Matches

I watched as Billy tried to light the flimsy cardboard match out on the back porch.  It wouldn’t catch and he was crying.

“Think about this the next time you decide to waltz around in your mother’s shoes.”

Billy’s fingers were already a little burned.  I was allowed to watch because that’s what happens when you dishonor the family like that.  “No son of mine…” Dad began but then noticed Billy was trying to fold the cover of the matchbook back so that he could pull the match between it and the sandpaper strip.  “No way, no fuckin’ way.”  He grabbed the matchbook and used his thumb to hold the match down while he zipped it.

“Like a man, Billy.  Light it like a fuckin’ man.  And stop your sniveling or I’ll add another book.”

Billy tried to stop crying.  He tried to cover the matchhead with his thumb and it lit but took half his thumb with it.  He yelped and dropped everything.

“That’s enough!” Mom pushed past me onto the porch.  “He’s had enough!”

Dad turned on her.  She didn’t back away but I could tell she thought about it.  “You want him growing up a fuckin’ PANSY, Mickey?  What’s next?  Lipstick?”  Dad started prancing around the porch with his wrists pointed down and knees stuck together.

Billy started to laugh.  He was still crying a little but then he stopped and picked up the matchbook.  Dad got behind him and held his hands and showed him how to hold the match just right so it would only hurt a little.

“That’s my boy,” Dad said. “Another one.”

Mom went inside shaking her head but she was smiling too.

Neither of them noticed I was wearing Dad’s work boots. I really liked the way they felt.