeze proved too much. I threw the notebook aside onto my desk and slid the pen into my ear. I took a deep swig of the remaining scotch and slammed the glass down on the desk.

In a moment, I had made it out to the back of my house. My home was secluded in the woods and yet still sustainable from my income as a columnist for a regional newspaper.

I opened my screen door that led out to my wooded back property to find my father and my son sitting together on a wooden swing. They hadn’t noticed me, so I decided to light up a cigarette on my back patio before walking over to talk to them. They were talking, and I could hear them as I leaned over the wooden railing.

“Grandpa, is it true you were in the army?” my son asked. He was six years old and held an obsession with knowing every goddamn thing about everyone and everything. He’s still this way to this day, and he’s pushing twenty five.

“Yes, sort of,” my father said. “I was in the Marines.”

I saw my son swing his legs back and forth as he sat on the wooden swing with my father, continuing to ask him questions about his military service. He asked my father if he was on battle ships or if he fought with army tanks. He asked my father if he preferred to use a gun while in the army or a grenade. A smart kid, I tell you.

“Well,” my father said. “When I was in the Marines I wasn’t on a battleship or in a tank. I was a reporter for Stars and Stripes.”

“What‘s that?” my son asked.

“It’s a military newspaper,” my father replied.

“You mean like my dad?”

“Yes, indeedy,” my father said, roughing up his hair.

By now the two had noticed I was watching them from the patio, so I flung my cigarette away and marched down the steps toward them.

“Don’t you have work to do, Alex?” my father asked.

“I’m taking a break,” I said. I held out my arms so as to offer room for my son to jump into them. He complied.

“Sure is a nice day,” my father said.

After I had had my fill with the warm breeze and after my son had requested to be returned to his spot on the wooden bench I bid the two gentleman farewell.

I made it back to my office, discovering that my during my brief absence my fax machine had spit out something new. Thinking it might have been from the editor’s desk back at headquarters, I immediately pulled the page off of the machine’s paper tray.

It was a fax from my ex-wife. The fax explained she was in Moscow and that she wanted me to give our son a kiss from her. A week before she was in London. A week before that, her and I were sitting down with lawyers working out the final phases of the divorce.

By now, the sun was slowly descending behind the highest trees and the sky was turning from a bright blue into a ginger ale red. The breeze coming from outside was slowly cooling. I closed the window in my office.

I knew my father and my son would stay outside until my son fell asleep. Then my father would carry my son inside, tuck him in, and then he’d peak his head into my office to tell me he was leaving. This was the routine.

I refilled my scotch and put the notebook back on my lap. The fresh air had rejuvenated my senses. I was now writing feverishly, stopping only for quick sips.

It had to be about two hours before I heard a knock at my door. “Yes?” I said, not looking away from my work.

The door creaked open and my father poked his head inside my office. “Stan is asleep,” my father said. “I’m taking off now. Will you need me to watch Stan tomorrow?”

“No,” I said. “I have the next couple of days off, I think I’m taking him to play baseball in the park.”

“Oh, all right,” my father said. “Let me know when you need-”

“Tomorrow,” I said, interrupting him. “I’ll need you tomorrow.”

“But you just said-”

“I said I didn’t need you to watch Stan. But I bet he’d be tickled pink if you came to play baseball with us.”

I finally turned my head to look at my father, who seemed surprised at my request.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m very sure.”

My father smiled and nodded and told me he’d be back early the next morning with baseball mitt in hand. I told him to drive safe, then returned to my editorial.