Chump Change Read Online Free PDF Page A

in L.A. It was harsh, but he had to admit that the old man was a careless, selfish fool. He whispered these words and shook his head sadly.
    To Fab, the solutions were clear then, just as they were today. Dante should have bought property. He’d be rich. Trust deeds alone could have assured a comfortable retirement. Now, on his death bed, to my brother’s shock, Mom had disclosed that the old man had made no provisions for his heirs whatever. There was no will.
    Fifteen minutes into the ride, I felt myself getting sick to my stomach. The self-righteous crap coming from him was forcing a pool of bile to collect at the bottom of my throat. I was sweating, soaking through the back of my shirt. Completely out of patience.
    Each judgmental, pissy remark and criticism about our father made me want to grab handfuls of his hair out by the roots. Each sound, each resonating shit-filled emission of his speaking increased my edginess.
    For a minute, I was distracted as we passed the La Costa area, where the scars of the last big fire had not yet healed. I could see that everything on the hills had been obliterated. Denise Jacobson, a junior high school friend, had bought a house there after college and a divorce. It had been destroyed.
    Stumps of other expensive homes stood like seared head-stone reminders of the equality of cataclysm. Saigon must have looked like this after it was overrun. South Central L.A. God doled out pain with impersonal indifference.
    By the time we got to the Topanga area on the Coast Highway, I could take Fabrizio no more. “Let’s pull in at the market,” I blurted, interrupting his monologue. “I need cigarettes.”
    “No stopping,” said my brother. “I’m in a hurry. I know what you want.”
    “You think you know. But you don’t know. You know nothing.”
    “You want more booze. No stopping.”
    “I’m talking to you now in a non-aggressive way. This is important. It is the best that I can do. I want you to understand something; sometimes I get impatient. It’s like a disorder…I need you to stop the car NOW!”
    He sneered. “I know your disorder, Bruno. You can pick up your whiskey later.”
    “Stop the fucking car!” I yelled, smashing my fists over and over into the dashboard. “Pull the-fuck-over!”
    “We’re supposed to be at the hospital.”
    While holding Fab’s watch in my teeth, I tore the plastic bands from each side of the dial and spit them on the floorboard of the car. Then I threw the watch at the windshield.
    “Pull over, motherfucker!”
    “What’s the problem now, Bruno?”
    “Cockshit! I’ll crush your eyeballs out your asshole.”
    Watching me, my expression, he turned the station wagon into the store’s parking lot and stopped. “Look at you,” he said, shutting the engine off. “Look what you’re doing. Are you crazy? What’s the matter?”
    “Shut up!” I yelled again. Trembling. “I need you to shut your fucking fuck face!”
    He was scared, but he removed what remained of the damaged watch from the polished dashboard, saw it was still efficiently timing the ride, then hit the stop button to temporarily halt his elapsed time. “Okay. Calm down,” he whispered. “What now? What do we do now?”
    I got out of the car, walked a step or two, then hunched down and began puking between Fab’s car and a Volvo parked in the next slot.
    Fabrizio came around the front of his wagon. “Can I get you something for your stomach?”
    I was still puking. “Move away.”
    “Why are you mad at me?”
    “Don’t talk. No speaking.”
    He waited, watching me retch. When I was done, he spoke again. “Would a drink help? Do you want me to get you a bottle of something?”
    “Yes. You can do that,” I said, still tasting the sourness in my mouth. “Get me a pint of Ten High.”
    “You’re upset about Dad, aren’t you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I recommend that you talk about it.”
    “Get me the bottle, Fabrizio. We can share ourselves fully some