My Daddy "The Fonz"

Chapter 2: Hello Daddy

Bobby's POV:

Who is this guy? He acts tough, mom would say. She warned me about that, but I don't see him as scary. Maybe hairy, and smelly, like a pine tree or something, but not scary. He asks me to sit next to him on his red and white checker couch. I don't really know what to think. He seems nice, nicer than my mom has been lately.

I can't seem to focus on anything right now.

Why would she leave me? Did I do something wrong? She wouldn't talk to me for days, almost like she was mad at me...I guess she must hate me. She must. Nothing else would make sense.

But I always did what she told me. I even did the dishes without asking–and the trash. If I didn't, I knew she wouldn't like it, and she would give me this...I don't know...this sad frown. It's just not fair. I hope this guy doesn't make me do things like she did. Where did she go? It just doesn't make sense.

"Hey, kid. Hello in there? Hello?" The guy pretends to knock on my head like I am some door. "Answer me. Are you okay?"

I just nod, then I start to feel my tummy growl. Oh no. Mommy forgot to feed me before she left. I hope this guy knows how to make mac 'n cheese–or at least a hot dog–or meat loaf. Man, am I hungry! I stare down and hold my tummy to make it stop being so loud.

"Look at me, buddy." He brings my chin up with his fingers and looks at me, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, you're hungry, eh? I'm gonna call Richie. He'd know what to do about this."

I wonder what he means by that. And who's Richie? He must've noticed my face crinkle up because he answers my thoughts.

"It's okay. Richie is just my friend. He likes kids. He can whip you up something real good."

I gulp. What did he just say? "Whip me?"

The guy stops, and his eyes go wide. "No. I just mean get you something to eat that's good. No one's gonna whip ya, kid." He shakes his head and laughs. I don't know why he thinks it is so funny, 'caus I sure don't. I hope this Richie guy knows what he's doing. He better hurry here before I die from hunger.

This guy–Fonzie he says his own name is–tells me to "sit tight" and watch some TV while he calls people. He's kind of weird. He walks funny, like he has an invisible thing keeping his legs apart. And he talks funny too, like every word needs to be real long. Before I could see the next commercials, Fonzie comes back and stands in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, just staring at the floor. Maybe he is thinking.

"Whatcha doing?" I ask, but then I wish I didn't ask it because, well, I'm not sure why. Just because. The butterflies–those little creepy things that make me feel like falling down or hiding. They make my insides dance around too. I then soon find myself underneath one of the couch cushions, peeking only one eye out.

Fonzie raises his eyebrows again and smiles. Why does he think this is so funny? He starts walking to me, and I can feel the butterflies start up again. I don't like being alone with him–or with any one of my mommy's friends. They are never nice. I feel his hand on the top of my hair but I duck again. Then he pulls the pillow off me, and I squirm. "Go away!" I yell. "Stay over there!"

He doesn't listen.

He tries to lift me from the couch but I kick and I kick. When he sets me down on the floor and puts his hand on my shoulder, I can't help it–I have to protect myself–so I bite the hand.

"Heeeey," he growls. "No biting. I just want to make sure you're alright. Here, until Richie gets here." He gives me a cold Coke. Is this Christmas? I never get soda. Wow. Maybe he isn't so bad after all. I mean, mommy's other friends would be hurting me or ignoring me right now, but not him. Huh. "Sit your butt on the couch until Richie gets here, capeesh?" He says. Okay, maybe not so nice. I listen, a little nervous about what he might do if I don't.

"RICHIE!" I hear Fonzie's voice echo, making me jump. He runs to the door at the first knock. "Oh, my friend, my buddy, my pal, you have to help me here."

This red-haired, freckly guy scratches his head as he looks at me. "Help you with what, Fonz? Who's this? You babysitting? I didn't know you liked to babysit. As a matter of fact, I thought–"

Fonzie shushes him. "No, Cunningham, this kid here is...well...supposedly mine." He looks at the floor, his eyes blank again. I wonder what he is thinking. If he's thinking the same way I'm thinking, then he must be freaking out.

"WHAT?" Richie screeches. "No way! How?"

Fonzie sighs. "Been there, done that. Look." He hands Richie the paper I gave him that says when and where I was born. "Says right there, Cunningham, that I'm this boy's father. And his mom just leaves him here with me. What do I do now? At least help me feed him. I don't know how to cook–well, nothing fancy. Red, ya gotta help me."

For a tough guy, this guy seems pretty much like me. If he wasn't so tall, I would think he was just a kid. How does he even feed himself?

Richie shakes his head. "I can't believe it. Wow, Fonzie. Congrats. Who's the mom?"

"Does it matter? She's gone," Fonzie says. "Long gone, and she ain't comin' back. Now I gotta deal with the little squirt."

Richie walks closer to Fonzie. "Maybe be a little more sensitive, Fonz. I mean, the kid just lost his mom. Try toning down your frustration a bit, huh?"

"Fine, but you've gotta help me. And you better not go telling a living soul about this, or else I'll cut your tongue out and string it from your cute little chin. That's a promise." Oh no. Am I about to live with a killer—or some kind of a monster? God save me.

Richie backs away slowly and puts his hands up. "It's okay, Fonz. I won't tell a living soul. I promise. Pinkie Swear on my life."

"And your mother's life?"

"Y-yes. Sure. Now, what can I help you with?"

Fonzie pauses. "Wait...I take it back. Maybe you should tell someone." He pauses again. "Your mom."

Richie laughs. "My mom?"

"Yeah, Richard, your mom. She knows how to cook. Lovely meals. Makes anyone happy with just one soothing bite. Mm Mmmm." He rubs his tummy. He must be hungry just like me.

"Well, okay. If you say so...But how can I just tell my mom–and not my dad and sister? It's kind of hard when I live with them, ya know?"

Fonzie grabs his ribs like he's been punched. "Ugh. Why do you have to make everything so difficult? Fine. Tell your family, but just your family. Good thing I like you, kid." Kid? Is Richie a kid like me? Maybe we can be friends! I should ask. I think about it, but as soon as I try, both of the boys stare at me. Then, no words want to come out. None. I hate this wimp inside me, but I can't help it.

Richie starts to walk to me, but he crouches down low to my level instead of high up above me like Fonzie does. He reaches out his hand for me to shake it like I'm the president or something, but I can't move. Not even an inch. "Hi, little dude, my name's Richie. I'm your dad's friend. Can you tell me your name? It's okay. I don't bite." Well, I do, so you better watch out.

I look up at Fonzie...or my Daddy? Huh...I guess so. Anyway, I look at him to see if he would make me answer. He just stands there with his comb in his hand, like he is playing with it. What man plays with a comb? Is he bored? Weird.

When he sees that I'm not moving, Richie stands back up to his normal size, taller than my dad. "Uh, well, it's okay. I'm sure you're just being shy. Don't worry. Once you meet my mom, all that shyness will melt away, and you'll feel right at home. I hope you like meatloaf and mashed potatoes–with lots and lots of gravy."

I can't help but smile when he says meatloaf. And gravy. Mmm. Maybe it won't be so bad here. Maybe. Just maybe.