South Park: Senior Year

9. Be Sober

Stan stands on the dirt path leading to his front door. He stared forward with tired eyes. Shelly's car is gone as well as his father's truck. He wonders if his dad is picking up supplies or if his mom is out shopping. He hopes it's his dad who's out.
He takes a deep breath, almost as if to prepare himself, before continuing toward his front porch.
"Hey Stanley, how was school?" He's greeted by his mother's voice, making him sigh with relief.
"Fine." He mumbles before plopping himself on the couch beside her.
She sets down the book she was reading to look at her son. She brushes a few strands of hair out of Stan's face. Stan's gaze doesn't meet her eyes. He can't remember the last time he looked his mother in the face.
As he's sitting he hears the comforting jangle of his dog's collar. Sparky slowly makes his way over to Stan and rests his fur-covered head on his jeans. Stan smiles at the old mutt, scratching him behind the ears.
"Hey, Sparky." He stands and pats the side of his thigh. "You want a treat? Huh, boy?"
Sparky's ears perk up and he follows the dark-haired boy to his room. Once inside, Stah lifts the old dog onto his bed.
"Good boy, Spark." He places a couple of treats in front of where his dog lays before lying down beside him.
Sparky scoots closer to Stan, liking his face. Stan laughs, gently pushing his muzzle away.
"Eugh, gross." He says, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Sparky curls up, sighing as he closes his eyes to sleep. Stan stares at the old, gray dog, petting his fur. Every time Sparky closes his eyes, Stan worries that he won't open them again.
Stan then turns his head to stare up at the ceiling. He still had the miniature solar system that Kyle made for him back in fifth grade strung up. The paint he used is supposed to glow in the dark, but there's never enough light in Stan's room to make them shine very bright.
As stan lays there with his dog, his boredom grows, his urge to grab a beer from the fridge growing with it. He debated whether or not he could sneak it past his mom but getting caught could mean she'd ban beer from being in the house too. Stan doesn't know if she'd actually do that, but it wasn't worth the risk.
So, instead, Stan grabs his guitar from where it was resting against his nightstand. The rest of his band was going to be pretty pissed if he hadn't worked on a new song by Saturday and he'd been putting it off all week.
"You d-dont even have to write a whole s-song." Jimmy had told him their last practice.
"Yeah, just get some ideas down and we can all pitch in from there." Butters had added.
The boys' band had actually grown to be fairly popular since they were kids. It had started as just a hobby, but they managed to score a gig during their freshman year of high school; The "gig" being to perform for their school's prom. Since then, Crimson Dawn was asked to do several real shows in their town until almost everyone in South Park had heard about them. The only issue with getting their music off the ground and out to the rest of the world was that none of their parents wanted anything to do with the band. It was hard to continue their music when their parents refused to offer up any funding. They managed to raise a few dollars on their own, but never enough to help advertise. But, even when the boys used their own money, their parents would tell them off.
     Each member of Crimson Dawn had shitty parents. Somehow, it made them feel closer to each other. Even if they couldn't get along sometimes or agree on a sound, they all knew that, no matter what, they had each other's backs. It was nice to be around people who knew what it's like to have a fucked up home-life. This sense of understanding is what managed to hold the band together all these years.
     As Stan plucks different notes, he writes down words as they come to him. He'd been thinking about doing a song about alcoholic parents since he, Kenny, and Butters all had one. Both parents in Kenny's case. But as Stan began to write down all the things he hated about his dad's alcoholism, it just made him realize how many of the same traits he exhibited himself.
     Stan had always struggled with his relationship with his father. He wanted nothing to do with him. But no matter what stan did, he was still his father's son. He couldn't run from his genes. He would always have the same addictions and the same mental problems. Stan had even started to look like Randy the more he got older. Stan hated his dad, but he hated himself even more for being like him.

     After a couple of hours of playing random notes and writing and erasing lyrics, Stan put his guitar down. He'd done enough that his band would be satisfied and now he deserved a drink. His dad was out getting baked with Towelie in his shed and his mom had gone to shower, so the kitchen was clear.
     Stan dragged his feet as he walked down the hall, the hardwood cold on his feet. He grabbed a case from the fridge along with a bag of Cheesy Poofs and headed back to his room. Stan locked his door behind him before sitting on his floor, leaning his back on his bed. Sparky sniffed his head before licking his hair. Stan pet the dog's face and fed him a cheese ball. He reached for the bottle opener he kept in his nightstand drawer and cracked open a bottle. He took a breath and then a sip.
    
     Thirty minutes -or maybe an hour, Stan couldn't tell- later, there was a knock at the front door. A second or so later his mom called out to him.
     "Stan, your friend, Tolkien, is here!"
     Fuck. Stan thought. He was in no condition to come out of his room and talk to Tolkien, let alone let his mom see him.
"Um, can you tell him I'm busy?" Stan called back.
"Stanley, get over here and hang out with your friend!" His mom yelled.
"Fuck." Stan muttered aloud this time.
He stood up and took a moment to steady himself.
"You're sober. You're sober. Be sober." Stan whispered to himself. He was very much not sober.
He unlocked his door and slowly moved down the hall to ahere his mom was chatting with Tolkien. His mom looked back at Stan, her eyes squinting.
"Were you asleep? Sorry for waking you." Tolkien says.
"Uh, yeah." Stan replies, realizing that Tolkien is trying to cover for him.
They both glance at Stan's mom. She must've bought it because she leaves a moment later, returning to her room.
"You okay?" Tolkien asks.
Stan leans against the wall beside the open door. "Yes."
"Well, uh.." Tolkien looked Stan up and down. "I was going to see if you wanted to come over and work on our history project but I'm guessing now isn't the best time?"
Stan fidgeted with his hoodie strings. He knew Tolkien was judging him. Stupid, stuck-up, rich asshole. Who was he to judge? Tolkien had never been unhappy a day in his life.
"Yeah. Um." Stan stared at the ground. He didn't look people in the eye much anymore. "Maybe tomorrow."
"Alright." Tolkien stared at Stan. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. Stan wished he would just go away already.
"Stan, if you never need anyone to talk to-"
Stan shut the door before he could finish. He stared at Tolkien's silhouette in the door window until it disappeared. He then heard the scratch of his dog's paws on the floor behind him. He turned around to pet Sparky but the dog laid down before he reached Stan.
Stan crouched down, petting Sparky's head. "Good boy, sparky."
The dog whined.
Stan stood to head back to his room, patting his leg so Sparky knew to follow. He waited a moment, but Sparky didn't get up, he only whined again.
"Come on, boy. You wanna treat? Come on." Stan made his voice sound excited, hoping it would give Sparky the motivation, and patted his leg again.
Stan sighed and walked back over to pick up the old mutt. The dog didn't even lift his head from the floor. He just looked up at Stan with his tired, brown eyes.
Stan stared down at his dog as he felt a sharp pain in his chest and a lump form in his throat.
"Sparky?"