Mummy & Daddy’s Naughty Diary (Erotica)

NEW STORY TITLE: JUSTICE (Erotica)This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

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I just sat watching the last residual tiny air bubbles slowly ascend into what was the dissipating foamy head of the beer awaiting consumption. The frosty mug condensation was balanced between a mix of watery droplets and icy glaze. My hand felt the texture of the paper coaster and the salt granules poured by the bartender to keep the glass from sticking to the paper coaster; the rough disparity of texture was somehow soothing.

“You going to drink that or just keep looking at it?” the bartender growled.

I looked up at him, weighing a variety of responses from bitter sarcasm to meek acquiescence, then I decided on a middle ground.

“I haven’t decided, Uncle Jack.”

The answer not being the one he wanted made my uncle shake his head, turning away to tend to better humored paying customers located at the far end of the bar. Another family vote against me, sending ripples through my quandary.

Well, ‘fuck him and the horse he rode in on’, I thought. I didn’t ask for this shit. To distract myself, I looked across the span of the bar. It was a microcosm, trapped in Fifties’ decor, unaffected by a half century of change.

Walls adorned with neon signs of beers no longer in existence, dark wooden walls with just the right mixtures of windows allowing a golden glow pouring in each afternoon, giving a friendly ambiance. The mahogany bar was irregularly indented from countless glasses slammed into it in anger and joy.

In contrast, the colorful Wurlitzer jukebox stood against the far wall where a dancing stage competed against the loss of floor space for additional tables and chairs. Profitability be damned, was the order of the day.

Growing up, I was made painfully aware of that fact. I had been drafted as free labor at an early age since child labor laws didn’t apply in a family business. I swept out the place, bussed tables, carried cases and crates, rolled kegs, cleaned urinals, and toilets, mopped up blood and cleaned up vomit.

In my unenlightened view, I thought I was vested into being allowed a voice in how the place should be run. The kind owners of this establishment, to wit, my uncle, my Aunt Kate, my mom, Mary, and my dad, Tom, quickly, and thoroughly, informed me otherwise. My dad and Uncle Jack, in addition to being among the owners, also served in the city’s police department, dad being a lieutenant in one precinct, and Uncle Jack a patrol sergeant in another. Mom was a neonatal nurse at the hospital. Only Aunt Kate was a full-time family worker at the bar, therefore, she handled the day-to-day operation. Mom, Dad, and Uncle Jack pitched in when they could to help the working staff.

That said, even though Aunt Kate ran the place and all the business licenses and permits were in her name, they all deferred to my father for the important business decisions. I got the impression that somehow, dad had figured out the way to buy the bar initially, and he was the controlling factor in most decisions. Still, he always listened to the others’ opinions. Except for me, of course.

I had suffered through more arguments than I cared to remember, trying to convince my dad and the others that we could make more money utilizing the space for bigger crowds. Dad and Uncle Jack usually just laughed at me as they fed coins into the jukebox and lead their wives out on the dance floor to slowly sway to a Sixty’s tune.

Another example of the anachronism of the place, the jukebox contained an eclectic mix of tunes handpicked by my parents, and my uncle and aunt. All were subject to change at a moment’s notice. On a given night, you had Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade Of Pale” and a little known rocker tune of theirs, “Whiskey Train”; The Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” and “Little Red Rooster”.

Booker T. & the M. G.’s, “Green Onions,” and Muddy Water’s “Mannish Boy,” Miles Davis’ “Summertime” and the Allman Brothers’ “You Don’t Love Me Anymore,” The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” and “Orange and Red Beams.”

Little Feat’s “Willin” and “Dixie Chicken,” Jackson Browne’s “Take It Easy/Our Lady of the Well,” J. D. Souther’s “How Long” and “The Fast One,” Eric Clapton’s “Tribute to Elmore” and “Layla,” Bob Dylan’s “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” and “On the Road Again”.

The list would go on and on, and though any number of songs could be substituted for another one, one was sacrosanct. That was ‘B4’ on the jukebox. Not on pain of death, could there ever be another song in that slot.

I would cringe and hate that song, due to it being played every night when my mom got off her shift as a nurse. She would come to the bar to be swept up by my dad and carried in jovial protest to the dance floor, placed down and kissed before they began their slow dance, oblivious to the world. The scene was so saccharine that it would’ve given anyone diabetes.

But, like I said, my opinion didn’t count for shit, even when the opportunity arose for them to sell out the bar and enjoy a very rosy retirement. A tech billionaire with more money than God and his toadying entourage, deigned to discover the bar one evening.

After countless enquiries about various rare Scotch and single barrel bourbons, the effete crowd was informed they would have to make do with Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels, or take it down the road. Well that just pissed off the group, since my dad had the audacity not to grovel, but for some reason, it struck a chord with the billionaire so he settled in for the evening, along with his grumbling crew. What the hell could they do, since he was paying?

As the billionaire continued to suck down drinks, he discovered charm in each and every nuance of the bar, and when he discovered the jukebox with its selections, he started dancing with the nubile arm-candies of his group.

Then he started raving about the bar, counting it among the best he’d ever been to, including it among some bar in Singapore, El Floridita, in Havana, and a seedy beer garden in Munich. This, of course, immediately changed the attitude of the group as they dashed around the place, dragging their benefactor around, marveling at the quaint place.

Nothing would do but for Dad to join them at their table for a drink and pass some pleasantries. So my bemused father did, trying his best to avoid being included in the selfies being snapped by the duck-lipped silicone-enhanced vixens, posted in god knows what social media outlet.

“Tom,” the billionaire slurred as he wrapped a comradely arm around my dad, “Tom, this place is an absolute treasure!” His sentiment was immediately and enthusiastically echoed by his friends. “You have to let me buy this place!”

Dad just smiled as he quietly slipped unnoticed out of his customer’s embrace and told him it wasn’t for sale. “Of course, it’s for sale, Tom. The whole fucking world is for sale and I’m just the guy that can buy it!” the billionaire boasted as he plead his case.

“Tell you what; I’ll give you a million dollars right now if you sell me this place.”

My jaw dropped at the amount and dad continued to grin and said, “Sorry, Bill, it still isn’t for sale. It’s not just my place; I also got to answer to my brother, Jack, his wife, Kate and my wife, Mary.”

‘You forgot about your only kid’, I mentally screamed at him. ‘Your son, who would be quite happy with some part of a million dollars payout’. The look on my face must have enhanced my father’s enjoyment, as his grin got bigger at my perplexity.

“Oh, so you’ve got partners. Well, I can take care of them, how about four million?”

‘YES! FOR GOD’S SAKES, SAY YES’! I telepathically tried to impart my thought to my father.

“That’s a nice offer, Bill and I’ll tell the others what you’ve offered, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m not willing to sell,” Dad replied.

My entire body was shaking. A four million dollar offer and my dad calmly turned it down as though anybody would want this dump for four million dollars. I wanted to go over there and tell the guy that why, yes, of course we’d sell for four million dollars!

Dad took another look at me and his shit eating grin got even bigger.

“I’m not used to being denied, Tom,” the billionaire declared, “Final offer, eight million dollars! Two million dollars apiece. That should satisfy you and your brother and your wives!”

Dad looked at the billionaire and serenely said, “I never could expect this place to go for that much money. It is a wonderful offer and I’ll always appreciate that you made it, but again, I’m saying no.”

The flabbergasted billionaire looked shocked at my dad’s refusal to sell and finally noticed my near state of apoplexy.

“What’s wrong with that kid?”

“Oh, that’s my son, Mike, and he’s trying to tell me to take you up on your offer,” Dad laughingly explained.

“All right, Tom, I’ll help your son out. Ten million dollars, last and final offer. All you’ve got to do is say yes, and all of your dreams will come true!”

I almost yelled yes out loud, and then I noticed the subtle shift of expression in my father’s face. This was the one that said, “don’t fuck with me.” The one I grew up with and learned well the lesson not to disobey. Pushing the envelope was all well and good, as I continued to assert my independence, but there were limits, and I knew I had reached that zone.

It went unnoticed by the besotted billionaire as he waited smugly for my father’s acceptance. “Bill,” my father replied, “thank you for your generosity. I’ll tell you what, if you still feel this way tomorrow, come by and make the offer to my partners. If they say yes, then I’ll agree to your terms, but I doubt you’ll be able to convince them, either. So, next time in town come by for a drink, the first round will be on me.”

With that, the billionaire left, vowing to return tomorrow and swearing undying friendship with my dad and everlasting allegiance to Genero’s Tavern, the, quote, “best fucking bar in the world,” unquote, from the wobbling Midas as his minions helped steer him to his limo.

My dad just sat there at the table watching them leave with a little sad smile on his face. As he slowly finished his shot of whiskey, I finally trusted myself to go to the table and start clearing away the debris.

He looked up to me, expecting me to look at him. I tried in vain not to, but finally I couldn’t stand it. “Dad, how could you?” I sputtered, “Ten million dollars,” I paused, trying to voice my frustrations adequately and failing to do so.