My Daddy "The Fonz"

Chapter 10/Part 2: Past My Limits

Bobby's POV

"Alright, kid," Spike tells me, like he's that much older than me. "If we're gonna do this, we gotta be stealthy and ready if things turn sour. The cops start to appear more around this time, rush hour for adults."

"What's rush hour?" I ask while I grab my jacket.

Spike's sigh makes his hair stand up further. "It just means that adults have to rush home from work, so the cops come out to give them speeding tickets."

"Oh. But Daddy should be okay though, right? He's just on a motorcycle."
"Nope. Motorcycles get even more tickets because they are very loud and much cooler than cars."

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Fonzie's POV

Well, sh*t. That's the third speeding ticket I got this month. I gotta get better at dodging these cops. I've lost my edge since I became a father. "Remember, you're a father now, Fonzie. You gotta start acting like it." I hear those words seep from Mr. C's lips like he's royalty and I'm his underling. But I know he's right. I just can't help the itch–the itch for excitement and adventure. Parenthood feels like some sort of jail cell sometimes... Ah, maybe that's too harsh. I kinda feel bad for thinkin' that now.

But parents are boring. I wanna be a cool parent, not lame. I want Bobby to like me, not to choose his friends over me, ya know? Man, I wish I had some bungee cord right about now, I could fashion myself a nice place to go bungee jumping. That would give me some sort of thrill–legal thrill anyway.

That's the other thing–if I can't do illegal things, then my horizons have shrunk considerably. I mean, I suppose I could stop by the grocery store again and use my charm to pick up a date for the night. Not a bad idea, at least then I could take my mind off of Bobby. I do hope he's doing well.

Ghee, the grocery store is quite dead tonight, minus a few of the clerks, some old ladies, and some mommas picking up last minute things. So instead, I decide to scour the store for a bit just to make sure. Then I get distracted by the whole milk and rub my belly, thinking about how I can't tolerate anything more than 1 percent or else I get the runs. As I head toward the back corner of the dairy department, a realization hits me–I'm lamer than ever. Here I am, in a stupid grocery store, doing nothing but scouring and complaining about my ills, like I'm 97. How in the world did I get here of all places?

As I trudge past the dairy, I head to the alcohol aisle and pretzels. My anger and self-loathing seize my gut, and I tense all over. Before I know it, my legs crumple beneath me and my arms start going berserk. At the top of my lungs, I spew all the insults I can, directed toward no one in particular. Angry tears sting my bulging eyes as the already half-drunk whisky bottle drops to the floor and shatters, thankfully not slicing open my hand.

I get swarmed by the staff, all yelling profanities at me. I try to stumble to my feet, but I'm too woozy to even get to my knees. Their yelling produces a sharp pain, reminding me that alcohol gives me splitting migraines. I allow the floor to feel the full weight of my body as I drift into my mind—thoughts—pummeling thoughts of when my father ditched us and my mother began to use her whisky and what other concoctions she could mix to make her forget the abandonment. That meant long nights by myself, if I didn't want to be at the mercy of my drunken mother's rage and mood swings.

Those gut-punching flashbacks hit me different now—and pathetic sobs lurch themselves past my stubborn vocal cords. My chest spasms from the emotional anguish, and I just want to die. Is that too much to ask? I'm a lonesome, pathetic loser who can't even punch jukeboxes into singing no more. I've lost my touch. Fonzie's a goner.
Soon, the profanities turn into sympathies at my grown-ass (manly) tears.

They all ask if I'm okay—probably out of some civic obligation—but when the head clerk remembers that the bottle on the floor is an alcohol bottle, they ask me to leave, or they would have to call the cops.

The word "cops" lights a new fire under my butt though, and my legs take off without me needing to ask them to. I end up across the street, teetering in the pitch-dark on a swing set, my feet dragging in the dirt. This is my life now. Whoa is me.

Bobby's POV

"Spike, are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask while Spike takes a swig of half-drank alcohol that says "Bourbon" on the side of it. He grabbed it from the dumpster behind this mini-mart. Disgusting, I know, but the guy really wanted his alcohol I guess.

Spike shakes his head at me and smiles. "Oh, Bobby-kins, here's one thing ya gotta know about us street rats. No one gives a sh*t about us. We don't got money for things like you and your family do. This is the best I can do on short notice." He pats my shoulder. "One day, maybe you'll understand. 'Caus I'm sure you'll end up just like me, once your adopted Cunningham family are done with you–and since you're daddy's the Fonz. Not such a bad thing though, ya know, 'caus it means you know how to get around. The Fonz calls it resourceful. Here, have some. Drink to resourceful bros like us, kid."

Spike hands over the bottle to me.
I smell it and give it just a tiny sip. It hurts. It hurts so much.

"Oh no. I can smell the cops. Let's dodge 'em," Spike whisper-yells.

"Hey–what do you think you're doing?" A redhead starts running toward us, and before I know it, I'm screaming because Spike leaves me to fend for myself.

I close my eyes tight and try to fight him off with yelling and kicking. Nothing works.

"Bobby, it's me! It's just me–Richie. Calm down. I'm not a vampire, for cryin' out loud." He shakes me by my shoulders to make me quiet. "Spike, get your little butt back here before I start counting," he calls as he hikes me up into his arms like a football.

Spike huffs out a sigh when he sees who it is. "Oh, it's just you. How'd you find us?"

Richie grabs the back of Spike's arm really hard, enough to make him whimper. I didn't even know Spike could do that. "Joanie and Chachi were freaking out because you two left without letting them know–and they called me when I was at Potsie's house. Now you two are gonna help me look for Fonzie, whose yelling I'm pretty sure I heard as I came walking past the mini-mart.

"No. No! You can't tell my Daddy we were being bad," I yell. "Can't you just punish us yourself, then keep it a secret? Daddy would be really, really mad."

Richie shakes his head. He looks very disappointed in us. "Absolutely not. You and Spike are going to get what's coming to you as soon as we find Fonzie and get everyone back safe and sound."

"Uncky Richie, pweeeeaaaase," I try with all my might to make him say yes as I wrap my arms around his waist from my weird side-position under his armpit.

"No, no, No! I would spank you right here and now, then have Fonzie deal with you after, if I didn't think you'd try to make a run for it first." He hikes me up higher, as well as Spike. Wow.

Richie is pretty strong for someone so skinny. He can lift us both up, no problem. Uh oh. That means he can easily make us feel pain too. Yikes. I wasn't thinking so much about that. I really should start thinking more often.

Thankfully, It doesn't take too long to find Daddy. Sure enough, Richie was right. Daddy had gone straight to his favorite grocery store–to "probably pick up chicks" Richie says–except now Daddy is across the street, laying on the ground under a swing set.

When I go up to Daddy to make sure he's okay, I see tears all over his face, and he smells strong, kind of like that alcohol Spike and me were drinking. He won't look at me when I try to make him, and his face is very red. He must be embarrassed. I guess I would be too if I was the Daddy, and my son found me like this.

Oh no. I guess we've all been bad tonight. Every one of us. We're all in big doo doo. I wonder what our punishment is going to be? I wonder if Daddy will be giving the punishment? Probably not...